Below the stand, the area around the U.S. Team Headquarters had been sealed with mobile crowd-barriers. U.S. officials manned it at three-yard intervals. This was a security exercise worthy of the Russians. Half the international press were ranged around the barrier.
One official was arguing with a girl in a U.S. warm-up suit.
‘Easy, buster,’ said a newsman. ‘You know who this is? Janie Canute. She has just won a bronze medal for your country and mine.’
It cut no ice with the official, but Dryden levered his way through the cameras to Janie’s side. ‘Miss Canute, I’m Jack Dryden, a friend of Goldine’s. Saw you first in Eugene.’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, ‘I have to get inside that room.’ She tried another official. ‘Listen, I must see the doctors who are looking after Goldine. There’s something they should know. If you won’t let me in, would you take a message, please? It could be important.’
‘Sorry, sweetheart. With this crowd...’
‘What is it?’ asked Dryden. ‘What do you want to tell them?’
Resigned to making no headway with the men on the barrier, she turned to Dryden as second best. ‘Well, a few minutes ago I was in the dressing room untying my spikes when two women in U.S. team blazers came looking for the box containing Goldine’s tracksuit. I pointed out which one, and they picked it up and went through the pockets. One of them said, ‘It’s okay, nothing here,’ and they dropped the warm-up suit and walked off. It was only after they had gone I realised what they were talking about — a couple of tablets Goldine had with her before the race. They must have decided she had eaten them, only she didn’t. She crushed them under her foot. I saw. I figure if the doctors sent two people to check on them, those tablets must be important.’
Before Janie had finished speaking, Dryden had jumped the barrier. Two officials ran to tackle him, but he got to the door. One of the heavies on guard there recognised him.
‘Must see Dr. Dalton,’ said Dryden, and to his relief the man stepped aside.
Inside, a huddle of doctors and officials surrounded Goldine’s inert form. They had tugged up her trackshirt to her armpits and put a stethoscope against her heart.
Dalton glanced up at Dryden. ‘You?’ he said angrily.
Dryden pitched into Janie’s story.
‘Of all the crazy things!’ said Dalton. ‘That confirms hypoglycemia. We must give her another shot of epinephrine. Quick as you can.’ While the nurse prepared an injection, Dalton swabbed alcohol on Goldine’s upper arm. ‘Oh boy, will they ever listen to you? I told her myself what would happen if she didn’t take the glucose.’
‘It’s a coma?’ asked Dryden.
‘Yeah. Insulin reaction.’ He took the syringe and injected a main vein. ‘It was bound to happen when she didn’t take the glucose between races. The energy displacement lowers the blood-sugar level, which throws the balance of the insulin. I just hope we’ve caught it in time.’
‘What happens if...?’
‘Brain damage. Maybe death,’ said Dalton. ‘I just don’t understand why she did this. To forget to take the damned things I could believe, but to crush them like that is insane.’
When Dryden came out, he had trouble convincing the newsmen he was making no statement of any kind. He was photographed, jostled and slanged before he eventually broke through. Two or three were still following asking questions when he found Melody on the fringe of the crowd. They photographed her as well.
‘You’re obviously the man of the hour,’ she said when they had finally shaken them off. ‘What’s the news, then?’
‘Coma.’
‘Bad?’
‘Could be. Very bad.’
‘If the press get hold of it, you mean?’ said Melody.
‘No, damn it, I’m talking about Goldine.’
‘Sure you are,’ said Melody sarcastically. ‘I can see it’s on account of her you’re worried, like you have been all along, shaking your head each time you drew up another contract. Jack, I read you all wrong. I took you for a cynical, money-grabbing bastard. What do we do now — buy flowers?’
‘I must cancel the TV linkup. She won’t be fit to talk to the President.’
‘Too bad,’ said Melody.
‘And arrange for McCorquodale to make some kind of holding statement to the press.’
‘Gee, that’s sweet,’ said Melody. ‘Here you are, broken up with worry, and you can still go through the motions of straightening out the PR complications. Really touching.’
At 7:15 P.M. Don McCorquodale made a brief statement to a crowded audience in the press center. Goldine Serafin had recovered consciousness, but on medical advice she wouldn’t meet the press until she had rested. Routine tests were being carried out to determine the reason for her collapse. They were not ruling out the possibility that the shock news of her father’s suicide had contributed to it. The team management wished to put on record that they had always been aware of heavy demands of Goldine’s schedule, and had provided medical support from the beginning. Unfortunately, it had not been possible to check her condition in the short interval between the Finals of the 200 and 400 metres. They were hopeful she would be well enough to speak to the press sometime the following day.
At 9:20 P.M. Dryden got in to see McCorquodale in the Olympic Village. For two hours he had been trying to get more news of Goldine. The security had descended like steel shutters. Trying to see a doctor was impossible. The best he could get was McCorquodale.
‘I don’t have a lot of time,’ he warned Dryden. ‘What a day! This problem over Goldine is just the end. I think we’ve succeeded in holding off the press till tomorrow, but it wasn’t easy. I don’t care for cover-ups as a rule, but, as I see it, Goldine’s medical condition is her affair. No reason for the public to hear about it.’
Dryden nodded and asked, ‘What’s the latest? How is she now?’
‘Fully conscious. We moved her back to the Embassy. Doctors are still with her.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t know...’ Dryden took a long breath. ‘Do they expect her to recover — fully, I mean?’
McCorquodale scratched his ear. ‘They say the blood-sugar level is still erratic, which is making her a difficult patient.’ He regarded Dryden closely. ‘Hey, you really care about the kid. Do you have something going with her?’
‘Just tell me what the doctors say,’ said Dryden in a tone that wasn’t conversational.
‘Dalton told me the diabetes has taken a much stronger grip. He describes it as severe now. Said it was mild the other day. That’s the price of three gold medals. Still, I guess you’ll be doing what you can to get some reparation for her in financial terms.’ McCorquodale winked. ‘This is worth a huge amount in endorsements, huh?’
Dryden lifted his shoulders slightly without saying anything.
‘It’s okay,’ went on McCorquodale. ‘You can trust me. I don’t get disturbed about agents moving in on Olympic athletes. I’m a realist. You can do a lot to make young Goldine’s life more tolerable. When I heard about Doc Serafin getting hammered on TV I figured you were the agent they mentioned. Bad business, that. You don’t think it can hurt Goldine, do you? Seems to me any damage to her image is compensated by the sympathy she’s gotten from the old man’s death leap. Just think of her knowing about that as she went to the line for the last race! Goldine’s Agony. That’s going to go over big back home.’
‘Right now, I don’t give a damn about the image,’ said Dryden. ‘I just want to see Goldine. Can you fix that, Mr. McCorquodale?’
‘Don.’
‘Don.’
‘Confidentially, I’m a businessman myself,’ said McCorquodale. ‘This Olympic job is honourary, naturally. You get expenses, but hell... matter of fact, I’m in real estate. Wouldn’t mind talking to you about it sometime. No hurry. After we get home, huh? I’m thinking about a scheme for the young executive buyer. Calling it the Golden Roof. You like it?’