Goldengirl

‘The obvious thing now is to let you see Goldengirl down there batting. And if any of you would care to put questions of your own to her during the session, please do so — it will add to the realism. I would only wish to make one point about the phrasing of questions. Everything in Goldengirl’s conditioning — I’ve used the word, Mr. Valenti — is based on the premise that she will achieve the objective of three gold medals. Failure — even partial success — is not a concept she would understand. So it would not be constructive, for example, to ask her why she was beaten in one of her three events. Put challenging questions to her by all means — she is capable of coping with them — but kindly base them on an assumption of success. After all, that’s the purpose of the project.’ He spoke into a grille beside the console. ‘Ready to begin, William.’ Turning to the others, he explained, ‘Dr. Serafin will be at Goldengirl’s side. The press like nothing better than a proud parent beside the winner, if only for the photo session. The other place will be vacant this afternoon. It will normally be occupied by the IOC Press Chief. I should be glad if you would take your seats now — anywhere you please in the room. Do not be alarmed by our flash effects as they come in. We like to get as close to the real thing as conditions allow.’

Dryden found an end seat toward the back. Just before the lights went out, Melody squeesed past into the next seat. Then from a dozen loudspeakers started the mix of world-weary and high-powered conversation characteristic of press gatherings everywhere — an uncanny effect when all that was visible from where Dryden sat was the glimmer of Valenti’s cigar two rows down.

The arc lights at the front came on again. It was obvious that anyone in their glare could not have seen far into the empty auditorium.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a more insistent voice came through the hubbub. ‘Triple Olympic champion Miss Goldine Serafin is here with her father, Dr. William Serafin, to meet the press.’

To the promised flash effects, some cries of ‘Here she is!’ and a scatter of applause, they entered from the right, pausing as a volley of flashlight signaled the photo session. Goldengirl was wearing the white tracksuit of the U.S. Olympic team, with lettering picked out in red. It was the authentic team uniform; Dryden had seen it in a trade journal not three weeks previously. Detail was meticulous in this operation; from Goldengirl’s neck three ribbons were suspended, each bearing a gold medal.

‘She’s cute,’ Melody remarked in his left ear. ‘Maybe too near the ceiling for perfection, though?’

He made no response, held by the ritual under the lights. He had learned to sit through advertising presentations and promotional launches fixing his undistracted eye on the product through displays of leg and bosom calculated to the last millimetre to impress, but he could not remember an occasion when the product itself was in desirable female form. That produced an unexpected consequence. He had looked at Goldengirl naked almost pore by pore through the camera lens, read her statistics, seen her in motion, heard her history, and still missed the thing her living presence hammered into his perception.

Her sexuality.

Dress it up in euphemisms, say she upped the pulse rate, sent the adrenalin racing, blew the mind. What it came down to was the simple, animal ability to arouse that sets one girl apart from a million others.

He could think of more seductive outfits than a U.S. sweatsuit, but Goldengirl didn’t need them. It radiated from her as she blinked at the flashbulbs. No matter that she was six inches taller than Serafin, two or three taller than Dryden himself. The attraction wasn’t a matter of statistics, though she was beautifully proportioned. Nor was it in the cast of her features, or he would have made his discovery during the film. Then he could study her objectively; it was out of the question now.

A remark Melody made helped him account for it. ‘She believes those medals are for real, you know.’

She obviously did. Whether Dr. Lee’s methods followed Pavlov, Skinner or Svengali, they worked. Goldengirl was vibrant with success. She moved with the conviction that she had conquered the world.

In a frenzy of flashbulbs, Serafin ushered her to the center seat. By degrees the volume of sound reduced to a level where a voice — Lee’s — could announce: ‘First, on behalf of the Organizing Committee and the world press, congratulations, Miss Serafin, on your unique achievement. Before I invite questions, is there anything you would wish to say in the way of a statement?’

She smiled. Not once in the film had she done that. ‘This is a novel experience for me, and I’m not sure what you would have me tell you, but if you’ll be patient with me, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll do the best I can.’ The excitement came over in her voice. Her accent placed her as a Californian, but a tremulous note gave an unintended emphasis to certain syllables.