Goldengirl

Klugman hadn’t finished. ‘Get this straight in your head, chick. You blew it in Diego in that hundred heat, remember? Whipped by some lousy club runner because you looked the wrong way. By rights, you should have missed the final. When you think about Diego, remember that one. In this game, you learn more from one defeat than ten straight wins — if you’ve got sense. We’re going to see you get it right in Eugene, understand? With the schedule you have, you could destroy yourself in the heats, no trouble. We have to play it cool, keep something back. That makes the last thirty metres crucial. You have to be sharp enough to read the race, inject a little speed if necessary, and dip for the line like there’s a Samurai swiping at your head. That’s what you could have learned in competition, what Makepeace picked up dashing sixties through six or seven indoor seasons. It doesn’t just happen. The doc insists we keep you under wraps. Great, but someway we have to teach you to take hold of a race. I don’t know what San Diego did for you, but it scared me out of my shoes. So we’ll try another finish, if it’s all the same to you, and keep the ego trips for sometime after Moscow.’

Her cheeks had reddened. She faced him, studying his eyes, as if seeking some clue to the bitterness simmering there. ‘And if Elmer edges me this time? What will you do about that — kick my butt?’

Quietly Klugman said, ‘Try me.’

She turned and began walking to where the others were waiting. Klugman took a memo pad from his pocket, noted the time shown on his Accusplit and touched the button that returned the display to zero.

When the gun fired, her quick reaction stole a metre from Brannon, starting behind on the stagger, but he was soon into a strong rhythm, holding her pace.

They took the turn with five metres between them, Brannon clearly poised for the hairline finish this exercise was contrived to produce. As a sprinter, he was over the hill, but he could still get close to twenty-two seconds, fast enough to pass Goldine or any other girl. This was not a test of speed over the full distance, however. His instructions were to snatch the race by the narrowest margin, judging it on the run-in, as racing cyclists do.

As they came off the bend, he drew closer, playing it less adventurously than the younger man had. Makepeace was a lean, resilient sprinter, capable of controlling a duel of this kind from the rear, striking in the final second. That wouldn’t work for Brannon, a one-gear man, used to holding on by sheer strength. Forty metres from the line, he drew level, his face a mask of resolution.

Goldine held her form, resisting Brannon’s pressure, denying him any advantage in the run-in. When the moment came, and they dipped, her movement was so sharp that her hair stood momentarily on end. The judgment was exact, Brannon decisively beaten, in spite of ending face down on the track.

Nothing was spoken between Goldine and Klugman. It had all been said on the track.

After she had showered and changed, there was a session with Lee, listed ‘Assessment’ on the schedule. It took place in a small room used by Lee as an office, and decorated to provide a relaxing setting for their conversations. The walls were ocher-coloured, warm but unobtrusive. There was an olive-green carpet, suede-covered chairs, velvet curtains. The lighting was provided by an old-fashioned table lamp with a large red shade that gave both faces a pink glow.

Between them Lee’s desk, the only thing on it a pack of Kleenex. Goldine was pressing one to her nose. Her eyes were moist at the lids.

‘Should I turn the heater up?’ Lee inquired. ‘We don’t want you catching cold.’ His use of English was unerring; the only indication that he was an Oriental was his inability to convey secondary meanings through stress. In an analyst, that could be an advantage.

‘I’m just fine, thanks.’ She raised a smile and toyed with the ends of her hair, fine against the coarse fabric of the sweatsuit. She wore the black suit exclusively for late sessions. It was pure wool. Even in July there was a chill in the air before sundown.

‘You’re not disheartened by anything?’ asked Lee. There was a comforting ritual between them that always prefaced the sessions. He could be as piercing in his questions as anyone, when he wanted. Never at the start.

‘Should I be?’

He raised his shoulders a fraction. His smallest gestures were eloquent, he used them so sparingly. His unusual height had not impaired the command of the physique that dignifies the Chinese.

‘Perhaps I am,’ she conceded.

Lee waited.

‘I’m not hitting the targets set for me in training sessions. Not most times.’

Lee asked, ‘And do you interpret that as a shortcoming on your part?’

‘Pete does.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

She creased her brow slightly. ‘If I’m not satisfying my coach, I figure I’m failing.’