Goldengirl

‘No,’ said Cobb. ‘But think about what will happen when people read in the papers that Goldengirl was running in Moscow to prove a scientific hypothesis. That she has an exceptional physiology. They’re going to translate that into something simpler. The girl they saw winning all those medals on TV wasn’t the kid next door, after all. She was some kind of weirdo. A freak. It wasn’t Uncle Sam she was running for, bringing a lump to their throats; it was a group of scientists. What do you think that’s going to do for her image? Do you suppose the orange growers of California will want her in their ads after that?’

Serafin was shaking his head. ‘How can I make you understand? I don’t intend it to be like that. This will be a scientific paper. It need not mention her name.’

‘Do you suppose that’s going to fool the press — Miss S, who won three gold medals?’ asked Cobb relentlessly. ‘After Moscow, the girl will be a world celebrity. Everything about her is of interest. You know as well as the rest of us that nothing sells papers faster than dirt on some big name.’

‘Dirt?’ Serafin was almost speechless. ‘This isn’t dirt.’

‘It doesn’t have to be,’ said Cobb. ‘All it wants is a headline “Goldengirl Was Guinea Pig” and that’s our revenue cut — by how much would you say, Dryden?’

‘It’s true. We’d be sunk.’

‘Spooked,’ said Sternberg.

‘So how do we handle this?’ said Valenti, mashing his half-finished cigar into an ashtray.

‘We keep cool,’ said Cobb. ‘Let’s be reasonable. Dr. Serafin was the architect of Project Goldengirl, and he’s still essential to its success. If he hasn’t been entirely frank with us about his intentions, that wasn’t from any wish to do us in. I’m satisfied he didn’t realize the damage he could do the project by publishing his paper. I think there’s room for compromise here. Dryden has said the merchandising campaign needs eighteen months to two years. I’d like to suggest that Dr. Serafin delay publication until August 1982, or earlier if we hit our twenty-million-dollar target before then.’ He looked around the table. ‘Would that be generally acceptable?’

‘Sounds like you have the answer,’ said Valenti. ‘Do you see any problem, Dryden?’

‘Not if Dr. Serafin agrees. Publicity of this kind would be damaging early in the campaign. Actually, at the end, it might give it a lift. We won’t be pitching for contracts at that stage.’

‘How about it, then?’ Cobb asked Serafin. He put the question as genially as offering a drink, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was an ultimatum.

Serafin’s eyes had the glased look of a man on trial who knows it’s all over, the sentencing is done. The consortium he had created had taken over. ‘I’ll delay publication,’ he promised. ‘When you have waited as long as I have to prove yourself right, you can hold on for longer.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said Cobb, picking up his calculator from the table. ‘I just wanted to clarify the point.’

Fifteen

‘Anyone want a pair of track shoes, as once used in the U.S. Olympic Trials?’ The girl in the Kansas University tracksuit was close to tears. She stood at the dressing-room door, hot from running, black hair moist with sweat, warm-ups dangling from her arm, the spikes in her hand. Nobody was listening to her. ‘Size 6a, urethane-coated kangaroo uppers with wraparound heel,’ she read from the label in a voice that demanded attention. ‘No takers, huh?’ She held them at arm’s length over the wastebasket to the right of the door. ‘Positively your last chance, girls, to bid for the shoes that took fourth place in Heat Three of the one-hundred-metres Qualifying Round. Do I hear an offer? Too late.’ She let them drop into the basket. ‘That’s my contribution to the U.S. Olympic Appeal.’ Buoyed up a little by what she said, she crossed the tiled floor to the open cubicle where her things were. Around her, other girls obliviously continued changing for their turn in the arena. She got no response from anyone before a second loser came dejectedly through the door. ‘What did you do?’

This girl was in the Crown Cities Track Club colours. She held up her right hand with all fingers extended.

‘Fifth? Too bad. Join the club. I’m through with track. I just threw my spikes away. What time did they give you?’

‘Eleven-five.’