Goldengirl

He looked at her, knowing she was right. Finished. For Goldengirl, love was the scrutiny of the media. Questions were caresses. She needed no other fulfillment.

He was left with himself, with loathing and disgust. He had helped to create her. Worse, he had been given the chance to preserve her from this. You’re in control now, Serafin had told him. In control, he had sent her to her destruction. He was the monster.

Now the control was out of his hands. She knew that. She also knew he would not abandon her. He was not in control, but, by God, he was responsible.

She put down the paper. ‘Anything else?’

‘Will you be collecting your medals in the Stadium this afternoon?’

‘You bet.’

‘Dr. Dalton won’t object?’

‘Let him try stopping me. Let anyone try.’

‘I have some exciting news for you,’ he said, beginning to function again. ‘The TV people have arranged a linkup with Washington. The President wants to congratulate you personally.’

‘Exciting?’ said Goldine. ‘He should be excited.’

The crowds were four and five deep in Kropotkin Street when the white limousine with its police outriders carried Goldengirl, wearing her three gold medals, from the Lenin Stadium to the Kremlin. Their destination was the vast glass-and-aluminum Palace of Congresses, with seating for 6,000, the only building in Moscow capable of accommodating her press conference.

Dryden was seated with Melody at the back of the buzzing auditorium. Melody had spent the morning grooming Goldengirl for the occasion.

‘How was she?’ asked Dryden.

‘Docile,’ said Melody. ‘If you indulge her, play up the fantasy, it’s okay.’

‘It’s no fantasy,’ said Dryden. ‘It happened. It’s irreversible fact.’

The conversation around them gathered in tempo and volume. Cameras were flashing somewhere. A group of people moved toward the forest of microphones at the center of the platform.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said a voice, ‘triple Olympic champion Miss Goldine Serafin.’

Clapping put an end to conversation. It continued at least half a minute before she appeared, pausing for pictures. She was as lovely as when Dryden had first seen her in the simulation session in the mountains, exuberant, laughing, savoring the acclaim with unashamed delight. Flowers were heaped into her arms. The medals repeatedly caught the flashlight. It was impossible not to share her exhilaration.

‘At this moment, she must be the most envied woman in the world,’ said Dryden.

Melody, usually so quick with a tart comment, remained silent.

The questions got under way, but Dryden hardly listened. He knew the replies would be witty, confident and apparently spontaneous. It would be a repeat of what he had heard before. Different in sequence, but essentially the same performance. The difference was in the performer.

Down on the platform, some question triggered a response. Goldengirl cupped the medals in her hand and said, ‘From now on, these are my charms.’