‘Uhuh. The plan is to make Olympic qualifying times and take off some of the pressure for the official trials next month in Eugene, Oregon. You’re from England, aren’t you? I don’t know how much you know about track, but we have a beautiful selection procedure here in the States. The first three girls in each event in Eugene get nominated automatically for the U.S. team, no matter what. If the world-record holder gets edged to fourth on electronic timing, she’s out, man, no argument. That suits me fine — I mean, where else could you make the Olympics after just two meets? But there’s one catch, and that’s to do with the Olympic rules. Each nation can send one competitor for each event, no matter how good she is, but if they want to send more, there’s this Olympic qualifying time they have to reach. It’s unlikely, but suppose there was a gale blowing in the trial at Eugene, and we all clocked slow times — or, if you like, windblown fast times, which don’t count. I’d look pretty damned silly if I came second in one of my events and didn’t qualify timewise.’ She put up her thumb to Ingrid, who planted a palmful of
‘So after tomorrow the secret’s out,’ said Dryden. ‘You’ll be tagged an Olympic hope. Will you know what to say to the press in San Diego?’
‘There won’t be many there,’ she commented. ‘Most of them will be in L.A. There’s a big invitational at the Coliseum — for men. The press will make for that. One fast girl in San Diego isn’t news.’
It was another of her payoffs. From the smile and small shudder of pleasure as she delivered it, Dr. Lee’s conditioning worked a treat.
‘But your times will go into the ranking lists. Three qualifying times in one afternoon by an unknown girl: there’ll be a stampede to get your story.’
‘I don’t mind speaking to any pressmen I meet in San Diego tomorrow, but after that I go on ice again till Eugene,’ she told him.
‘Do you like being a mystery girl?’
‘You make girls sound like books — mystery, romance or Sci-Fi. I like to think I’m a blend of all three.’ She flushed as another programmed response slotted in.
Ingrid continued impassively anointing her stomach.
Dryden inwardly recoiled. He could see the prospect of any untutored statement disappearing as fast as the oil. ‘Won’t the press keep tabs on you? Didn’t you have to supply an address when you filled in your entry for the San Diego meet?’
‘I’m P.O. Box Number 505918, Bakersfield.’
‘What about your club? Don’t you have to belong to a track club?’
‘Hadn’t you noticed? I’m unattached.’ Again, the indulgent wriggle of pleasure.
‘So after you’ve put up your times tomorrow, you’ll just fly off, leaving the legend of a beautiful unknown blonde who burned up the track in San Diego?’
‘You make it sound poetical. I like that.’ She gave him a dreamy smile.
‘Goldine,’ he said as a last throw, ‘suppose you pulled a muscle in the heats tomorrow?’ He had his hand on the door.
‘How could I?’ she answered. ‘I’m going to win the Olympics. Don’t go. Try another question.’ She propped herself on an elbow and faced him. Her figure belied her. She was suddenly a child pleading for attention. ‘Ingrid can’t feed me questions. Please think of something.’
He shook his head in defeat. Lee had won this round. Out of compassion he asked her, ‘How does it feel to stand on the victory rostrum?’
She lay back with a whimper of gratitude. ‘Proud. Pleased for the American people.’ She squirmed on the blanket and brought one of her breasts against the massaging hands. ‘It really gets you here when you see your country’s flag...’ Her eyes closed tightly.
Dryden left.
That evening, a salad meal was served in one of the buildings. By monitoring the state of play on the pool table, he contrived to eat alone. The last thing he wanted just now was Valenti’s company.
He brooded on his failure. In effect, the computer had beaten him by anticipating most of his questions. Once the programed responses started coming, there was nothing he or Goldine could do to control her reflexes. No doubt about it: Lee had harnessed her sexual drive. Somehow he had linked it to the process of question and response. Each question she successfully answered was the equivalent of a caress. The afternoon press conference had suggested something like that was happening; the girl had projected herself in a way his own sexuality had recognised. In her quarters, he had involuntarily confirmed it by supplying her with enough questions to take her to the point of orgasm.
