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.”
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Goldengirl Page 40
