‘No matter,’ said Dryden. ‘This illness — has it been diagnosed?’
She nodded. ‘It’s not an illness. It’s a diet problem. You know how people are allergic to things? There was something in my food—’
‘Sugar, perhaps?’
‘Maybe. They’re giving me Sweet’n Low with my coffee. Doc says I shall have to be careful what I eat in the future. He wants to get me right before I have my medical for the Games. I was a little anxious at missing the team briefing, but Doc has explained everything to them and I’ll catch up next week.’
Dryden exchanged a glance with Melody. ‘You haven’t seen the papers?’ he asked Goldine.
‘All they have here is very old Reader’s Digests,’ she answered. ‘Is there something I should see? Nurse Piper hasn’t mentioned a thing. The Olympic Committee does understand I was ill, don’t they? There isn’t any complication about that?’
‘Nothing that can’t be retrieved,’ said Dryden. ‘You still expect to run in Moscow?’
A look of annoyance crossed her face. ‘Why shouldn’t I? I earned the right, didn’t I? You think I’m a quitter?’
‘Easy,’ murmured Dryden. ‘I was only suggesting, if your health—’
‘My health’s okay,’ Goldine cut in vehemently. ‘I had a diet problem. Have you got that straight in your head? I’m going to Moscow and I’m going for gold. God help anyone who tries to stop me now.’ She kept her voice level; the intensity of her eyes was emphasis enough. She held the look until it was clear that the assertion stood unchallenged, then relaxed it and inquired, ‘How’s the merchandising shaping? Have you made a start yet?’
‘It’s well under way.’
‘Tell me about it.’
She seemed genuinely interested, so he outlined the results of his negotiations to date, explaining how an image was emerging already. Once or twice she stopped him to ask if a contract was firm. Far from being overawed by commercial commitments, she listened to Dryden in mounting excitement. She was entirely taken up with the publicity possibilities, building her own picture of what Goldengirl would be. She took little interest in the financial terms. ‘It amounts to over two million pledged already,’ Dryden told her with excusable pride. ‘That’s only the West Coast. New York should be good for at least as much again.’
‘New York?’ she responded dreamily. ‘Are the Helena Rubenstein people based there? I’d like to have something going in the beauty business.’
‘You will,’ promised Dryden. ‘It’s high on my priorities here. I have plenty of contacts in New York.’
As he was speaking, the door opened. ‘In that case, what are you doing in Cleveland?’ asked Dr. Serafin.
Nineteen
Dryden had been waiting for this.
When Dr. Fassendean in New York had mentioned diabetes, it had registered nothing. It had made no sense. An alien suggestion. Only when Fassendean had described the types of stress associated with its onset had Dryden begun to see a possible pattern of cause and effect. His call to Professor Walsh had hardened possibility into suspicion. For three hours he had contained his anger as, detail by detail, the certainty had grown that Serafin had cynically destroyed his daughter’s health.
Now the man stood in the doorway in the posture of an outraged parent.
The essential thing was to take control, keep it rational, prize out the truth.
Serafin addressed him again: ‘I think you and I should have a talk.’
‘I agree.’
‘In private,’ said Serafin.
Here was the first issue. An important one. As soon as Dryden had heard the phone call going through to Serafin, he had realised this would come up. Serafin would come to the sanitarium and find them with Goldine. He would not want to talk in her presence.
Dryden shook his head. ‘This affects Goldine. She has a right to hear it.’
Serafin tersely said, ‘She knows nothing.’
‘Exactly,’ said Dryden. ‘You’re about to rectify that, Dr. Serafin.’
Goldine frowned in bewilderment, looking from one to the other.
‘I have to consider her health,’ said Serafin. ‘This is no time to subject her to shocks. As her physician—’
‘Save it,’ warned Dryden. ‘It carries no conviction. She’s nineteen years old and she is entitled to know what’s wrong. And why.’
The force of that last word showed in Serafin’s face. Creases rutted the pallid cheeks as if he had taken a punch. It stung him into a fresh offensive. ‘I don’t propose discussing anything in front of Miss Fryer. She has left my employment.’
‘I know. She joined mine,’ said Dryden. ‘Melody stays. I want corroboration. Would you shut the door and come in — unless you want Nurse Piper in as well.’
Serafin listened to this with his hands working convulsively at his jacket buttons. His knuckles were white.
‘You wonder how much I know?’ said Dryden. ‘Is that your problem? You think perhaps I’m bluffing? No, Doctor, I’ve dredged deep. Shall we start by talking about the growth hormone? What do you call it — HGH or somatotrophin?’
Serafin’s face twitched. ‘For God’s sake, man, not in front of Goldine!’
It was Goldine who answered him. ‘Doc, if this has to do with me, I intend to hear it.’ She went to him and gripped his arm, more in duress than endearment. ‘Don’t you think you owe me that?’
She was strong. Serafin took an involuntary step forward. The door closed behind him. He rested his hands defensively on the back of the only chair in the small room. Goldine stepped away and sat on the edge of the bed, facing him. Dryden stayed leaning against the wall opposite. Melody had propped herself on the windowsill overlooking the garden.
Dryden was in control. ‘Okay. Let’s take you back. Vienna, 1963. The focal point of your career. Your research showed that a group of German women grew significantly taller than their mothers at maturity. It created interest among scientists, brought you recognition. Some had reservations about your theories, but nobody could dispute the results. And if one generation was taller than its predecessor, why shouldn’t future generations grow indefinitely taller? Your critics said the human skeleton was structurally incapable of further increase. Do I have it right?’
Serafin’s mouth was set in a tight line. He gave a shrug that could have meant anything.
Dryden took it as an affirmation. ‘For years after that you immersed yourself in the controversy, writing letters to the scientific press, lecturing up and down the country, producing papers on every aspect of the subject your research had touched on. But the problem was that you had no new evidence to support you. You had milked the Vienna project dry.’
Serafin didn’t like that. His mouth shaped to protest.
Dryden gave him no chance. ‘Toward the end of 1964, you traced Goldine to the Tamarisk Lodge children’s home. You had been trying to locate her mother, but she was dead. As it turned out, the child was a more exciting discovery, a member of the generation after the one you had studied. You visited the home, examined the little girl. Goldine won’t remember this—’
‘But I do!’ Goldine said emphatically. ‘The matron held me while he handled my arms and legs. I cried.’
Serafin admitted this with a nod, averting his eyes from Goldine’s.
‘When you saw the child you realised that here was a possibility of extending your Vienna research,’ Dryden went on. ‘If you were right, Goldine was destined to be taller than her mother and her grandmother. What an opportunity for you! There she was, an orphaned child. You could adopt her, take her into your home and monitor her growth, measuring her week by week, recording everything until she reached maturity. You would have a unique record of her development from the age of three. You would publish the results as a case history supporting your Vienna thesis. Correct?’