Once the computer was programmed properly, Spengler immersed himself in long sessions of esoteric equations, spending all of his days and many of his evening hours attached to the screen. He grudgingly broke his concentration to teach the classes required of him, less reluctantly to attend the ones he'd signed up for - Medieval Cabalistic Practices, Celtic Rituals, Ancient Religions - or to accompany Marian Gainscott to a concert or the opera. Large tomes began to choke the office again, bearing such titles as Paranormal Investigations of the Modern World, Forgotten Tongues of Sumeria, and Fungi of South America, the latter the result of a new field of interest for the eclectic man - mycology. When asked about the seemingly unrelated fields, he would only reply that mushrooms were "interesting," that reading ancient manuscripts could come in handy some day and say not another word on the subject.

Carrying a double major didn't seem to bother the man from all outward indications; rather, he reveled in the study and thrived on the research. Vodrovski's publication had opened up new vistas in the field of psychic research, and all across the world scattered experiments were even now being conducted if only on a minor scale, the seedlings of a future exact science. Egon's gifts for mathematics stood him in good stead in this fledgling discipline, and he expressed aloud the hope of actually making contact with those dimensions beyond our own.

"What I'm working on," he mentioned to Peter one day in a rare burst of camaraderie, "is discovering a means to measure the etheric warping effect caused by psycho-magnatheric emissions, as postulated by Seldon over a decade ago. If I can locate a substance which will react to these as apart from strictly terran energies, I'll be in a position to move on to the next step."

"Unless only energy reacts to that type of energy," Peter had replied thoughtfully, momentarily intrigued despite himself. "'Course you'll have to test materials anyway if only to eliminate them."

Egon looked startled. "That is the next logical step towards detecting ghosts," he acknowledged, at which Peter had begun to whistle the theme to The Twilight Zone, effectively ending the conversation.

Peter on the other hand divided his time more equally. Days were consumed by his own courses of learning, such as Philosophy and an advanced bio-chem class taught by Marian Gainscott - both of which he hated - intermixed by setting up the psychological testing procedures he would be using and recording the preliminary results in meticulous logs. He was frequently heard to grumble, "I am never gonna take notes on anything ever again once I'm out'a here!" - an oath fervently believed by anyone who heard it.

McKenna assigned him several classes as well, beginning and intermediate psychology designed for the freshman and sophomore who had not yet decided which branches of the science to pursue. Venkman's teaching style was open and breezy but effective, his lectures interspersed with jokes, sports metaphors and experiences that kept his students amused. They garnered consistently high grades, however, and Peter quickly acquired a reputation on campus as a good teacher, much to his own astonishment.

Evenings, however, belonged to Peter. The frat house Phi Kappa Nu had named Peter a life-long hero of the people and permanent resident, an option Peter chose to exercise for a couple of months to save expenses in the hopes of purchasing a used car by the next year. His schooling might be paid for, but there was no way a poor kid from the wrong side of Brooklyn could handle an apartment, car and classes. Set up at good old "Try Cuppa Brew" with free board, frat buddies and all the parties he could handle, Peter Venkman considered himself a very lucky man indeed.

Despite the fact that Egon had loaded nine-tenths of his reference library into the little Volvo he owned and carted it to the one bedroom flat he rented off campus, the lab was cramped, the close quarters eliciting many arguments and heated tempers. For the most part, though, the two men ignored each other with a grandeur that defied all intercession: Egon continued to work on his computer, equation after equation taking form under his long fingers. Peter's interviews occupied much of his time, the test subjects passing from his evaluation to Cage to Gainscott and around the circle, returning to him at every step of the way for re-evaluation and analysis, the results to be shared at the staff meetings held every week.

It was in this way that time passed, the two men existing in a state of detente, the only words passing between them abrasive. To onlookers, it seemed that open warfare could not be far away.

***

Peter ambled slowly across campus toward his next class, already regretting the lame-brained impulse that had made him sign up for the advanced course in Criminology for the extra credits. Not that it wouldn't be useful to know, he thought to himself, especially for the next time Dad gets in trouble. Know thine enemy and all that.

This thought brought a little smile to his lips as he noted the phraseology. The next time Dad got into trouble - not if. But that was a fact Peter had faced a long time ago: Charlie Venkman was a con man, that was how he made his living albeit meagerly, and how he'd paid Peter's way through the first four years of college. Peter had not asked where the money had come from, knowing from past experience that he did not truly want to know. All that was important was that Peter had made it into Columbia, bringing pride to Charlie's washed out green eyes whenever he saw his son. That pride meant everything in the world to Peter.

At his side, her fingers twined firmly in his, walked Peter's girl-of-the- moment, Corinne Madigan. Corinne was tall and beautiful, and had been going out with Peter for nearly a month - a respectable time period considering Peter's recent track record with women. Scantily clad despite the autumn chill, she leaned closer, rubbing her well-endowed body against Peter's; Peter decided he liked the no-bra look very well indeed. "So how 'bout it, Petey?" she asked, not noticing Peter's grimace at the pet name. "Want to come to my parents' for dinner Saturday? I know they'd just love to meet you."

I bet they would, Peter thought with humorous sarcasm. Hey, Dad, come and meet the guy I'm sleeping with this week! He shook himself out of this mood, turning his patented mega-watt smile on her. "I'd love to, doll, really I would, but this Saturday is a no-go. My Dad is coming to town and we're probably going to take in a game."

"Oh." She pouted prettily for a moment, then brightened. "Oh, well, there's always next week, right?"

"Right," Peter agreed, wondering how he was going to get out of "next week" without messing up his chances of taking Corinne to the Sigma Chi party on the fourth. He postponed the problem temporarily when Corinne tightened her grip on his arm, leaning closer to whisper in his ear. "Hey, Petey, want to see something funny?"

"Like what?" Peter asked, always willing to be amused.

"See that guy over there?" She jerked one red-painted thumbnail to a figure sitting crosslegged under an ancient elm tree some twenty yards to their left. It was a young man, Peter noted, a boy of about eighteen with the muscular shoulders and arms of one who has done strenuous labor for a good part of his life. Closer examination revealed the muscles starting to soften, however, probably with the lack of physical exercise that so often accompanied academe. Shaggy auburn hair fell forward over a round face, and Peter was curiously disappointed when he could not find freckles decorating the boy's snub nose.

"That's Ray Stantz," Corinne was explaining softly. "He's helping me out with my calculus class."

"Little young for one of your classes, isn't he?" Peter asked. Corinne was twenty-one.

"Not for super-brain there." The woman sniffed, tossing back a strand of curly blonde hair. "He even made it into Dr. Spengler's physics class this semester, and you know how hard that is!"

"Yeah, a real treat," Peter muttered darkly.

"Anyway," Corinne went on, paying him no mind, "I'm having trouble with Calculus - no head for figures, you know?"

"With a figure like that...." Peter began, slipping his arm around her tiny waist.

Corinne giggled. "So I ask him to tutor me on Monday nights. He's real hard up for money - got a scholarship to cover his credits, of course, but, hey, everyone has to eat, right?"

"And?" Peter prodded, becoming tired of both the conversation and staring at the boy's bent head.

"And I figured that rather than paying him money...."

Peter grinned. "You little vamp," he murmured, dipping his head to nuzzle her neck. "Saved yourself a couple of bucks, eh?"

Corinne submitted to the nuzzle for a moment then giggled again. "Come judge for yourself." She used one hand to adjust her shocking pink halter a little higher over her navel, then tugged at Peter's arm, dragging him closer. Stantz never looked up, his attention firmly riveted on the heavy tome he was perusing. From what little Peter could see as he got closer, it was in Latin. "Hi, Ray," Corinne purred, adopting a seductive pose.

Stantz glanced up blankly, finding himself eye-to-eye, so to speak, with her bared stomach. He peeked up at her face then dropped his eyes, staring hard at the green lawn. "Hi, C-Corinne," he stuttered, scarlet flooding his cheeks. "I di-didn't see you."

"Well, I saw you," Corinne said, kneeling in front of him in such a way as to make her blouse gape. "Just thought I'd say ... hello."

Ray gulped. He glanced at Peter, immediately returning his gaze to the innocuous lawn. "H-hello."

Corinne smirked and leaned back on her heels, glancing at Peter as though inviting him to share the joke. Peter returned her smile, though with less voltage than normal. There was something about the situation - and Corinne's deliberate cruelty - that didn't sit well with him. "I'm Peter Venkman," he blurted without thinking.

"I know." Stantz timidly looked up again, huge gold-brown eyes full of humiliation. He knows what she's doing, Peter realized, regretting his part in the matter. "I m-met you before - a long time ago when I-I first got here. I asked you for directions to the registrar's office."

A stray memory flooded back. Peter placed the boy suddenly. He had asked for directions; unfortunately, the directions Peter had given him - had the boy been foolish enough to follow them - would have landed him in the middle of Newark. "Uh ... sorry about that," he said awkwardly, wondering why he was bothering to apologize to this little nobody. He was Peter Venkman, and Peter Venkman never apologized to anyone. "What are you reading?" he asked, more to fill the awkward silence than out of any real interest.

Ray's eyes dropped gratefully to the book still in his lap. "This? It's a Latin translation of Tobin's Spirit Guide! A single edition was published in the mid-eleventh century by the Vatican!" The words bubbled out in a stream of pure delight, the boy's face lighting from within as he forgot his self-consciousness in the honest pleasure of sharing his prize. "This is only a copy, of course, but it's one of the few Latin versions to be found in the entire world! And to think it was right here in the library the whole time! And I can really read it!"

The enthusiasm was so contagious that Peter found himself returning the other's happy smile, only then catching Corinne's disapproving frown from the side. "Pretty good, kid. Spirit Guide. Right. What are you, anyway, Sophomore?"

Corinne cleared her throat, drawing Stantz' attention for a single instant before he again looked away. Whatever it was that he'd seen in the woman drove the elation from his face at once. "J-Junior this year. N-nothing much."

Taking the renewed stutter as a sign that the boy was fast reaching whatever conversational limits he possessed - thanks to Corinne - Peter again grasped Corinne's hand, hauling her to her feet. "Come on, honey, I'm late for class."

"Sure, Petey. See you, Ray." She stretched seductively, baring her midriff by an additional six inches, then reclaimed Peter's arm. The two strolled off and Peter could feel those impossibly large eyes fixed on his back until they were out of sight.

"So, Corinne," he began softly, clearing his throat. "How much money are you paying him?"

She laughed out loud at that. "A whole lot more than I intended, believe me! He's never even looked me in the face much less tried anything. Kid'll never know what he's missing."

"He's not missing that much," Peter muttered under his breath, wondering if Jill Wheeler would like to go with him to the Sigma Chi party next week.

***

The football game that afternoon had been a grand success from the viewpoint of Columbia students. A sweeping 26-14 victory over Notre Dame had touched off a wave of joyous victory celebrations, one spontaneous party after another springing into being and promising to last throughout the night.

It was ten-thirty and Peter was making the rounds. He'd left Try Cuppa Brew's gala two hours earlier, starting at the nearest women's dorm and working his way in a rough circle around the campus. At this point he was on his way to the eighth gathering of the evening, comfortably stoned and in a mellow mood.

"... to make sure I didn't tell Monica to meet me here, Chuck," he was telling the tall, powerfully muscled man who ambled at his side. "I can't remember whether I said the lab or my frat."

The man adjusted his red varsity jacket then courteously allowed Peter to precede him through the doors into Weaver Hall. "Hope it was the frat. Can't imagine why you'd tell a swinging single like Monica to meet you at a dreary ..."

"... deserted ..." Peter interjected.

"... deserted.... Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh.'" Peter threw a friendly arm around his best friend's shoulders, steering him up the stairs. "Deserted is sure nice when you're living in a frat."

Chuck bobbed his head wisely, making his shoulder-length blond hair bounce. He took a puff of the crudely rolled cigarette he held between two fingers, his pleasant Texas twang thickening even as his eyes grew more unfocussed. "Y'all got 'ta get out'a that frat sooner or later, buddy boy. When you moving in with me? I've been inviting you for nigh on 'ta three months now and frankly, son, I can use your bread. You want another hit?"

Peter threw up his hands, then grabbed again for Chuck's shoulder to prevent a spill - his own. "Not 'till January - won't have the green before then, man. The frat is cheap ... read 'free' since a I'm working grad class hero - and right now I'm barely above water here. Ph.D. programs ain't easy and I can't call on my family's bread like the jerk I work with." He waved the drug away, wrinkling his aquiline nose. "Naw, man, can't walk as it is. Save it for later."

"Neither is Theater Arts cheap," the blond returned sourly, carefully pinching out his butt and stowing it in his breast pocket. "Without a higher degree than Bachelors, I ain't never gonna get a job in television like ahm aiming for. An' may I say to you, Mister BMOC, that you got your Masters in pretty jig time fer a boy who says he don't study none."

Peter shrugged. "What does study have to do with being a genius?"

Chuck was still pondering this remark when Peter tightened his hold on the bulky shoulder, bringing them both to a halt. "There's a light on in the lab," he whispered.

"Monica?"

Peter shook his head. "I remember locking the door last night." He frowned. "Actually, that's the only thing I do remember about last night. Anyway, that has ta' be my dork labmate, Spengler. Told you about him - dirty sneak swiped Marian Gainscott away from me when I wasn't looking. He never could'a done that if I hadn't been ... uh ... distracted, you know."

"Yeah, distracted," Chuck sniggered, clapping a hand to his mouth. "Sure, Pete."

The two froze, listening to the low murmur of voices emanating from the closed room. Peter cocked his head, a wicked grin lifting his lips. "Well, I'll be.... I think old Geek-O has a chick in there! Hey, Chucky- baby, how about running a little team play for your former quarterback? Remember the old 18-24 crossover?"

"Interference play." The blond nodded. "You got it, Pete. Paybacks are always fun."

"Yeah." Venkman drew his friend closer until he could just murmur in his ear, "Now here's what you're gonna have to do...."

Minutes later the two young men continued their stroll down the hall, boldly entering the lab and stopping to look around. "Well, well," Peter said, sneering as the startled duo within broke a close embrace. "Didn't know anyone was going to be here at this time of night."

Egon hurriedly straightened his dress shirt, a slow flush working its way up his neck. "You are the last person I'd expect to see in a working lab this late," he snapped, rapidly recovering his aplomb. "Don't tell me you actually have work to do?"

"Yeah, nice work you're doing," Peter retorted, brazenly examining the embarrassed woman from head to foot. She was tall - nearly Peter's own six feet - and slim to the point of being bony. No make-up adorned the plain face, but her features were saved from outright homeliness by a pair of large gray eyes, now wide with surprise, and bobbed black hair, gleaming almost blue in the artificial light. Peter winked. "How do you do. I'm Peter Venkman."

"Bernadette Greenberg," she returned, flustered.

"And this," Peter went on, ignoring Egon altogether, "is my buddy Chuck Weaver. Chuck, say hi to the pretty lady."

"Hi," Weaver obeyed at once. "You a student?"

The woman glanced from the two newcomers to her date, who was beginning to glower. "No. I mean ... I'm a student but not at Columbia. I study at the Art Institute at night. I ... have a job during the day ... with a bank."

"A career woman!" Peter exclaimed with every evidence of delight. "I knew it when I looked at you. Independence. I love a woman with independence." He smiled engagingly and the woman smiled back. "Independence day is even my favorite holiday."

That won a laugh from Bernadette and an annoyed snort from Egon. "We were just leaving," the blond physicist began.

"Wow!" Chuck Weaver had spent the last few exchanges idly wandering the room. But now he was stopped in front of Egon's desk, his eyes riveted to the sheaf of computer paper stacked neatly in its center. "Hey, Pete, I don't believe it! You never said you were studying parapsychology here! I thought you were only doing that boring profile work."

"He is only doing boring profile work," Spengler spoke up, turning a puzzled look in the big man's direction. "I'm the one investigating the paranormal. You have an interest in extra-dimensional theory?"

Chuck nodded eagerly, riffling through the papers while pausing occasionally to peruse any equation that caught his eye. "I've studied everything that's ever come out on the subject. Houdini's research was especially interesting, even if all he did was debunk the hokesters."

"We've progressed beyond Houdini by the order of a magnitude," Egon sniffed, approaching the desk. "Once Seldon postulated the existence of energized psi effected by dimensional nexus, true mathematical exploration began."

Chuck nodded again, then froze, a frown etching his blond brows. "Wait a minute, isn't this one of Einstein's later equations?"

Egon lifted the paper, scanning it quickly then looking up. "Actually," he admitted, looking pleased, "those are my equations. I've been studying the possible matrix effects of overlapped dimensional structure." He pressed a button and the computer monitor glowed to life. "Allow me to explain Dirac's contribution to Kraczykov's fourth theorem...."

Precisely twenty-one minutes later, Egon drew a deep breath and shut off the screen. "... which is why I am convinced that many of the old legends were generated by structural overlap."

"Very interesting," Weaver returned automatically, his eyes having glazed over during the first five minutes of Spengler's lecture. "I see."

Egon nodded and looked up. "Good. Now Bernadette...." He stopped, puzzled by the realization that he and Weaver were alone. "That's odd. What happened to Bernadette and P-- Uh-oh."

"Lose something, Egon?" Chuck inquired sweetly, getting to his feet. "And was she wearing a skirt?"

"Your interest was a deliberate delaying tactic," Egon snarled, spinning on the bigger man furiously. "While Venkman stalked off with my date!"

Weaver shrugged. "Y'all'd know more about that than ah would. Besides, you got Marian, he got what's-her-name. I figger y'all're just 'bout even now." He dug into his pocket, again extracting the battered joint and placing it between his lips. "Want a hit? Make ya feel better."

"The only thing that would make me feel better," Egon muttered, placing his fists on his hips, "is Venkman's head on a platter, that sneaky son-of- a...." He trailed off, reluctant admiration softening by a fraction the truculent lines of his jaw. "Although I will admit that was rather neatly arranged. I shall have to be on my guard next time against ... interference."

"Sounds just fine ta me," Weaver drawled, tapping Egon on the arm. "In the meantime ... got a match?"

***

"... but the giant chicken wasn't actually chasing you, was he, Zeke?"

Egon looked up at that, startled out of his concentration by the sheer absurdity of the question. He glanced over his shoulder to where Peter was engaged in yet one more of the innumerable interviews of which his job consisted. At this moment Peter questioned a squat, dark-haired youth with bad acne and a tendency to pick at his ear, about the previous night's dreams. Obviously, the man had interesting dreams.

"No, Professor Venkman." The youth shook his head vigorously at the suggestion. "He was, like, just standing there, like, looking at me! And he had this, like, real weird look on his face, like he was laughing at me! Next thing I know he's climbing the freaking Empire State Building!" Zeke scratched his nubbin head, making his greasy black hair stand on end. "Biggest dang chicken I ever saw, too. What d'ya, like, suppose it means?"

Egon clamped his teeth together to prevent a laugh from escaping at the ludicrous image of a giant chicken attacking New York. He shifted his gaze to Peter, privately giving the man credit for the expression of polite interest that was all the psychologist ever permitted to show. Right now Peter was regarding his subject with an encouraging smile, no trace of humor on his lips.

"Let me ask you, Zeke," Peter said, "what do you think it means?" He paused, pencil poised over his notebook, forefinger of his right hand casually tapping his knee. "Any idea at all?"

Zeke considered, his pudgy face screwed up in the effort of concentration. "I think," he began slowly, "that maybe ..."

"Yes?" Peter encouraged, leaning closer.

"... that maybe I, like, better lay off the chili before bedtime!" Zeke finished with such a flourish that both Peter and Egon burst into laughter. Zeke grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I, like, don't have any idea why I'd turn my pop into a giant chicken. I mean, he lives on a farm and all but...."

Peter left off tapping his knee, spreading both hands wide. "No problem on it, man. We all dream weird stuff sometimes. Why, just last night I dreamed about Bambi Martin. Want to know the weird things I had her doing?"

The younger man laughed. "Like I couldn't guess?"

"I'm sure you could." Peter nodded amiably and rose. "That's all for today, Zeke. You did fine." He waited until Zeke had departed before returning to his desk and sinking wearily into his old swivel chair. "Where do these people come from? I mean, a man turning into a giant chicken, for crying out loud?!"

He looked so woebegone that Spengler felt moved to offer at least some moral support. "You never know, Peter," he began helpfully. "Some of these dreams may hold hidden significance."

"If you're talking psychosis," Peter interrupted with a weary wave of the hand, "forget it. Zeke's as normal as you are ... well, as normal as I am, anyway."

Feeling magnanimous, Egon chose to ignore the punt. "Actually, I was thinking more in line with manifestations of latent psi. It's been theorized that many humans possess unsuspected esper abilities - abilities that are untapped if not untappable." He stopped and dug into one cluttered drawer, pulling out a dog-eared publication and brandishing it in the air. "Ah, here we are. According to Berkowski's newest article in Paranormal Explorations Journal, during sleep when the human unconscious is given freer rein, certain psi abilities tend to manifest. He makes several valid points though I must say that I tend to disagree with some of his conclusions."

Peter regarded the innocuous looking magazine with suspicion, though Egon could see the intrigue in the back of his green eyes. "You don't really believe that stuff, do you? Telepathy? Telling the future?"

"Precognition," Egon put in.

"Whatever." Peter waved a languid hand dismissively, though Egon could still see a touch of curiosity in his expression. "That kind of stuff has been debunked for years. And somehow I doubt Zeke actually sees a giant chicken in New York's future, do you?"

Egon chuckled. "Extremely doubtful. I was only offering it as an alternate line of thought."

Peter shrugged. "For what it was worth."

There was a low tap on the door; a young woman entered at Peter's summons. The woman was of medium height and attractive - but then, most of Venkman's female subjects were, Egon reflected with some amusement. Curly dark hair bobbed fetchingly in the slight breeze generated by the open door, and her smile, though strained, was warm. "Professor Venkman?"

"Hello, Betty." Peter rose and advanced to meet her, hands outstretched. "I was so sorry to hear about your loss. Last Wednesday, wasn't it?"

She nodded, clamping her lip between her teeth. "Yes, Father died Wednesday morning. I ... really wanted to talk to you about that, too?"

"Of course." Peter led the way to the open cubical in the corner, seating the woman in the near chair. "How can I help you,?"

Betty dug into her shoulder bag for a handkerchief, which she applied to her eyes. She sniffed loudly then composed herself with a visible effort. "I.... This is really hard for me to say, Professor Venkman...."

"Peter."

"Peter." She nodded, meeting his eyes briefly. From where he sat, Egon could see fresh tears on her long lashes. She took a deep breath. "I-I want to know if somehow I could be responsible for my father's death?"

Peter blinked. "Your family lives in Maine. How could you possibly be responsible?"

Betty glanced at Egon then stared hard at the far wall. "I-I dreamed about my father on Tuesday ... about his death! And-and on Wednesday...." Her voice caught in her throat, choking her. "You've studied dreams before and.... Oh, Peter, could I somehow be responsible for him dying? Did I dream him dead?!"

She shifted her gaze, and Egon's heart tightened in his chest at the appealing look in her eyes. Peter was likewise affected. He scooted his chair closer until he could put an arm around her shoulders. "If that's what you're thinking," he began in a soothing voice, "you can put it right out of your mind right now. A dream is just that - a dream. And there's no way that a simple little dream is going to hurt a man living all the way in Maine!"

Betty sniffed again, and there was real relief in her face, the readiness to accept any immunity from grief-generated guilt plain. "You really think so?" she asked doubtfully. "I mean, you really don't think I was responsible?"

Peter smiled. "Of course not. Now why don't you tell me about any dreams you had last night and we'll work our way back to last week...."

Egon listened with only half an ear to the ensuing conversation, his own calculations forgotten. Psionics had never been one of his fields of study, having preferred the more unearthly directions his physics demanded. But though idly offered, the previous conversation with Venkman had awakened new questions in Egon's fertile brain: Did humans possess the latent psi abilities Berkowski wrote about? Could Betty have actually influenced her father's death from hundreds of miles away? Was there a giant chicken in New York's future?

The humor of that latter inquiry brought him back to cognizance of his surroundings. Of course he would never see a giant chicken, but what about Betty? Were there other espers in the world?

He sighed and shook his head. Interesting questions that would have to wait. His multi-dimensional research was coming along well since Vodrovski's hint, and must be given priority at present. Perhaps in the future...?

He looked up again when Betty emitted a sharp yell and threw herself towards the door. "Mouse!" she yelped, flattening herself against the wall.

"Mouse?" Peter and Egon exchanged a look then followed Betty's trembling finger to where a tiny gray body was just disappearing behind the file cabinet. Peter chuckled; Egon did not.

"Mice belong in cages," the physicist remarked, rolling his eyes. "I never did enjoy having them run loose."

Peter shrugged and crossed to help Betty with the door. "No big deal. He's not big enough to do any real damage. Betty, we'll continue this at another time?"

"And another place," Betty breathed, making her escape.

Egon stared absently at the now-closed door then turned, again giving his attention to a wrung-out looking Peter. "Well?" Egon prodded easily. "What do you think now?"

Peter stared back blankly for a long moment. "I think the mouse will leave when he doesn't find anything to eat."

"I mean about what we were talking about earlier."

Peter scowled. "You mean, did Betty actually dream her dad to death long- distance?"

Egon picked up a pen, tapping it thoughtfully on his desk blotter. "Not necessarily that, but is it possible that she had a precognitive experience? Perhaps she had advanced warning that her father was going to die?"

Peter shook his head firmly. "Not a chance, pal. Betty's father had been suffering from colon cancer; he'd spent the last six months dying by degrees - and in a great deal of pain. I'd have been surprised if Betty hadn't dreamed about his death. She must have known it was close."

Egon pursed his lips, not missing the flicker of open speculation in the other man's sharp eyes. "I do see your point," he conceded, crossing his legs at the knee. "But you dismiss the subject too readily. The probability is as you say, but the possibility has not been disproven simply because you don't want it to be true. And what about such phenomena as deja vu or even the more common abilities such as hunches or intuition? We've never been able to adequately explain them, either."

Speculation gave birth to contemplation. "My Dad is a gambler; I grew up around casinos and poker games. Knew more than one card player who'll calmly draw to an inside straight - and win. More - will know they're going to win. Those guys generally end up knocking themselves off before they can retire."

Egon nodded slowly. "An active esper is going to have trouble adjusting to a psi-null world, according to Berkowski's article. If you'd care to read it...?"

Peter snorted, pulling a disdainful mask over the interest Egon had surprised. "Not a chance. I've got too much real research to do."

Since the hour was late Egon allowed the subject to drop, but when he returned to the lab the next morning Paranormal Explorations was most decidedly not in the same position as where he'd left it. Got you, Egon thought with satisfaction, returning to his own task and determining to leave other publications around where Venkman could find them.

***