Weeks ambled by slowly as the semester progressed. Both Egon and Peter found themselves falling into the regular patterns of classes, teaching and research that marked all grad students of their calibre. Venkman reached his stride and stayed there, balancing his time evenly between working hard and playing harder. Now that the holiday seasons were beginning, the quantity and quality of campus and off-campus parties increased exponentially, and Peter, it seemed, was determined to attend them all. A life-long resident of New York, he was acquainted with literally hundreds of people, all of whom seemed determined to court his favor in some way or another. Peter accepted the attention as his due and made his rounds through Halloween and on into the Thanksgiving and early Christmas season.

This did not mean that Peter allowed his work to slack. Always fascinated by the workings of the human mind, he'd finally found a channel for his interest. That it coordinated so perfectly with McKenna's overall theme of sleep research was providential, and for the first time in his youthful existence Peter found himself a member of a working team, personalities aside, that contributed regularly in the scientific field.

As the days shortened, Egon began spending ever more time in the lab. He worked long, frustrating hours in failed strategies to discover some method for detecting paranatural energy flows, restricted as he was by using only terran materials. This research grew staggering combined as it was with the requirements for receiving his Ph.D. in Ancient Languages, his Bachelors in Parapsychology, and his newest interest in spores, molds and fungi. Add to this the second level physics and advanced mathematics courses he taught weekly and the burden grew exhausting indeed. It would have been easier, he remarked often, had he someone to assist in the routine tasks to be performed, writing his reports, assembling and de- assembling equipment to specification, doing some of the investigative footwork in tracking down unexplained occurrences, etc. Soon, out of sheer desperation, with McKenna's reluctant approval - and over Peter's loud protest - he began casting about for a part-time lab assistant.

"There isn't enough room in here for us," the psychologist objected when the plan was proposed to him. "What are we gonna do? Velcro him to the wall?"

"We'll set him up a little space in that corner," Egon had replied with some asperity, pointing to an area just behind his own desk. "I doubt you'll be bothered by the extra body at all," such answer garnering nothing but grumbles and acidic comments for several days thereafter.

Having located no one meeting his approval by the time November fifteenth arrived, he'd begun to resign himself to having no personal life at all for the next four years - possibly longer if he decided to go for that third Ph.D. in Parapsychology, as he was seriously considering.

Thursday afternoon found both men present in the lab, a not-uncommon occurrence of late. Egon, as usual, was hunched over his keyboard, the glow of the computer monitor reflecting softly off of his thick lenses. He was on the trail of what he hoped would be a breakthrough in his long- running quest to detect the unearthly. Nearly ready to begin construction on a prototype detector, the screen was full of rough schematics and equations, while his fingers flew over the keyboard, running simulations on one system after another.

Peter was cornered in his cubical with yet another of his test subjects. Interviewing, then repeated analysis of each subject was time consuming, yet not a flicker of tedium ever showed on the man's expressive features - at least, not in front of the students. His questions were invariably patient and encouraging, eliciting full cooperation from everyone involved. Today, it was a new volunteer that he interviewed, a petite blonde psychology student named Sandy, who attended the Psych I class he taught on Wednesdays. Peter had had his eye on the girl since September, restraining himself from making his move only because she was in his class.

This moral state of affairs would not last forever, he told himself, studying her from a distance of a single yard. Come June, she'd have moved on to Bookbinder's Psych II, and Peter would be free to ask her out. That didn't mean he couldn't do a little foundation work in the meantime!

"So are all your dreams this particularly erotic?" he said, making dutiful notes in his book. "Do they ... uh ... parallel your waking fantasies at all?" I hope! he added privately. If the girl's tastes ran anything like her dreams, they were going to have a very interesting time of it indeed once she graduated!

Sandy crossed slim legs, her little smile showing that she was not unaware of the effect that action had on Peter's blood pressure. "All of them," she purred, making a vain effort at tugging her black skirt over her knees. "As for my fantasies...." She dimpled at him, an unself-conscious chuckle escaping her pink lips. "I'll tell you the truth, Peter, I have fantasies that would curl that great hair of yours. I'll be glad to tell you all about them if I'm selected for this project."

Peter sighed then caught himself, telling himself sternly that this was a professional interview. The fun would come later. "I'll look forward to that," he returned, smiling in return. He skipped to the bottom of his list of questions - the ones he'd included only recently. "Next question: Have you ever had one of your dreams actually come true?"

Sandy's dimples vanished. Her brow puckered in a thoughtful frown. "Well ... not exactly that."

Hormone levels restored themselves to some semblance of balance as Peter's ears pricked up. "Have you experienced any form of extra-sensory perceptions? Clairvoyance? Precognition?"

Sandy shifted uncomfortably, shooting a glance to the glass partition through which Egon's hunched form could barely be seen. "I don't usually mention ... things like that," she began, running the tip of her tongue over her lips. "But...."

"Come on, Sandy," Peter prodded, turning his supportive smile up another notch. "You know you can tell me anything no matter how awkward or embarrassing."

The girl sighed. "You're not going to believe me," she stated candidly, "but there have been a few times when I could ... tell what people near me were thinking - or sometimes even pick up the thoughts of people related to them. Long-distance like."

Peter stared, meeting her frank expression with inconcealable surprise. The questions on esper abilities were more throwaways than anything. He'd added them to his interview sheet on a whim and had been astonished at the number of positive responses he'd received. Ninety-nine percent of them he'd been able to explain away without effort - a submerged memory, heightened sensitivity from a long-term relationship, mass 'trendiness.' He did have to admit to being baffled by the one percent he could not explain - not enough to make him a believer or anything, but enough to keep him asking the questions.

Now he stared long and hard at the young woman before him, wondering into which category she fell into. Despite her declaration, Sandy had not struck him as being neurotic or trendy; rather, she'd so far displayed high intelligence in his class and a level-headed forthrightness that compelled belief. Or at least, further inquiry.

"Sandy," he began gently, pulling his smile back into place to rob his question of offense. "You're not pulling higher than a B-minus average in my class. If you were telepathic you could just read the answers out of my head."

The girl shook back a strand of long hair, china blue eyes crinkling at the edges. "Knew you wouldn't believe me," she remarked off-handedly. "But I'll tell you anyway. I can't control when I'm going to be connected to someone else. It just ... well, it just happens all by itself."

She gestured expansively, her long fingers just brushing Peter's. "Like once I was in a room full of people and Poof! - I'm getting images from three of 'em at once. Then there was the time I was at this party and was able to pick out an undercover narc when no one else could." She rubbed her temples. "Doesn't happen often. Good thing because it gives me a nasty headache." Her elfin face twisted in disgust. "You'd be surprised at what some of those so-called upright citizens were thinking."

"I wouldn't be," Peter muttered under his breath. Louder, "Is there any set pattern to it that you've noticed? Any particular time period between ... contacts?"

"Nope. And it's even more fun when I start reading minds that aren't even in the room! That's happened once when I was twelve."

"Does any type of contact happen often?" Peter asked, cocking his head.

She shrugged. "Maybe a couple times ever. No one ever believes me though, so I usually don't bring it up."

"Hmmm." Peter frowned, scratching absently at his chin. A raspy noise told him that he needed a shave before his date tonight. Jill hated whiskers. He shrugged, refocussing on Sandy's alert face. "It's not that I disbelieve you," he said slowly. "It's just that I've never seen any proof of the type of ability you're describing."

"No kidding," the girl retorted.

"But I'd like to talk to you about it in more detail later."

Sandy thought it over, then nodded. "You're the first normal person who hasn't laughed at me, so okay. And my fantasies."

"Especially your fantasies," Peter acknowledged, hormones kicking back into gear. "See me after class for an appointment." He walked her to the door then turned to find himself the recipient of a quizzical blue stare from the opposing desk. "You want something?" Peter asked, staring back.

Spengler pushed away the stack of tests he'd been grading, patting them into a neat pile precisely in the center of his desk. He pulled off his spectacles and began to wipe them absently on his shirt cuff. "I didn't know you'd added inquiries about possible paranormal experiences to your checklist. Have you come across any other positive results?"

"I've come across no positive results," Peter returned firmly. "Nothing but a bunch'a neurotics and/or the misinformed. I've been able to explain away nearly every so-called 'experience' with a little reality-based logic."

"Nearly?" Egon echoed, one blond brow climbing into the mass of blond hair that curled over his forehead. "You mean you've come across some occurrences you couldn't explain?"

Stubbornness firmed Peter's jaw. "Lack of information."

"And what about this girl Sandy?" Egon went on, replacing his glasses higher on his hooked nose. "I didn't get the impression that she was either neurotic or misinformed."

"Sandy," Peter retorted, feeling his back go up, "is privileged information, and I'd be grateful if you didn't spread around everything you hear."

Egon's eyes flashed at that. He made no immediate reply but retrieved his stack of tests and applied his red marker with a vengeance. It was some minutes later that he again spoke. "Hmmmm. At least someone on this campus shows a modicum of the intelligence he was born with." At Peter's inquiring noise, he passed the test paper across, marking an obscure looking mass of figures at the bottom with a pencil. "Look how this student handled Teitleberg's thermodynamics equations. Very creative."

Peter glanced at the name, then gave it a second look. "Raymond Stantz. Ray Stantz? Young kid with reddish hair?"

Egon cocked a brow. "Yes. Do you know him?"

The other shrugged, the paper rustling with the movement. "Just in passing. He tutors an ex-friend of mine." At Spengler's impatient gesture he obediently studied the highlighted text, turning the paper this way and that before handing it back. "Very interesting. ... Whatever it is."

Egon snatched the paper away and restored it to the pile on the desk. "What he did," the blond explained tartly, "was to answer my query on Teitleberg's Third Energy Law by designing an entirely original heat- exchange system to handle the excess thermals."

"You mean he got the question right?" Peter translated, pulling across a stack of his own and scowling at it prodigiously.

Spengler hesitated. "Not precisely. The boy didn't actually explain the ramifications of Teitleberg's laws as I requested, he designed a mechanism to eliminated the problem altogether. I simply cannot give him credit for the question, clever though the solution might be." He paused, loosening his navy tie and allowing the ends to droop on either side of his neck. "If he's planning on pursuing his Masters degree, I might suggest he continue working on this concept for his thesis. It holds great possibilities in his own engineering field, though I fear he'll never make it as a physicist."

"And despite the fact that he's flunking your class," Venkman jeered out of habit, reaching for a marking pen.

The blond head shook definitely. "He's not flunking by any means. The boy is actually quite bright and works harder than any two students ... unlike the majority of his peers. I'm simply hesitant about approving his application to join my advanced maths class next year."

"I thought you said he was bright?" Peter prompted, in a contrary mood. Spengler rose and stretched, the vertebrae in his back crackling one by one. He ignored Peter's wince to crack his neck as well. "There are various directions intelligence can take, Peter. Young Raymond exhibits a positive aptitude in his chosen field of engineering. You can see that much in the creativity of even this single test answer. Unfortunately, I feel that he's fast reaching his limits in this particular realm. A theoretical mathematician must possess the ability to conceptualize in the abstract - pure numbers and formulae. Raymond must visualize far too much of a problem to solve it, always seeking a practical resolution."

Venkman continued reading the first paper of his stack, then made a sound of disgust deep in his throat and crumpled it into a ball. "If Harvey can't do better than this, he can just repeat the class next semester," he growled, tossing the wad carelessly to the floor. "So, hey, Casper," he began, grinning at the glowering physicist impishly. "If this kid is so practical and hard-working and brilliant, why don't you hire him as our new lab assistant? From what I hear, he can use the money. That is, if you think you can find space for him in this breadbox."

The glower muted fractionally into a thoughtful frown. "That is a possibility," he admitted, dropping back into his seat. "Even though he doesn't have a degree yet, he's more than competent." He broke off to stare at his companion, blue eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, our lab assistant? McKenna authorized one for me."

Peter leaned his chair back, balancing it precariously on two legs. "I'm sure he'll be able to make himself useful in more than one way, Doctor Spengler," he replied piously. "Besides taking up space we don't have, that is."

Egon's glower returned full force. "I'm not hiring you a personal slave, Mister Venkman. It the boy gets the job, he'll have his hands full enough with the prototype detection device I'm designing. He won't have time to do your drudge work as well."

Peter shrugged. "Of course not, Dr. Spengler," he caroled with patently false accord.

The other shook his head but said no more on the subject save, "I'll ask him in to interview on Monday morning."

***

For Ray Stantz the weekend passed with agonizing slowness until finally Monday dawned and the moment of his interview approached. The morning hours consisted of excruciating torture, expectation raking like a live wire across Ray's sensitized nerves. To be accepted into any of Dr. Spengler's classes at all was considered an honor on campus and was certainly more than Stantz had never expected. Day by day he would watch the tall blond during class, handsome, assured and competent, dreaming of the day when he too would carry that air of cool self-confidence that marked the scientist.

The summons Thursday night had been unexpected, even the bare possibility of actually working with the great Egon Spengler thrilling beyond all comprehension. To Ray, the potential for accomplishing all he had ever dreamed in either of his chosen fields now hinged on the outcome of the next few hours; in his own perception, his entire future life hung in the balance and he was, frankly, afraid.

Ray had risen early, carefully selecting his favorite brown slacks and a white shirt, even taking the time to wipe his loafers until the leather near glowed. He paused in front of the mirror, comb in hand, and examined his appearance critically, alert for the smallest spot or tear in his clothes. Clean and pressed, they nevertheless showed signs of wear in several places, not even counting the neat stitches that reinforced the cuff. Whether he got this job or not, he was going to have to find another source of income soon; Corinne had dropped out of school and the two other students he tutored regularly would be going away for the holidays starting next week. And since he'd moved out of his aunt's house into the dorm, he was barely making enough to keep himself in food much less clothing.

His gaze trailed from his white shirt to his midriff, and he patted it disgustedly. He was definitely putting on weight, he decided, wrinkling his snub nose with dismay. The two years he'd spent away from heavy farm work had slowly sapped his muscles of their tone, leaving him softer than he'd ever been. Maybe he should start watching his diet anyway; if nothing else, that would leave him some clothing money at the end of the month. Maybe.

Dismissing this unproductive train of thought for the moment, he applied the comb, running it through the soft auburn strands that trailed down just over his ears in what passed for an approximation of the acceptable style that year. He brushed slowly and shifted his view; large eyes stared back at him from the mirror, a clear brown color with gold tones that only served to enhance the sparkle that lived perpetually in their depths. To an unbiased observer the image presented was that of a wholesome, open- faced youth of eighteen years, with intelligent eyes and a generous mouth; to Stantz the not-unpleasant effect of his reflection provoked nothing but gloom.

"Nothing's going to help," he told himself disparagingly, "You look like what you are - one more loser right off the farm." This negative judgment took root instantly, causing Ray's broad shoulders to slump. "I might as well just face it, there's no way in the world that Dr. Spengler is going to really want me working for him on anything. I'm not near smart enough and I'd just mess things up, anyway. Like usual." His eager expression fading into resignation, he quietly donned the calf-length trenchcoat that had been an early Christmas present from his aunt, then left the dorm. "Guess I'd better show up for the interview; it was nice of him to at least give me the chance. I hope I don't waste much of his time."

Steps dragging, he made his way across the campus to Weaver Hall, then climbed the stairs to Lab 14. He found it easily and knocked, opening the door after a hearty summons from within. "Dr. Spengler?" he asked, peeking around the corner.

"Don't even say that in jest," came the simulated reproof from a familiar jeans-clad figure lounging at the first of two desks. His handsome face breaking into a sardonic smile, Peter Venkman waved Ray into the room, looking him up and down with open curiosity. "C'mon in and sit down; Egon is ... uh ... powdering his nose. He'll be right back. You can put your coat over there. Nice coat, by the way - great length."

Ray nodded his thanks and quietly shut the door, slipping out of his long coat and hanging it on the bare nail that jutted out of the white wall. He then took the indicated seat by the second desk, using the opportunity to examine the lab surreptitiously through his lashes. It was smaller than he'd expected it to be, chock full of books and papers, unrecognized components and paraphernalia scattered haphazardly across desks and floor. The only relatively uncluttered area was a small cubicle in the corner, which held two chairs and a card table.

"Not much to look at, is it?" Venkman asked, following his line of sight. "That's because old man McKenna decided that spook chasers and newbees don't rate as high as the more mundane researchers in this funny farm."

Ray risked a glance at Venkman, but there was no real animosity in the man's features despite the cynical tone; rather, there was a careless make- due look somewhat at odds with his hellraiser reputation. "You-you don't mind sharing a-a lab?" he ventured, hating the nervous stutter that emerged in times of stress.

Venkman's lips twitched in a tiny smile. "Sharing a lab sucks big time, booby, and I'd dump the geek in a minute if I could figure out how." At Ray's shocked expression, he made a throwaway gesture with one hand. "Hey, nobody ever said science was pretty, kid."

At a loss as to how to respond to this piece of unconventionality, Ray licked his lips and tried again. "Are ... you a physicist, too?"

That won him a frown. "I," Venkman replied with great dignity, "am a psychologist. Do I look like a physicist to you?"

As the implication in the tone equated 'physicist' to 'low-life pond scum,' Ray bit his lip and said nothing, preferring to stare at the neat crease in his slacks to those mocking green eyes. Peter Venkman! Ray thought with more than a touch of awe. Ray was sitting here talking with Peter Venkman, probably the most popular guy in the entire college! Or rather, not talking with him, he added with innate, if unflattering, honesty, for try as he might Ray could think of nothing to say. Silence stretched uncomfortably and Ray began to squirm, sensing the other watching him closely. He again chanced a peek, surprised when he found benevolence in the other's expression where he'd expected only contempt.

"Don't be nervous around here, kid," Peter told him after another moment had passed. "I'm a smartmouth but I'm harmless as blazes, and Egon's a big, pompous ass that I generally ignore. I advise you to do the same."

"I-I'm here about ... about the job," Ray managed, cursing himself as three ways of a fool. If he couldn't even hold a conversation around this man, how was he going to manage in an interview with Spengler? "I mean...."

Venkman held up a hand. "I know all about it. Right now you're the only one Spengs is interviewing, so try to relax." Taking his own advice, Peter propped his sneakers up on the desk, lacing his fingers behind his head. "So, where you staying? Frat or dorm?"

A manila folder lay on the edge of Spengler's desk. From where Ray sat he could see his own name neatly emblazoned in black marker on its leading edge. He gulped. "Uh ... it's ... the dorm," he managed, mind shifting into reverse. "I-I was using my Aunt Lois' house, but-but she and my cousin moved back in from Paris, and...." He shrugged. The dorm wasn't too bad, especially since a bookkeeping fluke had graced him with a room of his own - an unexpected sanctuary. And he certainly didn't miss the commute back to the Bronx every day! It took him a moment to realize that Peter was speaking again.

"Moving is a bitch," the young researcher commiserated. "I'll be leaving the frat in January myself. Gonna bunk with a buddy off-campus. Means moving a ton of junk though." He picked up a pencil, waving it in Ray's at tentative face. "So, what about originally? You from New York, too?"

Ray dipped his head, watching with fascination as his knuckles grew white from the strain of keeping the slight quiver out of his hands. "From ... uh ... Morrisville. It's a-a farm community in New York State."

"A farm?!" the other exclaimed, apparently horror-stricken by the concept. "With, like, animals and things? What, your parents' owned it or something? I mean, like, voluntarily?"

Again at a loss, Ray could only shake his head, casting about in his blank mind for something - anything - intelligent to say that would not involve his less-than-prestigious background ... or his parents. It was Peter who again broke the silence after clearing his throat noisily. "Did you ever finish reading that Latin book thing you'd found? It looked pretty heavy- duty from where I was standing."

Ray seized on the question, the mention of his prize a welcome distraction. "I only gave it a quick read-through," he admitted, "but Columbia has a whole section on the super- and paranatural. I'm minoring in the subject, you know. After Engineering, I mean."

His pleasure in the thought must have seeped through, for another smile lifted Peter's lips. "No, I didn't know, but I can see why Egon wanted to talk to you first." Ray didn't understand that part, but had no time to ponder as Peter went on, "I've just picked up a new curiosity in my own field. What do you know of telepathy?"

A considerable amount, as they both found out. Enthusiasm began to bubble up, banishing Ray's anxiety as he lost himself in the pleasure of sharing his knowledge with another. The ice broken, the two chatted freely for some minutes until the door reopened and Spengler strode into the room. Ray broke off mid-sentence as the man appeared, leaping to his feet and nearly knocking the chair over in the process. "G-good morning, Dr. Spengler."

"Good morning, Ray," Spengler replied calmly, studiously ignoring Peter's guffaw. "Thank you for coming."

Ray gulped, digging his nails into his palms and forcing a smile. Egon Spengler! M.I.T. whiz-kid and acknowledged genius. Ray tilted his head, forced to look up to meet the sky blue eyes regarding him with polite interest. Spengler was even taller than he appeared in the lecture hall, towering over Ray by a good five or six inches, big boned yet lean - an effect that should have made him gangly yet strangely did not. The blond wave the man wore curled softly over his forehead, and Ray doubted that even plastic surgery could ever transform his own gently-rounded jaw into the square-chiseled perfection the other wore with such regal assurance.

Ray reseated himself at Spengler's command and clasped his hands tightly in his lap. This was it. The results of this interview could conceivably change the entire course of his life. Ray took a deep breath and waited for Dr. Egon Spengler to speak.

From his vantage at the desk, Peter watched the interchange with great interest, his psychologist's eye summing up both men in the time it took for Spengler to close the door. Egon stood straight and tall - taller than usual, Peter thought nastily, like he had a poker up his anatomy. He was obviously in one of his pompous moods. Stantz, on the other hand, could have been interviewing with God for all the deference he was showing. He acted as though his entire life depended on getting this measly lab-assit job! - and was clearly overwhelmed by the stuffed shirt. That, Peter found irritating though he'd had no trouble accepting Stantz' awe of himself a few moments before. Rather than commenting, he held his peace for the moment and listened as Egon began his interview.

"As you know," Egon began, pulling out his chair and dropping into it, "the job I'm looking to fill is that of a lab assistant. If selected you'll be required to handle any routine reports and requisitions, keep the room in some kind of order and maintain supply quotients as directed."

"He means you'll be doing all the stuff he don't wanna," Peter translated sardonically.

"In addition," Spengler went on, ignoring Peter with a vengeance, "I'm going to need someone with at least elementary technical skills, who will assist in the assembling of project materials and/or components as directed."

"I-I'm an Engineering major," Ray returned meekly when the physicist had paused for breath. "I can follow a diagram."

The blond head nodded. "I know you can. I questioned Professor Carteris rather extensively about you before inviting you to interview. He was quite lavish in his praise of your achievements."

Peter recognized the name of the man who headed the electrical engineering section, only then realizing that he'd never asked what specialty Stantz was studying. Ray's face flushed pink at Egon's approval but all he said was, "It's easy if you have a good teacher, and Professor Carteris is the best there is." He caught himself, obviously remembering it was two teachers he was addressing. "Um, in the Engineering Department, that is."

"And you're also doing quite well in your other classes," Egon went on, opening the folder and giving it a quick scan. "You've maintained an 'A' average in nearly every class you've ever taken."

Stantz smiled shyly. "I'm doing okay in most of them," he corrected, nervously brushing back a strand of fine hair. "But not so well in-in Economics."

"Understandable," Peter muttered, having had a tough time with Economics himself.

Spengler cocked his head, his gaze piercing Ray's like a rapier. "Your interest in the supernatural is an added bonus. My area of specialty is the exploration of the sub-etheric space-time matrix in all its various forms."

Stantz perked up fractionally as he always seemed to when on ground he was sure of. "Yes, sir. I went into it from a slightly different angle. This semester I'm in an advanced course offered through the archeology department on Akkadian Religious Practices. Everything stems from the Tigris-Euphrates basin, you know."

"I was aware of that," Egon returned coolly, causing Ray to wilt, "though I won't be attending that class until next year."

Peter frowned, the kind heart he usually took such pains to conceal objecting to Spengler's cavalier attitude toward the boy. Not that he, Peter, particularly cared, of course! It was just simple irritation at how his present labmate was acting, that's all.

Peter's eyes narrowed, focusing on the slightly hunched figure beside him, at the wide amber eyes that never quite met Egon's, and the sad resignation that dampened the flashes Peter had caught of an almost irrepressible zeal for learning and life. Why anyone would be afraid of Egon Spengler was more than a little baffling, but that the boy was terrified was obvious. He looked as though he might bolt if anyone said a loud Boo! Feeling puckish, Peter opened his mouth to test his theory; what emerged, much to his own surprise, was the gentle suggestion, "Why don't you tell Egon about that copy of ..." He searched his mind rapidly, his near photographic memory coming up with the name of the book Stantz was reading at their initial introduction. "... Tobin's Spirit Guide that you found in the library?"

If anything short of Einstein's return could have shattered Spengler's smug composure, Peter pinpointed it in the mention of that single title. "You found a copy of Tobin's?!" the physicist gasped, his square jaw sagging onto his breast. "Not in the original Coptic?"

Ray shook his head, unclasping his hands for the first time to gesture. "Not the Coptic," he said, voice beginning to gain color. "The Latin translation that Marcus DeBuque did for the Vatican! It's only a reproduction, of course, but I don't think there's more than a couple of copies on the continent!"

"There's no more than six in the world," Egon told him, leaning forward excitedly. "And one of them is in the hands of Dr. Scott MacDougle, the linguist. You do know he's working on an English translation for Cambridge? I've heard...."

Peter nodded to himself, satisfied that his stratagem had worked. He glanced from one man to the other, snickering slightly at the sight of Egon, calm mask sloughed away and chattering like a schoolboy with a new toy. Ray, too, positively glowed with animation, his self-consciousness fading as the discussion progressed.

"... a mint copy of De Vermis Mysteriis at Miskatonic," Egon was saying some minutes later, his blue eyes sparkling behind his thick frames. "I wasn't able to check it out of the facility, of course, but I was privileged to skim it during my sabbatical."

"Did it mention Ahazarad?" Ray asked, scooting forward to sit on the edge of his chair.

Egon nodded. "And Miskon. It was fascinating." He glanced at his watch, his eager expression fading back into his habitual control. "Unfortunately, I won't be able to tell you about it. I have an appointment with Professor McKenna in ten minutes. We'll have to continue the discussion on Wednesday."

"Wednesday?" Stantz echoed blankly.

Spengler fixed him with an inquiring look. "When you report. You are accepting the position, aren't you?"

Ray blinked, astonished pleasure lighting his face like the sun. "Wow! I mean, uh, yes! Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

"On one condition," Peter said, beginning to feel left out of the conversation. "That you ..." He jerked his thumb at the tense Stantz. "... never call him ..." This time at Spengler. "... 'sir' again. It grates like a sore tooth."

"Dr. Spengler?" Ray inquired meekly.

The physicist smiled for the first time. "When we're not in class why don't you call me Egon," he offered with easy amiability. "Shall we see you Wednesday?"

Ray's own smile nearly split his face in two, and Peter was surprised at the sheer quantity of warmth the boy's happiness could generate. "You bet! This'll be great!" He scrambled to his feet then turned to Peter, who was still watching benignly from the first desk. "I can help you, too, you know! Honest! I can help with your reports and stuff! I can even help you move in January if you want me to."

"That'd be cool," Peter agreed, waving a cheery bye-bye and inwardly deciding that having a lab assistant around might not be too bad after all.

***