Egon speed-read the last page then turned it over, placing it on top of the
neat stack that occupied the right side of his old wood desk. "You did a
good job setting up my quarterly report," he told the apprehensive young
man seated across from him. "Very clear and concise. It's nearly ready
for the typist."
Ray's burgeoning half-smile faded. "Nearly?" he repeated, accepting the tendered sheaf. "What did I do wrong?"
Spengler tapped the topmost sheet before releasing it. "The references you quoted to support page forty-seven were superceded by Walter Lovitz' third edition in 1976."
"Gosh, I'm ... sorry." Ray stood clutching the papers, large eyes fixed on Egon's, shoulders braced as though awaiting a death sentence. "I should have checked."
Spengler made a throw-away motion with one hand, using the other to fasten the top button on his cardigan. "A minor error, and easily rectified. You can find a copy of Lovitz in my personal library on ..." He pointed a long forefinger at the bookcase located against the opposing wall. "... that shelf. Would you hand me the latest file on the magnetite investigation before you go? It's cataloged under Metallurgy."
Stantz got to his feet looking noticeably less effervescent than he had been when he'd first tendered the report; a quirk of his blond brows betrayed Egon's cognizance of this. He pulled his computer keyboard closer, staring vacantly at the screen until Ray hesitantly offered the requested file.
"You'll grow accustomed to the various references I have available," Egon offered generously, riffling one tome with his thumb. "Give yourself some time - you've only been with me a little over a week."
Ray hiked up his pantslegs then knelt by the bookcase, the red flannel of his shirt drawing tight across his back. "I should have checked before I turned it in. I'm sorry."
"No problem." Egon waited until Ray had returned to Peter's desk with a thick volume held in both hands. "You'll find the information you require on page one hundred seventy-two, paragraph three. It's currently considered the definitive quantitative analysis on the subject."
Ray nodded his thanks, the sound of pages rustling and keyboard tapping mingling amiably for some minutes. Then the rustling stopped and Ray uttered a tiny sound of revelation. "So that's what he was talking about," he exclaimed, brightening. "I didn't understand it the first time around."
"No one understood it before Lovitz."
"But...." The young student glanced up, apology gone in a rush of sudden comprehension. "If I'm getting this right, Lovitz actually proved that dimensional overlap has some effect on contra-terrain materials! Wow! This is a breakthrough! A real breakthrough!"
Spengler nodded wisely. "A very significant one. Be sure you append that to the quarterly report."
"Uh-huh." Still reading, Ray gathered up both book and report and stood. "I'd better move; Peter said he'd be back pretty soon and I didn't ask if I could use his desk."
Egon lifted his eyes from the screen long enough to shoot Stantz a quick look. "Tell me, Raymond, how did you come to meet Peter? You've known him long?"
Ray placed the paperwork reverently on a wobbly cardtable, then dropped into a folding chair, both squeezed between the cubicle and file cabinet to Egon's rear. "I didn't really know him," he corrected, absently smoothing a crease out of his jeans. "I only met him before. Twice." He correctly interpreted Egon's cocked brow as a request for more information. "He was with a girl I used to tutor. She ... uh ... introduced us but I met him before then."
"When?" Egon prodded curiously.
"A couple years ago. It was my first day on campus and I asked him for directions to the registrar."
Egon rolled his eyes. "And he gave them to you?"
Ray flushed. "He ... I ... ended up in downtown Newark."
"Newark?" Egon stared disbelievingly at the younger man, then scratched his head, ruffling the blond wave. It immediately returned to its former arrangement, seemingly of its own accord. "How could you have ended up in Newark?"
Ray laughed self-deprecatingly. "I guess I didn't know the subway well enough back then. It was an honest mistake ..." He paused, lifting his shoulder in a tiny half-shrug. "... or a joke. No big deal."
"No, I suppose not." Spengler returned to his typing, a thoughtful frown creasing his planed features. He didn't look up when the phone rang, but allowed it to continue jangling until Ray got up to answer it.
"Hello? Oh, hi, Shirley." Ray listened a moment, then shook his head. "No, Peter's not here right now." He listened again, then covered the speaker with his palm and looked up. "Egon, do you know where Peter went?"
Long fingers froze on the keyboard for a nearly imperceptible instant of time. Then Spengler looked up, his face utterly bland. "Tell her he was going over to Twenty-Twenty-One Gerard and will be back shortly."
Ray repeated the information then hung up, a puzzled look on his face. "That's funny. She sounded surprised."
"Anyone who would go out with Peter Venkman is probably perpetually surprised," Egon remarked absently. "Would you also get me the Pere- Finnegan file?"
It was actually no more than fifteen minutes later that Peter Venkman returned to the lab, head bare and face flushed with the damp frost that marked the typical New York City winter. He swirled inside, a trail of melting snowflakes dripping from his black jacket to leave miniature puddles on the floor. "'Lo!" he greeted the two within, shrugging himself out of the damp leather and hanging it on a nail. "Cold enough to freeze your 'A' out there."
"Temperature is supposed to go up to thirty tomorrow," Egon remarked, shivering slightly in the sudden draft. "And would you close that door, please?"
Peter stuck out his tongue then complied with a loud slam; Egon winced. "Wouldn't want you should catch your death, would we?" Peter asked in honeyed tones. He threw himself into his chair, scrubbing his hands vigorously on his blue wool shirt. "Man, if that temperature drops any further, we're going to need heavy duty bun warmers. Cold enough for you, farm boy?" This last was addressed to Ray, who looked up from his reading to grin.
"I kind'a like winter," the student replied cheerfully. "The air is all crisp and clean, the snow is bright...."
"It's cold out there," Peter interrupted in a whine. "You know what that means, don't you?" Ray shrugged; Peter shuddered. "No more miniskirts! No more shorts! No more halter tops!" He lifted his aquiline nose into the air, sighing dramatically. "The world ends, my son. And so do my hormones."
That won him a laugh and a dismissive wave. Ray dipped his head back to his book then looked up again suddenly. "Oh, by the way, you got a call. It was...."
The phone chose that moment to announce itself. Peter reached for it instantly. "Hold that thought, pal, let me take care of this one first. Hello? Shirley! What a pleasant surprise." He listened closely for several seconds, his pleased smile fading into confused astonishment. "But ... but, Shirley, I didn't.... No! Wait, I...!"
There was a decisive click from the other end of the line audible even to the two men watching Peter with twin expressions of curiosity. Peter stared at the phone a moment, then hung up, his face clouding over. "Thanks a lot," he gritted, turning to glower at Ray. "I have to admit you caught me out on this one. This was revenge for the Newark gig, right?"
Ray returned the look blankly. "Revenge?" he echoed, straightening. "I don't understand."
Peter snorted indelicately, his fists on his hips. "Not that I don't appreciate the run. Telling Shirley I was going to Twenty-Twenty-One was pretty effective. She wouldn't even let me deny it; said you at least wouldn't lie."
"I'm sorry. I d-don't...." Ray scrambled to his feet, both hands raised palms up in a gesture of helplessness. "I didn't mean.... I-I'm sorry."
Egon cleared his throat. "Er, Peter," he began in a low rumble.
Peter regarded Ray's miserable expression through narrowed eyes, the hard set to his jaw fading into a tiny smile. "Not bad," he chuckled, rising. "I didn't think you had it in you." He threw an arm around the badly confused Stantz and ushered him to the door. "Do me a favor and fetch me a cup of that topsoil Cage calls coffee. I need something to warm me up."
He handed Ray out into the hall then carefully shut the door after him, turning to lean against its frosted pane. "Somebody somewhere," Peter said thoughtfully, "did one heck of a number on that kid's head. Shame."
Egon left off his typing and folded his arms. "I expect him to outgrow much of his timidity, though he does seem to respond badly to even the intimation of failure or guilt. Probably something to do with his family background."
Peter uttered a disgusted sound and returned to his chair, leaning back until he balanced it on two legs. "So now you're a psychiatrist, too?" he jeered. "Another Ph.D. you're working on? In my professional opinion, Doctor Spengler, the kid will outgrow some of that downer he's on; the rest is going to require a lot of friendly support." His accusing finger targeted the middle of Egon's chest. "And don't think I don't sense your fine hand in this thing with Shirley either ... now that I've made a total fool out of myself with Ray, that is."
Blue eyes twinkled. "That's not much of an accomplishment," Spengler said, responding to the latter portion of the statement. "What gave things away? Not that I would have let Ray take any blame, of course, but sending him to Newark did deserve some form of a payback."
Peter laughed out loud, good humor rapidly restoring itself. "I won't deny that even if it was two and a half years ago. And to answer your question, it dawned on me that that kid probably didn't have any idea that Twenty- Twenty-One was a neighborhood V.D. clinic. No wonder poor Shirley was pissed off." He sighed loudly, and rested his chin on his laced fingers. "Wish it hadn't been Shirley, though - chick had legs up to her neck."
His lips twisted then, more of a smirk then a smile. "You do know what they say about paybacks?"
Egon returned to his typing. "Take your best shot, Mr. Venkman," he invited smugly. "And may the best man win."
"Don't worry," Peter returned with casual grace. "I will."
***
The agonizing jangle originated from somewhere near Peter's head. He groaned loudly but otherwise remained perfectly still, hoping against hope that that tormenting cacophony would not repeat itself. That proved to be a forlorn hope for noise once again exploded near his ear, increasing the ache in his temples by an order of magnitude.
"Whoever you are," Peter grumbled, pressing a pillow over his face, "die."
The phone rang again and Peter, in imminent danger of suffocation by now, rolled carefully onto his side and pawed the floor for the offending instrument. He found it after much searching, lifting it with one hand and pressing the other to his stomach, which was threatening him with loud rumbles.
"Who is it?" he snapped, not really wanting to know.
"Son?"
"The gravelly voice on the other end of the line brought Peter upright in an instant. Unfortunately, his stomach reacted to the motion, violently; he clapped one hand to his mouth, having to fight the wave of nausea that brought bile to the back of his throat. It was several seconds before he could respond to the repeated interrogative. Finally, "Dad?"
"Peter!" There was real relief in the other man. "Peter, son, you okay? You sound a little funny."
Peter swallowed heavily and took a deep breath, forcing his eyelids to half- mast. "I'm fine, Dad. Went to a couple of Christmas parties last night and...."
Charlie Venkman chuckled, and Peter could clearly picture in his mind the sparkle in the man's green eyes. "Say no more, son, I understand perfectly."
There was a pause during which Peter swung his bare legs off the side of the bed and sat, his body tensing for the bad news he knew was on the way. "So, Dad," Peter began, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "why the phone call? I'm assuming it's not because you want to spend Christmas with me or anything."
Charlie snorted. "Son, you know I could never get the hang of this Christmas stuff. A Jewish man ... a shiska wife ... no wonder you grew up confused."
Peter clenched his teeth, recognizing an evasion when he heard one. "Where are you, Dad?" he gritted, his temples choosing that moment to increase their throbbing out of sheer malice.
Charlie cleared his throat. "I'm ... uh ... in Atlantic City. In the Police Station. Got into a bit of trouble, Pete."
"So what else is new," Peter muttered under his breath.
"I need you to come down here and get me out. Gambling charge - nothing serious. Got $10,000 bail with ten."
Mental calculations run less than smoothly when beset by the kind of hangovers, but Peter finally made the connection. "A thousand dollars?!" he gasped, regretting more than ever that he hadn't stayed over Monica's house last night as he'd originally intended. "Dad, where am I going to get a thousand dollars?"
Charlie cleared his throat again. "Your Aunt Ruthie...."
"Oh, God," Peter moaned, flopping back onto the bed. "Dad, there is no way on earth I am going to face Aunt Ruthie today. Besides, you know I don't have a car and most of the campus types are home for the holidays. You're going to have to sit tight for a couple of days until I can make some arrangements."
"Pete.... Son...."
There was a long pause during which Peter could actually sense the man's desperation coming through. He sat up again, a frown drawing his dark brows into a line. "There's more, isn't there?"
"A lot more." Charlie sighed and there was a shuffling sound in the background as though someone was pacing a hard floor. "I got picked up at an illegal poker game here on Pennsylvania Avenue. Guy who runs the game, Pacelli, also handles the numbers for the city. Anyway, to make a long story short, I had a bit of a bad run of luck and...."
"And you owe this guy Pacelli big," Peter finished wearily. "Therefore, the sooner you get out of town the longer your life expectancy is going to be."
"I knew you'd understand!" Charlie exclaimed enthusiastically. "So how 'bout it, son? Come get your old dad out of this pigsty before Pacelli figures a way to get to me?"
Peter groaned again and stood, catching himself against the wooden bedpost when he swayed. "I'll be down as soon as I can, Dad. Not for a couple hours, though."
"That's my boy!" Charlie encouraged, and hung up.
Peter glanced around the room blearily, seeking the clothes he'd discarded the previous night. He found them in a heap at the foot of the bed and pulled on jeans and flannel shirt over his briefs, then rummaged in the dresser for socks. "You're gonna owe me big for this one, Pop," he continued to mumble to himself. "Aunt Ruthie alone is gonna cost you big."
Clothing arranged to his satisfaction, Peter glanced out the window, grimacing at the frost on the pane. "Gonna cost you big," he repeated, donning boots and heavy coat before heading for the door.
The frat house was thoroughly deserted this second day before Christmas, and Peter left the solid building reluctantly, his feet crunching in the new layer of snow which blanketed the ground. The frigid temperature had a reviving effect, the chill air wiping away the cobwebs misting Peter's brain like a broom. He breathed deeply, almost enjoying the crisp blue sky and bright sun. Then the difficulties of his task struck again, and he frowned.
"Got to score a car somewhere," he told himself, glancing up and down the empty walkway. "Frisco's gone already, Madalyn went home to her parents', Connie left school last semester...." The list went on, as Peter tromped across campus knocking on doors. In the end the upshot was simply that there was no one around that Peter could borrow a car from. Disheartened, he seated himself on a conveniently placed bench to think.
"I could have rented one," he told himself, "but my Visa is over the limit already. Can't even get to Aunt Ruthie's without a car and I'm short on cash. Can't think of anyone...." He stopped, an expression of distasteful revelation crossing his lean features. "Maybe there is one person around yet."
A three block walk brought him to the front door of a moderately expensive apartment building, brick-faced and security sealed - the latter solved by the expedient use of Peter's student ID card. The lock snicked open and Peter entered, striding boldly up to the mail boxes and stopping to read. "Spengler ... Spengler.... Crumb probably owns the penthouse."
He was wrong, but as luck would have it, a long search was unnecessary. The sound of a creaking door came from directly overhead then the heavy thud of large feet on the tiles. Another moment and the man himself appeared on the staircase, bearing a load of laundry under each arm and plastic pouches of detergent in his mouth. Peter leaped forward, drawing on an amiable smile for effect. "Egon, old man! I was just looking for you!"
"Cmp't mnaginnne hye," was the nearly indecipherable reply. Peter obligingly removed the packets from the man's mouth, ignoring the exasperated glare he got in return. "Your presence here during the holiday season is highly suspicious, Venkman," Egon went on, licking his lips. "What do you want?"
Peter's smile widened. "What makes you think I want anything?" he volleyed, trailing the blond down the hall. "Can't I just want to stop in and see a buddy the day before Christmas?"
Egon paused at the top of the cellar stare to shoot an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "No," he replied succinctly, descending the steep incline carefully. "And I don't have time anyway. I'm scheduled to give a presentation before the American Scientific Association of New York in precisely one hour, thirty-one minutes, on the application of Einstein's Multi-particulate theorem to the problem of sub-etheric mechanics. I cannot afford to be even a minute late - two members of the college board will be there as well as fully half my parapsychology class. And I'm completely out of clean shirts."
Peter followed him down, sighing inwardly though never losing his smile. This was going to be a tough one. "Really? That sounds really cool, Spengs! I'm sure you'll be a real hit."
"It's going," Spengler corrected him sourly, "to be the hardest presentation of my life. No more than a handful of the attendees even subscribe to the paranormal existence much less are interested in hearing it expounded on their final meeting before vacation."
Peter waited while Egon dropped a bundle of white shirts into one of the top loaders before passing across the soap. "I'm sure you'll wow'em, buddy."
Egon started the first machine then turned to regard the younger man suspiciously. "What do you want, Venkman?" he repeated.
Peter raised both hands wide, his exotic green eyes growing nearly round with guileless candor. "Just a tiny little favor, buddy. All I want to do is borrow your car for the day. See? Practically nothing to it at all."
"My car?" Suspicion translated into blank incredulity for a single moment. "What do you want with my car?" Blond waves shook determinedly. "You've got to be kidding. I wouldn't trust you with my laundry, and I should trust you with my Volvo?"
Peter's smile dipped for the first time. "All right, listen, man, I'll level with you. It's not a personal favor though I'll treat it as one. My Dad got into some trouble and I have to go get him clear. If I don't, it could finish him. Dig?"
Suspicion returned full rein. Egon loaded the second washer with jeans, socks and vari-colored items, then set the selector. "Assuming I believed you at all - which I know better than to do - why would I particularly care?"
That did it. Peter stepped forward until he'd bracketed the man between the washers and the door, hearing and hating the desperation seeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "No con this time, man. It's for my Dad."
The two regarded each other across the space of a single foot. Blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Peter took advantage of the indecision to play his trump card. "And," he went on, pulling out his wallet, "I can make it worth your while."
"How much?" Spengler asked with disdain.
This time Peter's smile was genuine. He flipped open the worn leather, exposing a glossy photo he kept there for easy - and frequent - reference. He turned the wallet around, sharing the picture with Spengler. "How about ... this?"
"Holy jumping catfish!" Sky blue eyes widened big as saucers. The gold- metallic spectacles slid down Spengler's long nose and hung there unheeded at the tip. "That's...."
"Frieda LesMartin," Peter supplied helpfully, sensing victory growing closer by the second. "One of the cheerleaders. She's a ... real nice girl when you get to know her. And I can arrange for you to know her, if you know what I mean."
Egon gulped loudly and shut his sagging mouth with a snap. "What makes you think she'd be interested in dating me on your say-so?"
Peter nodded, a useless gesture considering the blond's eyes were fixed on the photo as though glued there. "She will. Interested?"
"Well...." Spengler affected a casual shrug, purely feigned. "I suppose I can afford to spare the car for a couple of hours."
"That's the spirit!" Peter encouraged, cradling his wallet in one palm though not closing it completely. "If I can have your keys?"
Egon came to himself with a visible wrench. With obvious reluctance he dug into his pocket and extracted a large set of keys. He pulled one from the chain and passed it over, his fingers tightening even as Peter touched it. "I don't want any scratches or 'accidents,'" he ordered sternly, his chin jutting at a dangerous angle. "And I want you to remember this the next time I ask you for a little cooperation in the lab. For example, I'll need absolute quiet all of next week if I'm to study for that test on the Sumerian language set for Friday afternoon. Agreed?"
"You got it, buddy!" Peter agreed heartily.
Egon stared at him suspiciously for a long moment, then released the key and turned on his heel. "I'm free next Saturday evening," he remarked casually enough, but Peter noticed the barely detectable quaver in his voice. "This had better not be a trick, either."
"No trick," Peter assured him, waving gaily as the man climbed the steps. Peter's smile vanished as soon as Egon had, a flash of irritation tinting his green eyes emerald. "Prig," he muttered. "Knew I'd end up with a lecture. Probably would have gone a lot longer if you didn't have to rush for your presentation." He stared at the gurgling washers, a crafty gleam replacing the irritation. "Paybacks," he went on, chuckling to himself.
With a little grimace of distaste, he opened the second washer and fished around inside, emerging with a bright red sock held between thumb and forefinger. "Hope you like pink shirts, Spengler," he chortled, dropping it into the first machine. He closed both lids and restarted the washers, then strolled casually out of the building looking, if possible, even more innocent than before. Yep, he thought, it was going to be a pretty good day after all. He paused, calling softly to the closed door, "And good luck with your presentation ... thweetie."
***
Ray ran a damp paper towel over the top of the card table, whistling merrily to himself all the while. He still couldn't believe his good fortune in landing the job here at the lab. Working with Egon Spengler had been one of his dreams ever since the blond genius had transferred to Columbia. Spengler had already made his mark at M.I.T., where he'd quickly garnered a reputation as a wunderkind extraordinaire, that would take him far in the scientific community both in the realm of physics and, Ray was sure, parapsychology as well.
"Parapsychology. The paranormal. The supernatural." Ray rolled the familiar terms around on his tongue, savoring their familiar flavor. The sheer love of creation had dictated his primary vocation, and he shivered to think that in just one short year he'd be the proud owner of a brand new Bachelor's of Science degree in Engineering. But his interest in the supernatural was a long standing one as well, leading back to the time he'd seen his first Dracula movie when he was four. Ray had been fascinated by the notion of worlds residing beyond his own tiny sphere of experience, and he'd immediately begun his own investigations into the subject, starting with Creepy magazine that same week and leading into the revered tomes of lore that now formed the major bulk of his reading material. He'd learned Latin as a matter of necessity, of course, and was picking up bits and pieces of Greek, opening up whole new possibilities of research.
The opportunity to work with Dr. Spengler was almost too good to be true. Until he'd heard of Spengler's research it had never occurred to Ray that there would be a way for him to merge his two great passions into one constructive science, but Spengler was doing it, and Ray's quick mind was seeing new possibilities as well, ways to use his engineering skills to further Egon's sub-etheric physical research.
Ray again bent to the task of tidying the office, worried lest Dr. Spengler think he was goofing off and dismiss him. The thought alone quickened Ray's pulse, his gut tightening with that age-old terror of failure. He was being silly, he told himself, wiping his suddenly sweaty hands on his jeans. Surely Egon wouldn't fire him simply because a table wasn't completely clean? But the nagging fear did not abate, and Ray decided to clean both his and Peter's desks as well, just in case.
Egon's neat-as-ever desk posed no problems; Ray simply applied his damp rag to the few particles of dust clinging to its surface, then returned the neatly stacked papers precisely where they had been. The thought that Egon would still know that they'd been touched made Ray bite his lip; the physicist was precise to the last millimeter when it came to his work, though the one time Ray had been to the man's apartment there had been soiled laundry and newspapers scattered across the living room floor. The desk, however, was flawless.
Ray moved next to Peter's domain, grimacing at the untidy sheaves of notes, reports and assorted paraphernalia littering the desktop. Ray clenched his teeth and disposed of a half-eaten sandwich and empty Coke can, twisting the top of the trashbag closed against the smell. Then he swept the assorted pens and pencils into the top drawer, having to remove an old sock and melted candy bar to make them fit.
This task accomplished, Ray sat down to organize the paperwork. Besides the usual student profiles, he found personal correspondence and photographs, all from females. This made Ray smile, for the one thing Peter Venkman had never suffered a dearth of was feminine companionship. Ray seated himself in Peter's chair, closing his eyes and trying to imagine what it must be like to be Peter Venkman. Obligingly, Peter's form flashed itself across his lids. Dark haired and handsome, Peter stood tall, his shoulders braced by the most supreme self-confidence Ray had ever seen. The devil-may-care grin said, "I'm important!" far more effectively than any spoken word could have, and, unlike most people this claim was true for Peter Venkman was probably one of the brightest and most intelligent men on campus ... after Dr. Spengler, Ray added to himself. But it must be admitted that there were many people on campus who had never heard of Egon Spengler; the same could not be true for Peter Venkman.
Ray opened his eyes, ashamed of the envy which brushed him at the thought. Shy and quiet, popularity was never something Ray had been able to claim for himself. He'd come to Columbia straight from a small farming community, a far cry from the Brooklyn-bred, hard-as-nails Venkman. Peter revelled in the fast-paced life as though he'd been born to it - as well he had - and Ray could only stand back and admire the ease with which the man related to anyone and everyone along any prescribed social stratum. And the ladies....
He recalled the last time he had seen the young psychologist, dressed in tight slacks and open shirt, prepared for the latest in a seemingly never- ending series of parties the man had been attending since the Christmas season had started. He'd asked Ray along, even including Egon as an afterthought, and had seemed oddly disappointed when both had declined. Egon had met his parents in town for the holidays, while Ray spent Christmas day with his aunt. It had never occurred to him then to ask who Peter would be spending the holiday with.
Envy evaporated. Ray sighed deeply, suddenly understanding the air of loneliness that had shrouded the man, regretting that he had not accepted Peter's invitation nor offered one of his own. Something glossy caught his eye then, pulling him out of the empathic melancholy that nibbled at his good mood. He shuffled the report he held into some semblance of page order and retrieved what turned out to be a photograph. He pulled it out of it's protective sheath and held it up to the light, gasping when it turned out to be of a tall, chestnut haired beauty wearing ... nothing. Color flooded Ray's cheeks and he guiltily returned it to the envelope, though an afterimage burned on his eyelids, insisting on replaying every detail of the very revealing picture. Ray remembered again the passionate inscription, and blushed deeper even as he wondered who the woman was and whether Peter dated her regularly.
A thought struck him then, a stray memory of Peter having produced a photograph at intervals from an envelope very like this one. It appeared regularly whenever Egon sat down to study for the make-up test in the Sumerian languages course that he was scheduled to take this morning. Ray frowned, recalling how flustered the blond always got and the low, sustained cursing aimed in Peter's direction that had gone on for nearly ten minutes the last time the photo had made an appearance. Could this have been the cause? But why would the sight of a beautiful woman have disconcerted the perpetually calm man so much?
He sighed again and shoved the photo under the stack of reports, wishing mightily that he had the ability to even stammer his own name around such a woman - or any woman - much less actually speak to such a beauty. He'd just finished organizing Venkman's file drawer when the door opened and Egon Spengler arrived. Ray immediately jumped to his feet, certain his heightened coloration would tell the perceptive older man precisely what he had found in Peter's belongings.
Egon seemed to notice nothing amiss, however, simply nodded amiably and hung up his coat. "There must be six inches of snow out there," he grumbled, bending to brush droplets from his pants legs. "And I think the temperature is dropping again."
Ray glanced out the window. From where he stood he could see the main walkway and gardens, all blanketed in white and sparkling like diamonds in the morning sun. He smiled, photograph forgotten. "Yeah, isn't it great?! Maybe tomorrow I'll take my skates over to Rockefeller Center. I haven't had a chance to try them out at all since I got here."
Egon finished brushing down his clothes and took his seat, running a hand through his drooping blond curl. It obediently sprang up, resuming its normal coiffure without further effort. "You've been cleaning again, haven't you?" he asked after a single glance at his desk.
Ray resisted the urge to laugh at that. He patted the last of Venkman's papers into order and stepped back. "Just straightened up a bit. The cleaning people don't always do a very good job."
"The cleaning people rarely do an adequate job," the blond agreed, rubbing his hands up and down his thin arms to warm them. Once done, he retrieved a stack of correspondence from one drawer and slit the first envelope open. "They're obviously on salary. If people were paid for accomplishment rather than duration I'm certain they'd be more efficient in their employment."
Ray shuffled his feet, hoping Spengler wasn't talking about him. "How ... how did your test go?" he asked, grabbing on the first thing he could think of to say. He nearly flinched at the angry glare that brought him, though it immediately muted into unaimed exasperation.
The envelope crumpled in one big hand. "My test," Egon growled through gritted teeth, "would have gone better had I had some uninterrupted study time and less distractions."
Ray did take a step back then, feeling himself pale at the other's undisguised indignation. "I'm-I'm sorry," he stammered wishing he were anywhere else. "I-I didn't mean to...."
Spengler's face cleared though something still smoldered behind the sapphire eyes. "I wasn't referring to you," he grumbled, casting a meaningful look at the empty desk facing him. He sighed and shook his head. "Why don't you take the afternoon off, Raymond?" he suggested, pulling out a sheet of foolscap. "You're not hired to work during your Christmas vacation anyway."
Ray froze, his eyes widening fearfully. "What did I do wrong?" he asked, tightening against the worst.
Egon looked up at that. "Nothing at all. You've handled your position more than competently."
"Then why don't you want me to stay?"
"I simply assumed that you wouldn't want to work today." The blond made a throw-away gesture with the envelope at the window. "After all, we can only afford to pay you for a few hours a day, and you already contribute far more than that."
Ray relaxed fractionally, though he remained wary. "You're working today," he pointed out. "Aren't you on vacation too?"
"I," Spengler said, raising a long forefinger, "am in charge of the project. It's my responsibility to see that things get accomplished on time no matter what day it is."
"Then ... I can stay?" Ray asked the question quietly, without much hope. Dr. Spengler was a nice man. If he was only trying to let him down easily....
To Ray there was no more heartening sight than the warm smile that curled Spengler's full mouth; it gave him the courage to smile back. "I was hoping you would want to," the blond said in that so-deep voice. "I've got a lot of work to catch up on and your assistance would be invaluable. Pull up a chair, please."
When Ray was seated, Spengler pushed his correspondence to the side and picked up a file instead, opening the first page and gesturing Ray closer. "I've finished rough specs on a prototype extra-dimensional gauge. I theorize that this device will allow us to detect breaches in space-time by measuring the amount of what Dr. Vodrovski defines as a form of sub-etheric energy emissions. If this device works we could recognize alien visitation by their energy tracings. It will revolutionize the entire field of paranormal investigations!"
The elan in the deep bass raised like excitement in Ray's own chest. He leaned forward and studied the sketches avidly while Spengler waited in satisfied silence. Ray could follow some of the mechanics relatively well though the rationality behind many of the circuits escaped him.
"I don't understand a lot of this ... yet," he admitted, the 'yet' a private plea that he would understand given a few more years' education and a lot more experience. "But I can follow most of the requirements well enough. The mathematics...." He shook his head, despairing of ever reaching a level when this melange of figures would make sense.
Spengler clapped him on the shoulder. "Give yourself time to get your degree, Raymond. The rest of this will come later." He pressed the file into Ray's ready hands, adding a list of needed materials from his 'in' basket. "I'll be working with you on initial assemblage, since much of this design will have to be modified as we go along. Gather what we need from stores and I'll talk to McKenna about anything not in stock. I'd like to have it ready to test before summer semesters begin."
"Okay." Ray picked up the file, handling it almost ceremoniously. "Do you really think this will let us detect aliens or ghosts or whatever has been reported for thousands of years?"
Spengler opened his mouth, then smiled crookedly. "That is my theory. Unfortunately, that's been my theory through four previous prototype designs. I hope to have better luck with this one."
Using the list Ray began to collect the heterogeneous components and parts that he would need to begin construction, finding several of them scattered throughout the lab. He gleaned what he could, then spread some newspapers on the floor and sat down to do some much needed sorting. Meanwhile, Egon made a phone call to McKenna's secretary. They were discussing options on filling power requirements when the door opened and a man walked into the room.
"May I help you?" Egon inquired politely, looking the stranger up and down. Ray looked too, seeing a man of about his own height, with thinning dark hair and a pencil mustache. A polyester leisure suit peeked out of the cheap overcoat, but what caught Ray's attention was the man's eyes; they were green and somewhat familiar though Ray was certain he'd never seen the man before in his life, and unnervingly sharp though humor twinkled in their depths.
The stranger swept them all with a glance, his head bobbing in acknowledgement. "Hope I got the right place!" he exclaimed in a New York- Jewish accent. "I'm looking for Peter Venkman. You boys know him?"
"Sure!" Ray returned, climbing to his feet. "This is Peter's lab!"
"Pete shares this lab." Egon revised Ray's statement firmly, also standing. "Peter isn't here right now, Mr. ...?"
The man stepped forward, grabbing Egon's unoffered hand and pumping it fervently. "Venkman! Charlie Venkman. I'm Peter's father. You have to be Dr. Spencer."
"Spengler," Egon corrected, his jaw tightening. "Dr. Egon Spengler."
"Right! That's what I said!" He doggedly held on to Egon's hand several more seconds then released it and turned to Ray. "Who are you, son?"
Ray's own hand was taken in a surprisingly firm grip, the familiarity of the other's eyes suddenly resolving itself in his mind. They were mirror images of Peter's. "I'm Ray Stantz. I just work for Peter and Egon."
"I'm sure you do an excellent job of it!" the man countered heartily. He turned in place, examining the small room with evident approval. "Nice place you got here," he said, nodding again, and this time Ray could see the paternal pride fairly glowing in the man's face. "My boy did good for himself, I see. Is this Pete's?" He threw himself into the vacant chair, patting the desktop as though it were a puppy. "Very nice indeed. Knew my boy would make good."
Egon, still standing, waved vaguely in the direction of the door. "We don't know if Peter will be by today, and we are rather busy. Perhaps I can give you his home address...?"
But Venkman settled back, crossing his legs comfortably at the knee. "Talked to Pete this morning. He said he'd meet me here. I'm sure you boys don't mind if I wait a bit?" He shivered inside his coat, clapping his hands together. "Sure gets cold outside, after all."
Made helpless by an inbred gallantry, Egon sighed and reseated himself. "Oh course not, sir," he said with forced courtesy. "Please make yourself at home. You'll excuse us if we continue our work."
"No problem-O." The older man waggled a magnanimous hand. "You won't even know I'm here."
Egon and Ray returned to their individual tasks, Ray again seating himself on the newspapers and picking up a circuit board. Silence reigned for nearly two minutes. "Pete was the first, you know," Charlie spoke up, garnering two blank stares.
"The first what?" Egon asked, having obviously forgotten the man was there.
Venkman waved generally. "The first in the family to go to college, of course! We always knew he was a bright boy, his mom and me. Knew it from the time he started to talk." He tapped his own temple, nodding sagely. "Smart as a whip. We're real proud. Yep. Real proud."
Ray could believe that, could see it in the man's face and hear it in the pleased tone of the gravelly tenor. "I'm sure you are," Egon answered dryly, conspicuously returning to his task.
Ignoring the hint, the elder man laced his fingers together behind his head and studied the ceiling. "First to go to college, that's my boy. Not that the rest of us are slackers," he added, shooting a glance Ray's way. "We just got our education by experience, that's all. No substitute for experience, that's my motto."
"Peter has experience," Ray spoke up, feeling a need to defend his hero even against this man.
Charlie nodded. "You bet'cha he does! Taught him myself, everything he knows." He undid the topmost button of his white shirt, staring down his long nose at Ray's upturned face. "I'm a part owner-executive, you know. Big company."
He waited expectantly until Ray asked, "What company is that, Mr. Venkman?"
Charlie puffed his chest out importantly. "Aguila Estates, Inc. We're in the process of building a resort in Mesina, Nevada, about thirty miles from Reno." He fished into his breast pocket, withdrawing a slender sheaf of brochures. He handed them to Egon, who glanced at them then passed them to Ray. "This is an artist's conception of what Aguila Estates will look like upon completion. We're hoping to add another hundred units before the next decade ends."
"Wow!" Ray breathed, rapidly reading the pamphlet. "A four hundred percent return on all investments? That's great!"
"That's guaranteed profit," Venkman assured him. "As a matter of fact ..." He flipped open another, larger sheaf covered with fine print. "... there's still a few shares left for smart investors like you two. For only one thousand down I could write you up as a co-owner." He raised one finger, pressing the contracts against his heart. "Just think of it! Four hundred percent profit!"
"Wow!" Ray repeated. Then the reality of his position set in and he regretfully handed the brochure back. "But I don't have a thousand dollars."
"Five hundred?" Venkman suggested hopefully. "How about two-fifty?"
Ray shook his head. "Sorry."
Charlie shrugged. "What about you, Dr. Spengler? Want to get in on the ground floor? Once in a lifetime deal."
Narrow blue eyes met guileless green; Egon tilted his head looking for all the world like an entomologist examining a cockroach. "Mesina, Nevada, gets less than six inches of rainfall per year," Spengler began, adopting a tone Ray recognized from the lecture hall. "To acquire the steady supply of water necessary for simple construction much less operation of a resort hotel, you will have to set up a pumping station on-site, drilling down a hundred meters through bedrock. Design cost alone is prohibitive of such a plan much less profit." He paused. "And you say that you're part owner of this enterprise?"
Charlie gulped and hurriedly stowed his brochures. "Actually, I'm just an employee. No real connection at all."
"I see." Egon bent his head and Charlie maintained his peace, getting up to wander the lab after some minutes. He was poking around in the frosted glass cubicle when the door again opened to admit the flushed and harried Peter Venkman.
"Cold, cold, cold!" he proclaimed, dropping his jacket onto the file cabinet and throwing himself into his chair. "Wish summer would hurry up. Man could catch his death this way."
"Peter," Ray began, intending to announce Charlie's presence.
Peter motioned for silence, his features taking on a careful neutrality in which Ray would one day sense danger. He dug into his stack of papers, finding the envelope-encased photograph without hesitation. "Oh, Eeee- gon," he caroled, opening the flap. "I heard you only got a B- in your Ancient Languages test this morning." He clucked his tongue sadly and pulled out the photo. "What's the matter, pal? Were you distracted by anything? And, gee, don't you have something planned for the weekend?"
Puzzled, Ray shifted his stare from Peter to Egon, perplexed by the baleful glare the physicist shot Venkman's way. "I owe you, Venkman," the blond stated flatly. "That B cost me the highest grade-point average of the class."
Peter grinned then slid the photo back out of sight. "Oh, well. Guess you'll have to settle for just passing, like the rest of us peons."
"That's not what I taught you, son," a gravelly voice interrupted. Peter gaped, staring incredulously as Charlie Venkman stepped from behind the partition, both hands extended. "Wass'a matter? You don't say hi to yer old man any more?"
Peter leaped to his feet, throwing himself into his father's arms. "Dad! I wasn't really expecting...! I mean, I know you called but...."
"Hey, hey!" Charlie hugged his son unabashedly, then stepped back, holding him by both arms and examining him critically. "You're lookin' good, son - real good. I'm glad to see you."
"You too, Dad," Peter returned happily. "How long are you in town for?"
Charlie shrugged. "Couple days maybe. Got a ... er ..." He cast a nervous look in Egon's direction; Spengler stared back blandly. "... sales meeting tomorrow. Then I'm off again. I'll tell you all about it over dinner."
"I'm sure you will," Peter smirked, and Ray wondered what it was that amused him so about his father's business.
Charlie grinned in return and twined his arm through his son's. He looked around the room again, his shoulders coming back, his head up, and Ray was astonished to note how much taller the man looked; he was closer to Peter's six feet than he was to Ray's own five foot, ten. "Sure am proud of you, Peter," Charlie stated, fixing his stare again on Egon. "Hey, Dr. Spengler, my boy's got an important job here, eh? Good scientist?"
Peter stiffened slightly at that innocuous question, his green eyes flashing something that Ray tentatively identified as dismay. Ray transferred his gaze to Egon, who hesitated almost imperceptibly before nodding. "Yes, sir," he agreed solemnly. "Peter is making important contributions to the research fields."
Charlie beamed and Peter relaxed, his expression still congenial though something new lived in his eyes. Gratitude? "We'd better get going, Dad," Peter said affably, shooing his father toward the door. "We can get something to eat off-campus. It's not far to Didonato's from here." He waited until Charlie had disappeared through the door before returning to his desk and retrieving the photograph, this time leaving it in its concealing sheath. "I believe this belongs to you," Peter offered. He handed the envelope to Egon, and Ray got the oddest impression, as though he were handing across something far more valuable than a picture of a naked woman.
Egon, too, accepted it as such, holding it between thumb and forefinger, a wry smile on his mouth. "I'm looking forward to Saturday," he added, raising a brow.
Peter snorted. "I doubt you're going to survive Saturday, but go with my blessings." He saluted Egon, winked at Ray and followed his father into the hall. The two could be heard laughing all the way to the stairs.
"What was that all about?" Ray asked curiously.
Egon placed the envelope into the top drawer of his desk and reopened his file. "Call it a ... peace offering," he answered cryptically. "Now about that power unit...."
***
Ray's burgeoning half-smile faded. "Nearly?" he repeated, accepting the tendered sheaf. "What did I do wrong?"
Spengler tapped the topmost sheet before releasing it. "The references you quoted to support page forty-seven were superceded by Walter Lovitz' third edition in 1976."
"Gosh, I'm ... sorry." Ray stood clutching the papers, large eyes fixed on Egon's, shoulders braced as though awaiting a death sentence. "I should have checked."
Spengler made a throw-away motion with one hand, using the other to fasten the top button on his cardigan. "A minor error, and easily rectified. You can find a copy of Lovitz in my personal library on ..." He pointed a long forefinger at the bookcase located against the opposing wall. "... that shelf. Would you hand me the latest file on the magnetite investigation before you go? It's cataloged under Metallurgy."
Stantz got to his feet looking noticeably less effervescent than he had been when he'd first tendered the report; a quirk of his blond brows betrayed Egon's cognizance of this. He pulled his computer keyboard closer, staring vacantly at the screen until Ray hesitantly offered the requested file.
"You'll grow accustomed to the various references I have available," Egon offered generously, riffling one tome with his thumb. "Give yourself some time - you've only been with me a little over a week."
Ray hiked up his pantslegs then knelt by the bookcase, the red flannel of his shirt drawing tight across his back. "I should have checked before I turned it in. I'm sorry."
"No problem." Egon waited until Ray had returned to Peter's desk with a thick volume held in both hands. "You'll find the information you require on page one hundred seventy-two, paragraph three. It's currently considered the definitive quantitative analysis on the subject."
Ray nodded his thanks, the sound of pages rustling and keyboard tapping mingling amiably for some minutes. Then the rustling stopped and Ray uttered a tiny sound of revelation. "So that's what he was talking about," he exclaimed, brightening. "I didn't understand it the first time around."
"No one understood it before Lovitz."
"But...." The young student glanced up, apology gone in a rush of sudden comprehension. "If I'm getting this right, Lovitz actually proved that dimensional overlap has some effect on contra-terrain materials! Wow! This is a breakthrough! A real breakthrough!"
Spengler nodded wisely. "A very significant one. Be sure you append that to the quarterly report."
"Uh-huh." Still reading, Ray gathered up both book and report and stood. "I'd better move; Peter said he'd be back pretty soon and I didn't ask if I could use his desk."
Egon lifted his eyes from the screen long enough to shoot Stantz a quick look. "Tell me, Raymond, how did you come to meet Peter? You've known him long?"
Ray placed the paperwork reverently on a wobbly cardtable, then dropped into a folding chair, both squeezed between the cubicle and file cabinet to Egon's rear. "I didn't really know him," he corrected, absently smoothing a crease out of his jeans. "I only met him before. Twice." He correctly interpreted Egon's cocked brow as a request for more information. "He was with a girl I used to tutor. She ... uh ... introduced us but I met him before then."
"When?" Egon prodded curiously.
"A couple years ago. It was my first day on campus and I asked him for directions to the registrar."
Egon rolled his eyes. "And he gave them to you?"
Ray flushed. "He ... I ... ended up in downtown Newark."
"Newark?" Egon stared disbelievingly at the younger man, then scratched his head, ruffling the blond wave. It immediately returned to its former arrangement, seemingly of its own accord. "How could you have ended up in Newark?"
Ray laughed self-deprecatingly. "I guess I didn't know the subway well enough back then. It was an honest mistake ..." He paused, lifting his shoulder in a tiny half-shrug. "... or a joke. No big deal."
"No, I suppose not." Spengler returned to his typing, a thoughtful frown creasing his planed features. He didn't look up when the phone rang, but allowed it to continue jangling until Ray got up to answer it.
"Hello? Oh, hi, Shirley." Ray listened a moment, then shook his head. "No, Peter's not here right now." He listened again, then covered the speaker with his palm and looked up. "Egon, do you know where Peter went?"
Long fingers froze on the keyboard for a nearly imperceptible instant of time. Then Spengler looked up, his face utterly bland. "Tell her he was going over to Twenty-Twenty-One Gerard and will be back shortly."
Ray repeated the information then hung up, a puzzled look on his face. "That's funny. She sounded surprised."
"Anyone who would go out with Peter Venkman is probably perpetually surprised," Egon remarked absently. "Would you also get me the Pere- Finnegan file?"
It was actually no more than fifteen minutes later that Peter Venkman returned to the lab, head bare and face flushed with the damp frost that marked the typical New York City winter. He swirled inside, a trail of melting snowflakes dripping from his black jacket to leave miniature puddles on the floor. "'Lo!" he greeted the two within, shrugging himself out of the damp leather and hanging it on a nail. "Cold enough to freeze your 'A' out there."
"Temperature is supposed to go up to thirty tomorrow," Egon remarked, shivering slightly in the sudden draft. "And would you close that door, please?"
Peter stuck out his tongue then complied with a loud slam; Egon winced. "Wouldn't want you should catch your death, would we?" Peter asked in honeyed tones. He threw himself into his chair, scrubbing his hands vigorously on his blue wool shirt. "Man, if that temperature drops any further, we're going to need heavy duty bun warmers. Cold enough for you, farm boy?" This last was addressed to Ray, who looked up from his reading to grin.
"I kind'a like winter," the student replied cheerfully. "The air is all crisp and clean, the snow is bright...."
"It's cold out there," Peter interrupted in a whine. "You know what that means, don't you?" Ray shrugged; Peter shuddered. "No more miniskirts! No more shorts! No more halter tops!" He lifted his aquiline nose into the air, sighing dramatically. "The world ends, my son. And so do my hormones."
That won him a laugh and a dismissive wave. Ray dipped his head back to his book then looked up again suddenly. "Oh, by the way, you got a call. It was...."
The phone chose that moment to announce itself. Peter reached for it instantly. "Hold that thought, pal, let me take care of this one first. Hello? Shirley! What a pleasant surprise." He listened closely for several seconds, his pleased smile fading into confused astonishment. "But ... but, Shirley, I didn't.... No! Wait, I...!"
There was a decisive click from the other end of the line audible even to the two men watching Peter with twin expressions of curiosity. Peter stared at the phone a moment, then hung up, his face clouding over. "Thanks a lot," he gritted, turning to glower at Ray. "I have to admit you caught me out on this one. This was revenge for the Newark gig, right?"
Ray returned the look blankly. "Revenge?" he echoed, straightening. "I don't understand."
Peter snorted indelicately, his fists on his hips. "Not that I don't appreciate the run. Telling Shirley I was going to Twenty-Twenty-One was pretty effective. She wouldn't even let me deny it; said you at least wouldn't lie."
"I'm sorry. I d-don't...." Ray scrambled to his feet, both hands raised palms up in a gesture of helplessness. "I didn't mean.... I-I'm sorry."
Egon cleared his throat. "Er, Peter," he began in a low rumble.
Peter regarded Ray's miserable expression through narrowed eyes, the hard set to his jaw fading into a tiny smile. "Not bad," he chuckled, rising. "I didn't think you had it in you." He threw an arm around the badly confused Stantz and ushered him to the door. "Do me a favor and fetch me a cup of that topsoil Cage calls coffee. I need something to warm me up."
He handed Ray out into the hall then carefully shut the door after him, turning to lean against its frosted pane. "Somebody somewhere," Peter said thoughtfully, "did one heck of a number on that kid's head. Shame."
Egon left off his typing and folded his arms. "I expect him to outgrow much of his timidity, though he does seem to respond badly to even the intimation of failure or guilt. Probably something to do with his family background."
Peter uttered a disgusted sound and returned to his chair, leaning back until he balanced it on two legs. "So now you're a psychiatrist, too?" he jeered. "Another Ph.D. you're working on? In my professional opinion, Doctor Spengler, the kid will outgrow some of that downer he's on; the rest is going to require a lot of friendly support." His accusing finger targeted the middle of Egon's chest. "And don't think I don't sense your fine hand in this thing with Shirley either ... now that I've made a total fool out of myself with Ray, that is."
Blue eyes twinkled. "That's not much of an accomplishment," Spengler said, responding to the latter portion of the statement. "What gave things away? Not that I would have let Ray take any blame, of course, but sending him to Newark did deserve some form of a payback."
Peter laughed out loud, good humor rapidly restoring itself. "I won't deny that even if it was two and a half years ago. And to answer your question, it dawned on me that that kid probably didn't have any idea that Twenty- Twenty-One was a neighborhood V.D. clinic. No wonder poor Shirley was pissed off." He sighed loudly, and rested his chin on his laced fingers. "Wish it hadn't been Shirley, though - chick had legs up to her neck."
His lips twisted then, more of a smirk then a smile. "You do know what they say about paybacks?"
Egon returned to his typing. "Take your best shot, Mr. Venkman," he invited smugly. "And may the best man win."
"Don't worry," Peter returned with casual grace. "I will."
***
The agonizing jangle originated from somewhere near Peter's head. He groaned loudly but otherwise remained perfectly still, hoping against hope that that tormenting cacophony would not repeat itself. That proved to be a forlorn hope for noise once again exploded near his ear, increasing the ache in his temples by an order of magnitude.
"Whoever you are," Peter grumbled, pressing a pillow over his face, "die."
The phone rang again and Peter, in imminent danger of suffocation by now, rolled carefully onto his side and pawed the floor for the offending instrument. He found it after much searching, lifting it with one hand and pressing the other to his stomach, which was threatening him with loud rumbles.
"Who is it?" he snapped, not really wanting to know.
"Son?"
"The gravelly voice on the other end of the line brought Peter upright in an instant. Unfortunately, his stomach reacted to the motion, violently; he clapped one hand to his mouth, having to fight the wave of nausea that brought bile to the back of his throat. It was several seconds before he could respond to the repeated interrogative. Finally, "Dad?"
"Peter!" There was real relief in the other man. "Peter, son, you okay? You sound a little funny."
Peter swallowed heavily and took a deep breath, forcing his eyelids to half- mast. "I'm fine, Dad. Went to a couple of Christmas parties last night and...."
Charlie Venkman chuckled, and Peter could clearly picture in his mind the sparkle in the man's green eyes. "Say no more, son, I understand perfectly."
There was a pause during which Peter swung his bare legs off the side of the bed and sat, his body tensing for the bad news he knew was on the way. "So, Dad," Peter began, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "why the phone call? I'm assuming it's not because you want to spend Christmas with me or anything."
Charlie snorted. "Son, you know I could never get the hang of this Christmas stuff. A Jewish man ... a shiska wife ... no wonder you grew up confused."
Peter clenched his teeth, recognizing an evasion when he heard one. "Where are you, Dad?" he gritted, his temples choosing that moment to increase their throbbing out of sheer malice.
Charlie cleared his throat. "I'm ... uh ... in Atlantic City. In the Police Station. Got into a bit of trouble, Pete."
"So what else is new," Peter muttered under his breath.
"I need you to come down here and get me out. Gambling charge - nothing serious. Got $10,000 bail with ten."
Mental calculations run less than smoothly when beset by the kind of hangovers, but Peter finally made the connection. "A thousand dollars?!" he gasped, regretting more than ever that he hadn't stayed over Monica's house last night as he'd originally intended. "Dad, where am I going to get a thousand dollars?"
Charlie cleared his throat again. "Your Aunt Ruthie...."
"Oh, God," Peter moaned, flopping back onto the bed. "Dad, there is no way on earth I am going to face Aunt Ruthie today. Besides, you know I don't have a car and most of the campus types are home for the holidays. You're going to have to sit tight for a couple of days until I can make some arrangements."
"Pete.... Son...."
There was a long pause during which Peter could actually sense the man's desperation coming through. He sat up again, a frown drawing his dark brows into a line. "There's more, isn't there?"
"A lot more." Charlie sighed and there was a shuffling sound in the background as though someone was pacing a hard floor. "I got picked up at an illegal poker game here on Pennsylvania Avenue. Guy who runs the game, Pacelli, also handles the numbers for the city. Anyway, to make a long story short, I had a bit of a bad run of luck and...."
"And you owe this guy Pacelli big," Peter finished wearily. "Therefore, the sooner you get out of town the longer your life expectancy is going to be."
"I knew you'd understand!" Charlie exclaimed enthusiastically. "So how 'bout it, son? Come get your old dad out of this pigsty before Pacelli figures a way to get to me?"
Peter groaned again and stood, catching himself against the wooden bedpost when he swayed. "I'll be down as soon as I can, Dad. Not for a couple hours, though."
"That's my boy!" Charlie encouraged, and hung up.
Peter glanced around the room blearily, seeking the clothes he'd discarded the previous night. He found them in a heap at the foot of the bed and pulled on jeans and flannel shirt over his briefs, then rummaged in the dresser for socks. "You're gonna owe me big for this one, Pop," he continued to mumble to himself. "Aunt Ruthie alone is gonna cost you big."
Clothing arranged to his satisfaction, Peter glanced out the window, grimacing at the frost on the pane. "Gonna cost you big," he repeated, donning boots and heavy coat before heading for the door.
The frat house was thoroughly deserted this second day before Christmas, and Peter left the solid building reluctantly, his feet crunching in the new layer of snow which blanketed the ground. The frigid temperature had a reviving effect, the chill air wiping away the cobwebs misting Peter's brain like a broom. He breathed deeply, almost enjoying the crisp blue sky and bright sun. Then the difficulties of his task struck again, and he frowned.
"Got to score a car somewhere," he told himself, glancing up and down the empty walkway. "Frisco's gone already, Madalyn went home to her parents', Connie left school last semester...." The list went on, as Peter tromped across campus knocking on doors. In the end the upshot was simply that there was no one around that Peter could borrow a car from. Disheartened, he seated himself on a conveniently placed bench to think.
"I could have rented one," he told himself, "but my Visa is over the limit already. Can't even get to Aunt Ruthie's without a car and I'm short on cash. Can't think of anyone...." He stopped, an expression of distasteful revelation crossing his lean features. "Maybe there is one person around yet."
A three block walk brought him to the front door of a moderately expensive apartment building, brick-faced and security sealed - the latter solved by the expedient use of Peter's student ID card. The lock snicked open and Peter entered, striding boldly up to the mail boxes and stopping to read. "Spengler ... Spengler.... Crumb probably owns the penthouse."
He was wrong, but as luck would have it, a long search was unnecessary. The sound of a creaking door came from directly overhead then the heavy thud of large feet on the tiles. Another moment and the man himself appeared on the staircase, bearing a load of laundry under each arm and plastic pouches of detergent in his mouth. Peter leaped forward, drawing on an amiable smile for effect. "Egon, old man! I was just looking for you!"
"Cmp't mnaginnne hye," was the nearly indecipherable reply. Peter obligingly removed the packets from the man's mouth, ignoring the exasperated glare he got in return. "Your presence here during the holiday season is highly suspicious, Venkman," Egon went on, licking his lips. "What do you want?"
Peter's smile widened. "What makes you think I want anything?" he volleyed, trailing the blond down the hall. "Can't I just want to stop in and see a buddy the day before Christmas?"
Egon paused at the top of the cellar stare to shoot an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "No," he replied succinctly, descending the steep incline carefully. "And I don't have time anyway. I'm scheduled to give a presentation before the American Scientific Association of New York in precisely one hour, thirty-one minutes, on the application of Einstein's Multi-particulate theorem to the problem of sub-etheric mechanics. I cannot afford to be even a minute late - two members of the college board will be there as well as fully half my parapsychology class. And I'm completely out of clean shirts."
Peter followed him down, sighing inwardly though never losing his smile. This was going to be a tough one. "Really? That sounds really cool, Spengs! I'm sure you'll be a real hit."
"It's going," Spengler corrected him sourly, "to be the hardest presentation of my life. No more than a handful of the attendees even subscribe to the paranormal existence much less are interested in hearing it expounded on their final meeting before vacation."
Peter waited while Egon dropped a bundle of white shirts into one of the top loaders before passing across the soap. "I'm sure you'll wow'em, buddy."
Egon started the first machine then turned to regard the younger man suspiciously. "What do you want, Venkman?" he repeated.
Peter raised both hands wide, his exotic green eyes growing nearly round with guileless candor. "Just a tiny little favor, buddy. All I want to do is borrow your car for the day. See? Practically nothing to it at all."
"My car?" Suspicion translated into blank incredulity for a single moment. "What do you want with my car?" Blond waves shook determinedly. "You've got to be kidding. I wouldn't trust you with my laundry, and I should trust you with my Volvo?"
Peter's smile dipped for the first time. "All right, listen, man, I'll level with you. It's not a personal favor though I'll treat it as one. My Dad got into some trouble and I have to go get him clear. If I don't, it could finish him. Dig?"
Suspicion returned full rein. Egon loaded the second washer with jeans, socks and vari-colored items, then set the selector. "Assuming I believed you at all - which I know better than to do - why would I particularly care?"
That did it. Peter stepped forward until he'd bracketed the man between the washers and the door, hearing and hating the desperation seeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "No con this time, man. It's for my Dad."
The two regarded each other across the space of a single foot. Blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Peter took advantage of the indecision to play his trump card. "And," he went on, pulling out his wallet, "I can make it worth your while."
"How much?" Spengler asked with disdain.
This time Peter's smile was genuine. He flipped open the worn leather, exposing a glossy photo he kept there for easy - and frequent - reference. He turned the wallet around, sharing the picture with Spengler. "How about ... this?"
"Holy jumping catfish!" Sky blue eyes widened big as saucers. The gold- metallic spectacles slid down Spengler's long nose and hung there unheeded at the tip. "That's...."
"Frieda LesMartin," Peter supplied helpfully, sensing victory growing closer by the second. "One of the cheerleaders. She's a ... real nice girl when you get to know her. And I can arrange for you to know her, if you know what I mean."
Egon gulped loudly and shut his sagging mouth with a snap. "What makes you think she'd be interested in dating me on your say-so?"
Peter nodded, a useless gesture considering the blond's eyes were fixed on the photo as though glued there. "She will. Interested?"
"Well...." Spengler affected a casual shrug, purely feigned. "I suppose I can afford to spare the car for a couple of hours."
"That's the spirit!" Peter encouraged, cradling his wallet in one palm though not closing it completely. "If I can have your keys?"
Egon came to himself with a visible wrench. With obvious reluctance he dug into his pocket and extracted a large set of keys. He pulled one from the chain and passed it over, his fingers tightening even as Peter touched it. "I don't want any scratches or 'accidents,'" he ordered sternly, his chin jutting at a dangerous angle. "And I want you to remember this the next time I ask you for a little cooperation in the lab. For example, I'll need absolute quiet all of next week if I'm to study for that test on the Sumerian language set for Friday afternoon. Agreed?"
"You got it, buddy!" Peter agreed heartily.
Egon stared at him suspiciously for a long moment, then released the key and turned on his heel. "I'm free next Saturday evening," he remarked casually enough, but Peter noticed the barely detectable quaver in his voice. "This had better not be a trick, either."
"No trick," Peter assured him, waving gaily as the man climbed the steps. Peter's smile vanished as soon as Egon had, a flash of irritation tinting his green eyes emerald. "Prig," he muttered. "Knew I'd end up with a lecture. Probably would have gone a lot longer if you didn't have to rush for your presentation." He stared at the gurgling washers, a crafty gleam replacing the irritation. "Paybacks," he went on, chuckling to himself.
With a little grimace of distaste, he opened the second washer and fished around inside, emerging with a bright red sock held between thumb and forefinger. "Hope you like pink shirts, Spengler," he chortled, dropping it into the first machine. He closed both lids and restarted the washers, then strolled casually out of the building looking, if possible, even more innocent than before. Yep, he thought, it was going to be a pretty good day after all. He paused, calling softly to the closed door, "And good luck with your presentation ... thweetie."
***
Ray ran a damp paper towel over the top of the card table, whistling merrily to himself all the while. He still couldn't believe his good fortune in landing the job here at the lab. Working with Egon Spengler had been one of his dreams ever since the blond genius had transferred to Columbia. Spengler had already made his mark at M.I.T., where he'd quickly garnered a reputation as a wunderkind extraordinaire, that would take him far in the scientific community both in the realm of physics and, Ray was sure, parapsychology as well.
"Parapsychology. The paranormal. The supernatural." Ray rolled the familiar terms around on his tongue, savoring their familiar flavor. The sheer love of creation had dictated his primary vocation, and he shivered to think that in just one short year he'd be the proud owner of a brand new Bachelor's of Science degree in Engineering. But his interest in the supernatural was a long standing one as well, leading back to the time he'd seen his first Dracula movie when he was four. Ray had been fascinated by the notion of worlds residing beyond his own tiny sphere of experience, and he'd immediately begun his own investigations into the subject, starting with Creepy magazine that same week and leading into the revered tomes of lore that now formed the major bulk of his reading material. He'd learned Latin as a matter of necessity, of course, and was picking up bits and pieces of Greek, opening up whole new possibilities of research.
The opportunity to work with Dr. Spengler was almost too good to be true. Until he'd heard of Spengler's research it had never occurred to Ray that there would be a way for him to merge his two great passions into one constructive science, but Spengler was doing it, and Ray's quick mind was seeing new possibilities as well, ways to use his engineering skills to further Egon's sub-etheric physical research.
Ray again bent to the task of tidying the office, worried lest Dr. Spengler think he was goofing off and dismiss him. The thought alone quickened Ray's pulse, his gut tightening with that age-old terror of failure. He was being silly, he told himself, wiping his suddenly sweaty hands on his jeans. Surely Egon wouldn't fire him simply because a table wasn't completely clean? But the nagging fear did not abate, and Ray decided to clean both his and Peter's desks as well, just in case.
Egon's neat-as-ever desk posed no problems; Ray simply applied his damp rag to the few particles of dust clinging to its surface, then returned the neatly stacked papers precisely where they had been. The thought that Egon would still know that they'd been touched made Ray bite his lip; the physicist was precise to the last millimeter when it came to his work, though the one time Ray had been to the man's apartment there had been soiled laundry and newspapers scattered across the living room floor. The desk, however, was flawless.
Ray moved next to Peter's domain, grimacing at the untidy sheaves of notes, reports and assorted paraphernalia littering the desktop. Ray clenched his teeth and disposed of a half-eaten sandwich and empty Coke can, twisting the top of the trashbag closed against the smell. Then he swept the assorted pens and pencils into the top drawer, having to remove an old sock and melted candy bar to make them fit.
This task accomplished, Ray sat down to organize the paperwork. Besides the usual student profiles, he found personal correspondence and photographs, all from females. This made Ray smile, for the one thing Peter Venkman had never suffered a dearth of was feminine companionship. Ray seated himself in Peter's chair, closing his eyes and trying to imagine what it must be like to be Peter Venkman. Obligingly, Peter's form flashed itself across his lids. Dark haired and handsome, Peter stood tall, his shoulders braced by the most supreme self-confidence Ray had ever seen. The devil-may-care grin said, "I'm important!" far more effectively than any spoken word could have, and, unlike most people this claim was true for Peter Venkman was probably one of the brightest and most intelligent men on campus ... after Dr. Spengler, Ray added to himself. But it must be admitted that there were many people on campus who had never heard of Egon Spengler; the same could not be true for Peter Venkman.
Ray opened his eyes, ashamed of the envy which brushed him at the thought. Shy and quiet, popularity was never something Ray had been able to claim for himself. He'd come to Columbia straight from a small farming community, a far cry from the Brooklyn-bred, hard-as-nails Venkman. Peter revelled in the fast-paced life as though he'd been born to it - as well he had - and Ray could only stand back and admire the ease with which the man related to anyone and everyone along any prescribed social stratum. And the ladies....
He recalled the last time he had seen the young psychologist, dressed in tight slacks and open shirt, prepared for the latest in a seemingly never- ending series of parties the man had been attending since the Christmas season had started. He'd asked Ray along, even including Egon as an afterthought, and had seemed oddly disappointed when both had declined. Egon had met his parents in town for the holidays, while Ray spent Christmas day with his aunt. It had never occurred to him then to ask who Peter would be spending the holiday with.
Envy evaporated. Ray sighed deeply, suddenly understanding the air of loneliness that had shrouded the man, regretting that he had not accepted Peter's invitation nor offered one of his own. Something glossy caught his eye then, pulling him out of the empathic melancholy that nibbled at his good mood. He shuffled the report he held into some semblance of page order and retrieved what turned out to be a photograph. He pulled it out of it's protective sheath and held it up to the light, gasping when it turned out to be of a tall, chestnut haired beauty wearing ... nothing. Color flooded Ray's cheeks and he guiltily returned it to the envelope, though an afterimage burned on his eyelids, insisting on replaying every detail of the very revealing picture. Ray remembered again the passionate inscription, and blushed deeper even as he wondered who the woman was and whether Peter dated her regularly.
A thought struck him then, a stray memory of Peter having produced a photograph at intervals from an envelope very like this one. It appeared regularly whenever Egon sat down to study for the make-up test in the Sumerian languages course that he was scheduled to take this morning. Ray frowned, recalling how flustered the blond always got and the low, sustained cursing aimed in Peter's direction that had gone on for nearly ten minutes the last time the photo had made an appearance. Could this have been the cause? But why would the sight of a beautiful woman have disconcerted the perpetually calm man so much?
He sighed again and shoved the photo under the stack of reports, wishing mightily that he had the ability to even stammer his own name around such a woman - or any woman - much less actually speak to such a beauty. He'd just finished organizing Venkman's file drawer when the door opened and Egon Spengler arrived. Ray immediately jumped to his feet, certain his heightened coloration would tell the perceptive older man precisely what he had found in Peter's belongings.
Egon seemed to notice nothing amiss, however, simply nodded amiably and hung up his coat. "There must be six inches of snow out there," he grumbled, bending to brush droplets from his pants legs. "And I think the temperature is dropping again."
Ray glanced out the window. From where he stood he could see the main walkway and gardens, all blanketed in white and sparkling like diamonds in the morning sun. He smiled, photograph forgotten. "Yeah, isn't it great?! Maybe tomorrow I'll take my skates over to Rockefeller Center. I haven't had a chance to try them out at all since I got here."
Egon finished brushing down his clothes and took his seat, running a hand through his drooping blond curl. It obediently sprang up, resuming its normal coiffure without further effort. "You've been cleaning again, haven't you?" he asked after a single glance at his desk.
Ray resisted the urge to laugh at that. He patted the last of Venkman's papers into order and stepped back. "Just straightened up a bit. The cleaning people don't always do a very good job."
"The cleaning people rarely do an adequate job," the blond agreed, rubbing his hands up and down his thin arms to warm them. Once done, he retrieved a stack of correspondence from one drawer and slit the first envelope open. "They're obviously on salary. If people were paid for accomplishment rather than duration I'm certain they'd be more efficient in their employment."
Ray shuffled his feet, hoping Spengler wasn't talking about him. "How ... how did your test go?" he asked, grabbing on the first thing he could think of to say. He nearly flinched at the angry glare that brought him, though it immediately muted into unaimed exasperation.
The envelope crumpled in one big hand. "My test," Egon growled through gritted teeth, "would have gone better had I had some uninterrupted study time and less distractions."
Ray did take a step back then, feeling himself pale at the other's undisguised indignation. "I'm-I'm sorry," he stammered wishing he were anywhere else. "I-I didn't mean to...."
Spengler's face cleared though something still smoldered behind the sapphire eyes. "I wasn't referring to you," he grumbled, casting a meaningful look at the empty desk facing him. He sighed and shook his head. "Why don't you take the afternoon off, Raymond?" he suggested, pulling out a sheet of foolscap. "You're not hired to work during your Christmas vacation anyway."
Ray froze, his eyes widening fearfully. "What did I do wrong?" he asked, tightening against the worst.
Egon looked up at that. "Nothing at all. You've handled your position more than competently."
"Then why don't you want me to stay?"
"I simply assumed that you wouldn't want to work today." The blond made a throw-away gesture with the envelope at the window. "After all, we can only afford to pay you for a few hours a day, and you already contribute far more than that."
Ray relaxed fractionally, though he remained wary. "You're working today," he pointed out. "Aren't you on vacation too?"
"I," Spengler said, raising a long forefinger, "am in charge of the project. It's my responsibility to see that things get accomplished on time no matter what day it is."
"Then ... I can stay?" Ray asked the question quietly, without much hope. Dr. Spengler was a nice man. If he was only trying to let him down easily....
To Ray there was no more heartening sight than the warm smile that curled Spengler's full mouth; it gave him the courage to smile back. "I was hoping you would want to," the blond said in that so-deep voice. "I've got a lot of work to catch up on and your assistance would be invaluable. Pull up a chair, please."
When Ray was seated, Spengler pushed his correspondence to the side and picked up a file instead, opening the first page and gesturing Ray closer. "I've finished rough specs on a prototype extra-dimensional gauge. I theorize that this device will allow us to detect breaches in space-time by measuring the amount of what Dr. Vodrovski defines as a form of sub-etheric energy emissions. If this device works we could recognize alien visitation by their energy tracings. It will revolutionize the entire field of paranormal investigations!"
The elan in the deep bass raised like excitement in Ray's own chest. He leaned forward and studied the sketches avidly while Spengler waited in satisfied silence. Ray could follow some of the mechanics relatively well though the rationality behind many of the circuits escaped him.
"I don't understand a lot of this ... yet," he admitted, the 'yet' a private plea that he would understand given a few more years' education and a lot more experience. "But I can follow most of the requirements well enough. The mathematics...." He shook his head, despairing of ever reaching a level when this melange of figures would make sense.
Spengler clapped him on the shoulder. "Give yourself time to get your degree, Raymond. The rest of this will come later." He pressed the file into Ray's ready hands, adding a list of needed materials from his 'in' basket. "I'll be working with you on initial assemblage, since much of this design will have to be modified as we go along. Gather what we need from stores and I'll talk to McKenna about anything not in stock. I'd like to have it ready to test before summer semesters begin."
"Okay." Ray picked up the file, handling it almost ceremoniously. "Do you really think this will let us detect aliens or ghosts or whatever has been reported for thousands of years?"
Spengler opened his mouth, then smiled crookedly. "That is my theory. Unfortunately, that's been my theory through four previous prototype designs. I hope to have better luck with this one."
Using the list Ray began to collect the heterogeneous components and parts that he would need to begin construction, finding several of them scattered throughout the lab. He gleaned what he could, then spread some newspapers on the floor and sat down to do some much needed sorting. Meanwhile, Egon made a phone call to McKenna's secretary. They were discussing options on filling power requirements when the door opened and a man walked into the room.
"May I help you?" Egon inquired politely, looking the stranger up and down. Ray looked too, seeing a man of about his own height, with thinning dark hair and a pencil mustache. A polyester leisure suit peeked out of the cheap overcoat, but what caught Ray's attention was the man's eyes; they were green and somewhat familiar though Ray was certain he'd never seen the man before in his life, and unnervingly sharp though humor twinkled in their depths.
The stranger swept them all with a glance, his head bobbing in acknowledgement. "Hope I got the right place!" he exclaimed in a New York- Jewish accent. "I'm looking for Peter Venkman. You boys know him?"
"Sure!" Ray returned, climbing to his feet. "This is Peter's lab!"
"Pete shares this lab." Egon revised Ray's statement firmly, also standing. "Peter isn't here right now, Mr. ...?"
The man stepped forward, grabbing Egon's unoffered hand and pumping it fervently. "Venkman! Charlie Venkman. I'm Peter's father. You have to be Dr. Spencer."
"Spengler," Egon corrected, his jaw tightening. "Dr. Egon Spengler."
"Right! That's what I said!" He doggedly held on to Egon's hand several more seconds then released it and turned to Ray. "Who are you, son?"
Ray's own hand was taken in a surprisingly firm grip, the familiarity of the other's eyes suddenly resolving itself in his mind. They were mirror images of Peter's. "I'm Ray Stantz. I just work for Peter and Egon."
"I'm sure you do an excellent job of it!" the man countered heartily. He turned in place, examining the small room with evident approval. "Nice place you got here," he said, nodding again, and this time Ray could see the paternal pride fairly glowing in the man's face. "My boy did good for himself, I see. Is this Pete's?" He threw himself into the vacant chair, patting the desktop as though it were a puppy. "Very nice indeed. Knew my boy would make good."
Egon, still standing, waved vaguely in the direction of the door. "We don't know if Peter will be by today, and we are rather busy. Perhaps I can give you his home address...?"
But Venkman settled back, crossing his legs comfortably at the knee. "Talked to Pete this morning. He said he'd meet me here. I'm sure you boys don't mind if I wait a bit?" He shivered inside his coat, clapping his hands together. "Sure gets cold outside, after all."
Made helpless by an inbred gallantry, Egon sighed and reseated himself. "Oh course not, sir," he said with forced courtesy. "Please make yourself at home. You'll excuse us if we continue our work."
"No problem-O." The older man waggled a magnanimous hand. "You won't even know I'm here."
Egon and Ray returned to their individual tasks, Ray again seating himself on the newspapers and picking up a circuit board. Silence reigned for nearly two minutes. "Pete was the first, you know," Charlie spoke up, garnering two blank stares.
"The first what?" Egon asked, having obviously forgotten the man was there.
Venkman waved generally. "The first in the family to go to college, of course! We always knew he was a bright boy, his mom and me. Knew it from the time he started to talk." He tapped his own temple, nodding sagely. "Smart as a whip. We're real proud. Yep. Real proud."
Ray could believe that, could see it in the man's face and hear it in the pleased tone of the gravelly tenor. "I'm sure you are," Egon answered dryly, conspicuously returning to his task.
Ignoring the hint, the elder man laced his fingers together behind his head and studied the ceiling. "First to go to college, that's my boy. Not that the rest of us are slackers," he added, shooting a glance Ray's way. "We just got our education by experience, that's all. No substitute for experience, that's my motto."
"Peter has experience," Ray spoke up, feeling a need to defend his hero even against this man.
Charlie nodded. "You bet'cha he does! Taught him myself, everything he knows." He undid the topmost button of his white shirt, staring down his long nose at Ray's upturned face. "I'm a part owner-executive, you know. Big company."
He waited expectantly until Ray asked, "What company is that, Mr. Venkman?"
Charlie puffed his chest out importantly. "Aguila Estates, Inc. We're in the process of building a resort in Mesina, Nevada, about thirty miles from Reno." He fished into his breast pocket, withdrawing a slender sheaf of brochures. He handed them to Egon, who glanced at them then passed them to Ray. "This is an artist's conception of what Aguila Estates will look like upon completion. We're hoping to add another hundred units before the next decade ends."
"Wow!" Ray breathed, rapidly reading the pamphlet. "A four hundred percent return on all investments? That's great!"
"That's guaranteed profit," Venkman assured him. "As a matter of fact ..." He flipped open another, larger sheaf covered with fine print. "... there's still a few shares left for smart investors like you two. For only one thousand down I could write you up as a co-owner." He raised one finger, pressing the contracts against his heart. "Just think of it! Four hundred percent profit!"
"Wow!" Ray repeated. Then the reality of his position set in and he regretfully handed the brochure back. "But I don't have a thousand dollars."
"Five hundred?" Venkman suggested hopefully. "How about two-fifty?"
Ray shook his head. "Sorry."
Charlie shrugged. "What about you, Dr. Spengler? Want to get in on the ground floor? Once in a lifetime deal."
Narrow blue eyes met guileless green; Egon tilted his head looking for all the world like an entomologist examining a cockroach. "Mesina, Nevada, gets less than six inches of rainfall per year," Spengler began, adopting a tone Ray recognized from the lecture hall. "To acquire the steady supply of water necessary for simple construction much less operation of a resort hotel, you will have to set up a pumping station on-site, drilling down a hundred meters through bedrock. Design cost alone is prohibitive of such a plan much less profit." He paused. "And you say that you're part owner of this enterprise?"
Charlie gulped and hurriedly stowed his brochures. "Actually, I'm just an employee. No real connection at all."
"I see." Egon bent his head and Charlie maintained his peace, getting up to wander the lab after some minutes. He was poking around in the frosted glass cubicle when the door again opened to admit the flushed and harried Peter Venkman.
"Cold, cold, cold!" he proclaimed, dropping his jacket onto the file cabinet and throwing himself into his chair. "Wish summer would hurry up. Man could catch his death this way."
"Peter," Ray began, intending to announce Charlie's presence.
Peter motioned for silence, his features taking on a careful neutrality in which Ray would one day sense danger. He dug into his stack of papers, finding the envelope-encased photograph without hesitation. "Oh, Eeee- gon," he caroled, opening the flap. "I heard you only got a B- in your Ancient Languages test this morning." He clucked his tongue sadly and pulled out the photo. "What's the matter, pal? Were you distracted by anything? And, gee, don't you have something planned for the weekend?"
Puzzled, Ray shifted his stare from Peter to Egon, perplexed by the baleful glare the physicist shot Venkman's way. "I owe you, Venkman," the blond stated flatly. "That B cost me the highest grade-point average of the class."
Peter grinned then slid the photo back out of sight. "Oh, well. Guess you'll have to settle for just passing, like the rest of us peons."
"That's not what I taught you, son," a gravelly voice interrupted. Peter gaped, staring incredulously as Charlie Venkman stepped from behind the partition, both hands extended. "Wass'a matter? You don't say hi to yer old man any more?"
Peter leaped to his feet, throwing himself into his father's arms. "Dad! I wasn't really expecting...! I mean, I know you called but...."
"Hey, hey!" Charlie hugged his son unabashedly, then stepped back, holding him by both arms and examining him critically. "You're lookin' good, son - real good. I'm glad to see you."
"You too, Dad," Peter returned happily. "How long are you in town for?"
Charlie shrugged. "Couple days maybe. Got a ... er ..." He cast a nervous look in Egon's direction; Spengler stared back blandly. "... sales meeting tomorrow. Then I'm off again. I'll tell you all about it over dinner."
"I'm sure you will," Peter smirked, and Ray wondered what it was that amused him so about his father's business.
Charlie grinned in return and twined his arm through his son's. He looked around the room again, his shoulders coming back, his head up, and Ray was astonished to note how much taller the man looked; he was closer to Peter's six feet than he was to Ray's own five foot, ten. "Sure am proud of you, Peter," Charlie stated, fixing his stare again on Egon. "Hey, Dr. Spengler, my boy's got an important job here, eh? Good scientist?"
Peter stiffened slightly at that innocuous question, his green eyes flashing something that Ray tentatively identified as dismay. Ray transferred his gaze to Egon, who hesitated almost imperceptibly before nodding. "Yes, sir," he agreed solemnly. "Peter is making important contributions to the research fields."
Charlie beamed and Peter relaxed, his expression still congenial though something new lived in his eyes. Gratitude? "We'd better get going, Dad," Peter said affably, shooing his father toward the door. "We can get something to eat off-campus. It's not far to Didonato's from here." He waited until Charlie had disappeared through the door before returning to his desk and retrieving the photograph, this time leaving it in its concealing sheath. "I believe this belongs to you," Peter offered. He handed the envelope to Egon, and Ray got the oddest impression, as though he were handing across something far more valuable than a picture of a naked woman.
Egon, too, accepted it as such, holding it between thumb and forefinger, a wry smile on his mouth. "I'm looking forward to Saturday," he added, raising a brow.
Peter snorted. "I doubt you're going to survive Saturday, but go with my blessings." He saluted Egon, winked at Ray and followed his father into the hall. The two could be heard laughing all the way to the stairs.
"What was that all about?" Ray asked curiously.
Egon placed the envelope into the top drawer of his desk and reopened his file. "Call it a ... peace offering," he answered cryptically. "Now about that power unit...."
***
