"Yo, kid! You're here early. We never see you before noon."

Peter's hearty hale snapped Ray around like a shot, brown eyes wide. "Peter! I didn't hear you come in!"

"Well, that much was obvious," Venkman retorted, propping the door open with a conveniently placed brick. "What are you doing here by yourself?"

Ray gulped, twisting one sleeve of his wool pullover in his fingers. After a month and a half's association, he'd begun to relax considerably under Peter's casual overtures of friendship. So slowly as to be virtually unnoticeable at first, Ray's trepidation was giving way to attachment, awe now mingled with genuine liking for the gregarious psychologist. Unfortunately, this anxious reaction to anything resembling censor had stubbornly persisted despite all reassurances, to the point where Peter's never-legendary patience had begun showing serious cracks. His stern look only added to Stantz' discomfiture, and Ray shifted his feet looking as though he wanted to bolt.

"Doctor Spengler said I could ... could start early this morning," Stantz began in a rush, "because I-I don't have any classes. But he wasn't here and...."

Peter appealed heavenward, imperfectly concealed exasperation radiating like a beacon. "I didn't say I had a problem with it," he returned acidly. "I was only asking a question."

Stantz flushed and turned away, stammered apology trailing off into miserable silence as it so often did. Peter unzipped his black jacket at the throat, the leather creaking as he windmilled his arms into returning circulation. He went first to his desk and shuffled through the mail Ray had neatly stacked in his in-basket, then moved to the large cabinet and retrieved two files, both marked Confidential. Finally, he turned toward the mute figure by the window, staring thoughtfully at the bent auburn head for some seconds before speaking again.

"What's so fascinating out there?" he asked in a gentler tone, crossing the room to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Stantz. "You look like something out of Lost in Space."

Ray took a step to the side and pointed to a group of bundled students making their way through the snow. One of them toted a sled on which a ski- jacketed female was riding; all were laughing and all seemed to be enjoying themselves hugely. "I was just remembering how much I used to like sledding. I haven't been able to go since I was a young."

"Way back when, eh?" Peter teased, slapping the boy companionably on the arm.

Ray peeked at him warily, obviously encouraged by the lack of reproach in Peter's handsome face. "I was about eight last time I went," he elaborated, a shy smile lifting his lips. "There was this big hill right near the house and my Dad...." He broke off, face suddenly veiled. "Well, we used to go. Winter's always been my favorite time of year."

"Uh-huh." Peter made no mention of the mood change; rather, he watched the sledders as they started a snowball fight, only the bright colors of their coats visible through the rising cloud. "Can't say my Dad and I used to do much in the way of sledding; kind of hard to find a bare hill in Brooklyn, if you know what I mean." He stretched, then rested both hands against the window, his breath fogging the chilled pane instantly. "We did go to Tahoe for some skiing one year. Didn't make it to the slopes but I did get to see the inside of every illegal card game in town. Not a bad way to hibernate, eh?"

"Guess not," Stantz returned doubtfully.

"Course not. Any idea what happened to Egon?"

Ray shook his head. "He said he would be in early. I wonder what held him up?" Peter leered amiably. "Or who. I've been trying to call him since midnight Saturday but he hasn't been home." He glanced at his watch, sticking his tongue firmly in his cheek. "Hmmmm, almost three days. Hope Frieda at least left him in one piece. It'd be a terrible thing if I had to run this lab all by myself, wouldn't it?"

The two looked around at a sound coming from the direction of the door. Two coeds in tight slacks stood in the entrance, hands over their mouths in an unsuccessful attempt at smothering giggles. One of them glanced at something hidden in the palm of her hand, then showed it to her companion, eliciting a whole new spate of laughter as the females wandered off.

"What was that all about?" Peter wondered, staring after them. A tall blonde strolled by then, stopping to blow Peter a kiss before continuing on her way. "You know who they were?"

"Not me," Ray demurred, scratching his head. "You mean you don't know those women?"

"Nope."

Peter turned his back, just missing the sight of yet another young female, also carrying something hidden in her palm. She paused in the doorway, compared whatever she was holding to Peter, then winked at Ray and skipped off, her grin bringing a crease to Ray's brow. "I wonder...." he began.

He shrugged and looked at Venkman, who was again breathing gently on the glass. "Just ignore it," Peter ordered between puffs. "It'd be uncool to acknowledge the strike ... whatever it is." He continued to puff gently until the view without was completely obscured. He drew two lines across and down on the steamed surface, then filled the center one with an X. "Your turn," he said, nudging Ray with his elbow. "And be warned, I'm Tic- Tac-Toe champion of my dorm."

The two played six games to a draw then gave up, Peter to revise his records for the new semester, Ray to wander the office, straighten files and make himself generally useful, all under Peter's supervision. The building was settling into its usual active buzz after the relative peace of the holidays, students and teachers bustling in the hallways on their way between class and labs. The morning passed peacefully except for the frequent invasion of giggling, simpering, grinning or simply interested females, who would insist on intruding just long enough to examine Peter before beating a rapid retreat.

By noon the parade of amused femininity had not abated, and even the never- uncool Peter Venkman was ready to break. "That does it," he fumed, slamming shut the heavy volume he was reading. "The next chick that swings by is going to spill what's going on or I'll ring her neck."

Ray, seated on the floor surrounded by old journals, looked up curiously. "Why don't I just shut the door?" he suggested, rubbing his cheek and leaving a smear of newsprint behind. "That way you won't have to see them."

Peter pushed back his chair and rose, stalking the door like a panther and positioning himself on the far side of it, flat against the wall. "Because I'm about to go crazy wondering," he admitted ruefully. "I just hope...." He caught his breath, holding it as a head poked into the room, long blond hair falling forward to obscure the face. "Got 'cha!" Peter cheered, grabbing a handful of hair and yanking.

The squawk was immediate - and decidedly masculine. Peter gaped, his head tilting back several inches until he was staring into the offended face of Chuck Weaver. "What'd yuh wanna go and do that fer, Pete?" Weaver complained, massaging his head.

Peter closed his mouth, recovering instantly. He tugged Weaver inside and closed the door in the face of a tiny oriental coed. "Listen, Chuck," he hissed, leaning his weight on the door, "something screwy's going on around here and I'm starting to get pissed."

Weaver nodded, a mischievous twinkle lighting his pale blue eyes. "Anything to do with the way them chicks were eying you funny? Like you were ..."

"... Prime Rib?" Peter supplied, poking Weaver in his sports letter. "C'mon, pal, give. What's going down with your poor old Uncle Peter?"

"What's going down...." Weaver began, chuckling. He caught sight of Ray then, who was watching curiously from his position on the floor. "Who are you?"

Ray scrambled up, biting his lip. "I can wait outside," he offered quickly, sidling across the room. "I'm sorry...."

Peter waved him back testily. "Stay where you are," he ordered. "C'mon, Chuck. What?"

Weaver looked Ray up and down once more then turned his back on him to sling a companionable arm across Peter's shoulders. "What's coming down, my man, is this." He fished into his pants pocket, retrieving a one-inch square piece of glossy paper, then passed it across. "I managed to get this away from Lorna Evans. She wasn't going to give it up but she had two and was willing to barter."

Peter accepted the paper and raised it to eye level. "Okay, so it's a picture ... of...." He stiffened in Weaver's light grip, mouth sagging open. "Of ... me?" he finished in a squeak. "It's a picture of me! And I'm ... naked!"

Weaver clenched his teeth but the guffaw escaped anyway. "They're all over the campus," he explained, snickering. "Someone had them handed out to all the dorms. There's even 8x10s on the bulletin boards."

Cheeks reddening until they resembled two apples, Peter glared green fire at the less-than-innocent photo. "And where did this come from?" he demanded in a low voice. "I don't remember having it taken."

Weaver shrugged and winked at Ray, whose eyes were beginning to glow with amusement. "Can't answer that part, good buddy. Must've been a ..." He snickered again. "... real close friend though, eh?"

"Yeah. Real close," Peter echoed. His hands balled into fists, crumpling the photo with a little crunch. "But not as close as he's gonna be when I get my hands on him. You'll be hearing about the late Dr. Spengler any time now."

Ray gasped, amusement fleeing before alarm. "You can't hit Dr. Spengler!"

Both Peter and Chuck turned to stare at him. "Why not?" Peter inquired with only mild interest.

"Pete can take that tinhorn any day of the year," Weaver put in, patting Peter's shoulder hardily.

Ray stared from one to the other in dismay. "But ... you just can't hit Egon! It's ... it's not right!" He took two steps forward, raising both hands pleadingly. "He wouldn't do something like that. I mean, he didn't mean to do it. It was probably just a joke, anyway, right?"

The other two waited patiently for the rush to die down. "Which is it?" Weaver asked dryly. "It wasn't him, he didn't mean to do it, or it was all a joke?"

Peter relaxed slowly and unclenched his fists. He raised the now crinkled photo, smoothing it carefully, and stared long and hard at its surface. "Not a bad likeness," he approved, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Kid's right, Chuck, breaking Casper's jaw would be like admitting I couldn't get my revenge more ... subtly. Besides ..." He slid out of Chuck's arm and turned, opening the door wide. "... this just might work to my advantage. Check out this action." He leaned against the frame, crossing one foot over the other, hands in his pockets, while Chuck and Ray watched him closely.

Thirty seconds later Peter had his reward in the form of a tall, statuesque redhead in a tight sweater, who popped through the entranceway. "Hi, Ginger," he greeted the woman, grinning as she hurriedly stuck a now- familiar glossy behind her back. "See you got hold of some of the advertising."

"Advertising?" the woman parroted, lifting her chin.

Peter nodded and proffered his own copy, holding it up until she could see it clearly. "I was especially hoping you'd see it, Ginger. I'd hate for you to have to date me on simple hearsay."

Ginger's eyes opened wide at that, and thoughtful speculation replaced her aborted smirk. "Advertising, huh?" she repeated as though tasting the word. She licked her lips, meeting Peter's knowing gaze frankly. "I always admired men who ... advertised. Never did like buying a ... er ... pig in a poke, you should excuse the expression."

"Couldn't have put it any better myself," Peter purred in return. He took her arm and ushered her back into the hall. "Why don't I explain my campaign to you over coffee." He paused on his way out to shoot the two noticeably impressed young men within a grin. "Tell Egon thanks heaps!" he called back. He waved bye-bye, adding under his breath, "And I'll tell him a few other things - personally."

***

The steady click-click of the typewriter ceased abruptly. It was followed by the sound of tearing paper and Peter's explosive, "Rabshakeh's curse!"

Ray looked up curiously at the obscure expletive, lips curling with amusement. "Whose curse?" he asked as Peter continued shredding the hapless notepaper into strips.

Peter flung the scraps at the nearby wastebasket, managing to miss its edge by several feet. "Lousy, stinking, good-for-nothing bureaucracy," he snarled, pulling out a new sheet of paper and slamming it into the roller. "You'd think McKenna could survive without paper back-up on every single experiment. When I get off'a this college merry-go-round the one thing I will never do is take another note, so help me Jimmy the Greek."

"Notes aren't so bad," Ray protested, lifting the sheaf he was studying. "How would anyone be able to follow your procedures if you didn't take notes?"

"Why would I care?" Peter retorted, scowling ferociously. "Let 'em follow their own blasted procedures."

Ray ducked his head and began to studiously roll up his sleeves over his forearms in a style he favored. Peter uttered another curse, less exotic than the first, and Ray peeked up at him, murmuring just loud enough for Peter to hear, "At last! A cuss word I recognized!"

Peter glanced at him, startled. "A joke?" he exclaimed, clasping his hands to his heart. "Did I hear you make a funny?"

Ray grinned back, brown eyes twinkling merrily in acknowledgement. It was mid-January - three months since Stantz had started working at the lab - and this was one of the first stabs at humor he'd made yet. "Not me. I wouldn't dare in this company."

"See that you don't, Mr. Stantz." But Peter couldn't maintain even a mock severity against the other's bright cheer, and a chuckle escaped despite the line of annoyance that bisected his brows. "However, that doesn't change the fact that I am royally p.o.'d over this paperwork. It's not like I don't have better things to do than type up Zeke Jurgenevski's boring chili dreams. Listen to this...." He shuffled through his notes until locating a piece of yellow, lined paper covered with an illegible scrawl easily recognized as Peter's own.

"... was on stage when suddenly I realized I wasn't wearing a stitch of clothes. I broke into a softshoe while the music was playing Moonlight Over Miami." He vented a disgusted breath and tossed the page back to join its brethren on the desk. "How mundane can you get? Everyone's had that dream sometime or another."

"I haven't," Ray said, frowning. "Does that mean there's something wrong with me?"

Peter ran his fingers through his dark hair, fluffing the thick strands back from his face, his head turned in Ray's direction. "It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you," he returned, studying the boy clinically. "Actually, it doesn't mean anything at all since there's no way to standardize symbolism - the images are different for each person. All we can do is try to draw an across the board approximation and fill in whatever gaps we can."

Ray cocked an inquiring brow, eyes alight with interest. "What about all those self-help books they sell? A lot of those are on dreams and what they mean."

"You've been browsing the self-help books?" Peter asked teasingly. "Intelligent kid like you?"

Ray shrugged, an embarrassed little twitch of the shoulder. "I like to read everything I can. I've got some of those books, lots on the paranormal - I even bought Asimov's latest novel though I haven't had time to read it yet."

Peter left off fixing his hair to tug at the heavy wool sweater he wore over his shirt. It's pristine whiteness was marred only by a small ink stain on one sleeve; Peter grimaced and dabbed at it with a tissue. "Never did like science fiction," he said, wetting the tissue with his tongue. "Give me a good old-fashioned western any day of the week. Ever read Louis LeMort?" Ray made noises to the effect that he had not. "Best writer this side of the Pecos, pard'ner."

Ray stacked the notes he'd been reading to the side of his table and reached for a conglomeration of circuits that had been sitting on one corner. "He can't touch Asimov," he returned boldly. "I'll bet Louis LeMort couldn't turn out something like The Foundation Trilogy or I Robot."

"Bet Asimov couldn't turn out anything like High Plains Round-up or How Dead is My Valley," Peter retorted good-naturedly.

"I'll bet he couldn't."

The agreement was so smooth that for a moment Peter missed the wry inflection in the soft voice. He caught it, did a double take and placed both hands on his hips. "You're getting pretty snippy for an undergrad," he pointed out. "Maybe you'd better get back to your.... What are you doing, anyway?"

Ray held up a printed circuit, turning it until Peter could see it clearly. "This is a Bendex transducer. I finished it last night following Egon's schematic - his notes," he added impishly. "After it's hooked into the EDG...."

"EDG?" Peter asked curiously.

Ray pointed to an entirely separate conglomeration on a stand across the room. "Extra-Dimensional Gauge," he explained with real pride. "Egon says that when it's done it will let us detect anamolies in the space-time continuum - you know, like ghosts would make."

"Ghosts." Peter snorted inelegantly at the suggestion. "You don't really believe that crap, do you? I mean, ESP is a possibility - we've never been able to adequately explore the ranges of the human mind. That's why I started studying psychology, you know. But ghosts?!"

"But it is a possibility, Peter." Ray grew, if possible, even more sincere than he usually was, warming to his subject with all the vim of a politician warming to a promise. "Egon says...."

"Egon," Peter interrupted without apology, "is a loon." He leaned back in his chair, pulled out one of his lower desk drawers and propped his feet on its rim. "Listen, kid, you're wasting your time with that ghost nonsense. If you're interested in exploring the so-called supernatural, the vagaries of humanity are the way to do it. At least you have a shot at getting some proof on that."

"We'll get proof that ghosts exist," Ray returned stubbornly, his rounded jaw sticking out. "Just as soon as Egon's EDG is done." He brightened again, unable to sustain an annoyed snit for long. "Egon is going to test the transducer as soon as he gets in from class!"

"Hoo ... rah." Peter rolled his eyes. "Excuse me if I'm not too impressed, but according to the rumor mill, this is Casper's third or fourth try at one of these things. The only thing the first batch accomplished was shorting out the wiring across campus. Bet M.I.T. really appreciated that."

"Egon says this'll work," Ray muttered, eyes glittering. He paused. "By the way, who was Rabshakeh?"

Peter shrugged. "Either some old Jewish king or some guy who fought some old Jewish king. No idea which."

"Oh." Ray stared at the older man briefly through his lashes. "Are you Jewish?" he asked less boldly than before.

Peter, in the process of reaching for the steaming cup of coffee sitting at his elbow, spared him a glance. "Jewish?" he repeated blankly. "My dad is ... sort of. Why do you ask?"

Ray turned the circuit he was cradling over in his hands, deliberately examining its underside rather than meeting Peter's gaze. "I just thought ... I know you didn't do much for Christmas ... and Rabshakeh is a Jewish term, and...."

Peter's face clouded at the mention of Christmas and for a moment his lips parted, the unspoken rebuff evident in his eyes. He blanked his face with an obvious effort and replied mildly enough, "Oh, yeah, I guess it is. Picked the phrase up from my dad, he's Jewish by birth, anyway. Don't think either one of us have ever seen the inside of a synagogue - at least I know I haven't. He caught it for marrying my mom, I can tell you that much!"

"Your mother isn't Jewish?"

Peter shook his head. "Irish as they come." He struck a pose, nose in the air. "Do I look Jewish to you, Stantz-baby?"

Ray laughed at that. "I guess not." He froze in a listening attitude, watching the door. "That sounds like Egon coming. Maybe ... maybe he'll want to test the transducer right now!"

"Then my life will be complete," Peter muttered, glowering at his notes.

True enough, within seconds the door opened to admit Egon Spengler, a stack of books in his arms and a newspaper wedged under his arm. He closed the door with a well-placed kick of one loafer, returning Ray's greeting with a nod. "Is it my imagination," he asked, stacking the books on his desk, "or do students become more dense as the term progresses?"

"I'm taking that as a rhetorical question," Peter returned, placing his fingers back on the typewriter keys and scowling at the blank sheet. "We've got a bunch of dudes for students this year; wouldn't trust my Freuds with any of 'em. By the way," he added, snickering over his shoulder, "love the shirt. New macho look for you, isn't it?"

Egon, who was in the process of opening the topmost book in his stack, paused to finger the light pink material with a puzzled frown. "That was the most extraordinary thing," he said wonderingly, "I was absolutely certain that I had sorted my laundry correctly. How I could have possibly missed seeing a bright red sock among the shirts is a mystery. It stained every light object I own the same color."

Tongue stuck firmly in cheek, Peter turned away from his typewriter, examining the tall blond critically. "You don't look poor to me. Can't imagine why you haven't sprung for a couple of new shirts, at least. But ..." He interrupted Spengler's reply by waving a conspicuously limp wrist, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "... I like that one - I really do. It brings out your eyes, thweetie."

Egon ducked his head sheepishly. "That's precisely what Marion Gainscott said when I got to the meeting Saturday. And Bernadette said the same thing yesterday. As a matter of fact, I've gotten several compliments on the color already." He absently smoothed an invisible crease in one sleeve. "I've enhanced my wardrobe with several new styles in this shade. Besides ..." Red rose in a tide, staining his angled cheekbones scarlet. "... Frieda loves the color on me. She said that pink made me look...."

The last word was said in so quiet a voice that Peter automatically leaned closer. "Look what?"

Spengler cleared his throat. "Look ... uh ... virile." His flush deepened at the disparaging laugh this drew from Peter, and even Ray was forced to cover his mouth against to muffled a chuckle. "I didn't say it," he defended himself angrily. "Frieda did."

Peter held up his hands in a semi-conciliatory gesture though he never lost the smirk that fanned the embarressed flames in Egon's crystal eyes. "Far be it from us to doubt Frieda's ofttimes dubious tastes." He cocked his head, examining the blond with something akin to respect. "I still can't believe you and Frieda moved in together already. After one date?"

"It was a very good date," Egon returned imperturbably, adjusting the suspenders he'd donned that morning instead of a belt.

Peter shook his head. "To last for three days, I guess it was."

Ray had spent the last several seconds hopping from foot to foot, his hands clasping and unclasping as he waited for a break in the conversation. Finally he could stand it no more. He took a deep breath and tapped Egon on the arm with one finger, stepping back immediately as though afraid Egon would swat at him. There was no fear in his face, however, only a bright enthusiasm that could not be suppressed. "Egon?"

"Yes, Raymond," Spengler replied, fixing him with a knowing look. "Would you like to run some tests on the Bendex transducer before you have to leave for class?"

Ray nodded eagerly, practically skipping from the cardtable where he retrieved the circuit he'd showed Peter earlier, to the stand in the corner and the mass of unidentified components there. Soon, two heads were bent over the stand, one golden blond, the other reddish-brown, as they rapidly wired the transducer into one section of the developing EDG. Peter, as uninterested in the device as he was in the Gross National Product of Poland, returned to his typing, occasionally punctuating the tap of the keys with varied oaths.

It wasn't long before Spengler and Stantz straightened from their work and stood regarding their creation with mirrored hope. "That should do it," Egon said, pushing his slipping metal spectacles higher on his nose. "The transducer is hooked into the main pulse-loop. We're ready to go."

"Wow!" Ray breathed. He rubbed his hands together excitedly, staring at Egon for all the world like a puppy waiting for a bone. "Just think! You'll be able to prove dimensional overlaps really exist! Maybe even visit them or use them for power taps! This is great!"

Peter, attracted by the minor commotion, ceased his irregular typing to shoot the duo a skeptical look. "You really think that gizmo is going to prove the existence of ghosts? C'mon, guys, even Sam Cage wouldn't swallow that one."

"What the EDG is intended to do," Egon returned in a reproving voice, "is to react to ..."

"... anomalies in the time-space continuum," Peter finished sing-song. "Yeah, Ray told me that part. My question is, how?"

Egon clasped his hands behind his back, adapting a lecturer's stance. Peter groaned. "With the transducer wired into place, the device should act to transform sub-etheric particles of the kind theoretically generated by extra-dimensional influx, into detectible radiation bands."

"Theoretically," Peter repeated, skepticism becoming outright suspicion. "How're you gonna test that sucker?"

Egon stepped out of the way as Ray rolled over a bulky oscilloscope. "The test is an extremely simple one. The transducer is wired into the main scoop - what there is of the main scoop at present - and is programmed to transmute the sub-etheric particles gathered directly into electromagnetic waves, thus producing a steady sine on the scope."

"Theoretically," Peter pointed out again. "Look, Casper, I heard what happened at M.I.T. the last time you decided to test one of these things...."

"An unfortunate miscalculation," Egon interrupted huffily. "However, it did set my research on the proper course. This is a far more refined theory I'm working from."

"Uh-huh. Right." Peter nodded resignedly and stuffed his papers into a drawer. "To prevent water damage in case of a fire," he explained to Ray, earning himself a nasty glare from Egon.

With a dramatic flair rarely seen in the laid-back physicist, Egon flexed his fingers then rested his thumb on a little black switch labelled Power. "Ready?" he asked, smiling at Ray's impatient grunt. "Then let's ... begin." At that he pressed the button, causing a low hum to fill the air, originating from the miniature transformer supplying the device with power. The two stepped closer to the oscilloscope, Egon supporting himself on Ray's shoulder. Even Peter craned his neck, caught despite himself in the aura of expectation which filled the room. Three chests drew in a breath....

"There's no sinewave at all," Ray said, giving the oscilloscope a sharp thump. "Maybe it's broken."

"There's nothing wrong with the scope," Egon remarked disappointedly. "I fear it's my transducer that isn't working."

"Told you so," Peter shot nastily, settling back in his seat.

Ray jiggled several wires, then switched the power on and off twice before letting his hand fall to his side. "I don't know what I did wrong," he said in a devastated tone. "I thought ... I mean, I was so sure...." He lifted large doleful eyes to Egon's, then ducked his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mess it up."

Egon waved the apology impatiently away. "I checked the circuits you were working on before you came in. They matched perfectly the specifications I outlined." He stopped, blowing out his cheeks in a frustrated puff. "I was so sure...."

Ray scuffed the toe of his low boot on the wooden floor, his whole posture bespeaking misery. "There couldn't have been anything wrong with your theory," he protested quietly. "It was my fault. I must have done something wrong. I'm really sorry."

A thin streak of smoke began to rise from the transducer, and Spengler hurriedly shut it off. "It wasn't your fault, Ray. I wasn't entirely certain about that design from the beginning but the theory was so sound I couldn't dismiss it without some empirical observation. I'll simply notify my correspondents of the failure and start over from scratch."

"Is this the fourth time?" Peter inquired sweetly, "or the fifth? Man tends to lose count after so much positive evidence for the paranatural."

"You," Egon remarked mildly, throwing himself into his chair, "are scum, and I shall proceed to ignore you for the rest of the afternoon."

"Are you sure I didn't...?" Ray began, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Quite certain." Trusting that forceful negative to close the subject, Spengler rested his chin in his palm, his high forehead wrinkled in thought. "I'll have to recompute every equation from the beginning to be sure it wasn't some minor miscalculation that defeated the transducer," he muttered more to himself than to the others. "That could take weeks."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Ray asked, more dispirited than even Spengler over the failure.

"How about retuning his brain?" Peter suggested, retrieving his notes from the drawer. "No way he's firing on all phasers." He shot Ray a grin over his shoulder. "Okay, so Star Trek I watch. Sue me."

True to his word, Egon reacted not at all to the psychologist's jibe. "I must admit to being disappointed. I'd hoped to try the finished EDG on that publicized haunting in the newspapers."

Ray perked up marginally at that. "What haunting? Someone's actually seen a ghost?"

Egon tossed the newspaper, flipping it end over end to land neatly in Ray's hands. "Page 27 refers to a horror novel reportedly based on a true case. It's called The Amityville Horror. Ever hear of it?"

Peter, busily sorting his notes into some sort of usable order, groaned aloud at that. "That house out on Long Island? My dad was talking about it last time he was in. Seems the owner was in over his head money-wise until the dough from the book and movie rights started coming through. Pretty suspicious that they decide the house is haunted as soon as his business started going belly up, isn't it?"

The paper rustled loudly as Ray flipped to the correct page. He scanned the article quickly, his lips moving over the occasional word as though savoring the way it tasted. Finally, he looked up, his bright eyes beginning to glow. "Wow! This says there'll be a movie out on it soon, telling all the adventures of the family!" He paused to fold the newspaper neatly, then crossed to Egon's desk to hand it back to the older man. This accomplished, he stood his position, his hands clasped tightly together behind his back. "Egon, do you ... maybe, do you think I could ... you know, take a little time off this afternoon?"

"Thinking of taking a trip out to Amityville?" Egon asked with evident amusement. "A little empirical research?" Ray nodded happily, causing Egon to smile back. "I have no objection. How were you planning to get there?"

Ray pointed to the newspaper, still-open on Egon's desk. "This says that Amityville is out on Long Island. If I can get the LIRR...."

"You'd end up walking for miles," Peter remarked without turning around. "Unless you want to hitchhike." He turned his head, offering Ray a devilish grin. "How 'bout it, Stantz? Stick out the old thumb, show 'em a little leg, that sort of thing. Maybe you'll luck out with some blonde in a 'Vette. That happened to me once," he added as an aside to Egon, who was still ignoring him.

Egon glanced at his watch, biting his lip thoughtfully. Then he nodded and stood. "Perhaps I'll take my car and accompany you. I'd rather like to ask the present occupants - if there are any - a few questions. If not, perhaps we can locate the realtor and get permission to go inside."

"Wow!" Ray repeated, face alive with excitement. "That'd be great! You'll come too, won't you, Peter?"

By way of reply, Venkman rolled his eyes, his fine-drawn lips twisted in a comical display of disbelief. "That was a joke, right? You were making a funny?"

Ray smiled back, his shoulder lifting in that tiny embarrassed shrug that was so much a part of his personality. "I guess I was," he laughed. He leaned forward, resting his weight on the edge of Peter's desk and fixing the older man with a bright-eyed look. "But it really will be neat, Peter. Just think of it! On the trail of who-knows-what!"

Peter sighed loudly though amusement shone in the green gaze. "Kid, I can only put this one way: it'll be a cold, cold day you-know-where before you're ever gonna get you-know-who out chasing who-knows-whats."

"So let it be written, so let it be procrastinated until Doomsday," Egon remarked dryly, donning his heavy overcoat. "Peter C. Venkman has spoken." He fastened one of the large wooden buttons while gazing sorrowfully at the ruined EDG. "Blast the transducer. I knew it was going to be trouble from the start."

Ray, in the process of buckling his trench coat around his waist, paused, a wary look entering his gold-brown eyes. "You aren't mad about it, are you? I can redo it tonight it you want."

"Don't be nonsensical, Raymond, the fault was entirely with the design." Spengler finished fastening his buttons, then rooted in his pockets for his gloves. "We'd better be off or it'll be dark before we get there. We'll probably hit heavy traffic as it is."

"A haunted house after dark!" Ray thrilled. "Wow!"

"It could be quite exciting at that," Egon agreed, rubbing his hands together in unfeigned glee.

Peter threw back his head, addressing the white ceiling high overhead. "Don't forget to buy the kid some ice cream when you're through playing monster movie," he called to the departing duo.

"I hardly think Ray is going to want ice cream while engaged on a scientific endeavor," Egon reproved.

Peter hunched his shoulders and resumed his typing. "I was talking to him."

That did it. Egon urged Stantz to the door with a hand placed firmly in the middle of his back. "Let's go, Ray. We'll leave the comedy department behind to laugh at his own jokes."

Though he didn't slam the door, it did shut with a decided little click. Peter listened to the two voices raised in excited conversation, the heavy bass as enthusiastic as the soft tenor. They disappeared down the hall, leaving Peter to shake his head scornfully. "Yeah, right. Cold day before you'd get me chasing ghosts with those two loonies." He chuckled and stretched a long arm across the desk to snag the topmost book in Egon's stack; it bore the title Precognition and History. "Cold day," he repeated, settling down to read.

***