Originally published in We Got Another One

Egon remembered the day very clearly. He had been seven years old and his father had taken him to the lab to show him the place and to accustom his future-scientist son to the kind of atmosphere hoped the boy would come to love. He had even created a child sized work area for Egon, complete with microscope and slides, if he wanted to experiment. But first, before they began, his father sat down beside him at the lab table and took hold of his wrist, spreading Egon's fingers out and holding the hand up before his young son's eyes.

"Tell me what you see."

Egon was used to questions like that. His father was a scientist to the core, and he ran his life and home based on strict scientific principles, always testing, always questioning, always giving Egon problems designed to make him think. Egon always found it fascinating when his father explained things to him, and he was fascinated now, knowing his father didn't want the simple, obvious answer, 'I see my hand.' So he concentrated hard.

"Well," he said thoughtfully in his boyish treble, "I see a thumb and four fingers and the skin and the way the fingers bend--they only bend one way but the thumb moves all around. That's what lets us hold things, I know that." He smiled up at his father, proud of his answer.

"Yes, you're right, Egon, but I want you to look deeper. Concentrate, because this is very important. What else do you see?"

Egon frowned and pondered the question. He wasn't sure quite what his father was getting at and he thought he'd done pretty good to think of the opposable thumb. Yet there was an expectant look on his father's face and he chewed the inside of his cheek and tried to think. "Fingernails," he offered, knowing it wasn't right. Then a hint of an idea came to him. "There's a lot of bones in a person's hand. Is that it?"

"Closer. Look deeper, Egon. Look beyond the skin, to the tissue beneath, to the tendons, the bones, the cartilage, the veins and capillaries."

"Like that model you have of a person that shows their insides?" Egon had been fascinated by the model, and enjoyed taking the various parts out and putting them back in again. "Everything works just right. And it's all inside there, working when we want it to." He always enjoyed things that made him think. "We just have to tell it to move and it does." He wiggled his fingers experimentally. "We don't even have to think about it all the time."

"Go deeper, Egon," his father urged.

Deeper? "Well, let me see." He concentrated, reasoning it out. "Atoms and molecules," he burst out eagerly. "Is that it? Stuff way too small to see unless we had a microscope?"

"Exactly. Your hand is made up of the same stuff that makes the universe. Yet most people look at it and see only the hand and not the miracle. This is the joy of science, my boy, to have the ability to look past the surface, to grasp the makeup of the world around you. Everything you will ever see is just like your hand--simple and easy to explain on the surface and complex within. Everything. Not just the human body or this table." He rapped the surface with his knuckles. "But everything. I want to teach you to look beneath the surface in everything you face. Nothing in the world, no question, no object, not even any person, is only what it appears. Use this knowledge to evaluate new situations, new people in your life. They will all present a surface facade, but beneath it there will always be more. Someday, perhaps, you will find yourself in danger of making a snap judgment, and I hope you will look at your hand and remember this lesson--and perhaps it will advance your career. Will you remember, Egon?"

"Yes, Father," he said dutifully, awed by the concept. A whole world of discovery, everything different than he expected, so many things to learn. He wondered if even the Bogeyman . . . No, that was different. He shivered slightly.

Dr. Spengler dropped his son's hand, not noticing the reaction. He would have said the Bogeyman was only a bad dream or imagination or the result of eating too many strawberries before bedtime, but Egon knew different. He was real, and there was more to him than the surface. Maybe someday he would learn and find out. He closed his mind on those unhappy memories and concentrated on his father, who was so sensible and practical that no Bogeyman would dare appear to him. Yet he'd heard his father's excitement when he talked about everything in the world being more than it appeared, and knew that science was exciting. Someday he'd be a scientist just like his father and he'd be the one to figure out how to make the Bogeyman go away.

"But isn't anybody just what they seem?" he asked, testing the waters.

"Perhaps some very superficial people, though even they have their hopes and dreams. But think of this, Egon. If you don't try to find out, you will limit yourself to a superficial understanding of the world. Until you try to figure someone or something out, you will never have more than the surface. Never limit yourself that way, my son. Never set limits and the world will be yours."

Egon nodded with solemn excitement. He could hardly wait to begin.

Several years later in another state, another father-son dialogue was going on. Seven year old Peter was excited. His father was home--and maybe he hadn't been home for Christmas but he'd come this time and had taken Peter camping, and it was the best time Peter had ever had in his whole life. His father had taught him how to bait a hook and they'd caught fish and even slept in a tent. Maybe his dad griped about sleeping on the ground, but Peter thought it was great, roughing it like Indian scouts. When he went back to school, he was really gonna rub it in to the other guys.

"Peter, come and see what I've found."

Obediently, he dropped the stick he'd been tracing patterns with in the dirt and galloped over to fling himself into his father's lap. "What?" he asked, excited at his father's tone. "What is it, Dad?"

His father held up a rock that was round on one side and flat on the other, the flat side against his palm. "Take a look," said Mr. Venkman, his eyes twinkling.

Peter was disappointed. He'd expected something really great. "It's just an ugly old rock," he complained.

"Is it? Are you sure?"

"Course. Anybody can see . . . "

His father did a quick flip and instead of a grungy old rock, Peter was gazing into the interior of the stone, glittering in the sunlight like a crystal cave. Peter's eyes widened in awe. "Is it diamonds?" he asked.

"No such luck. It's called a geode, my boy. Here, you can have it. Take it home with you."

"Wow. I never saw one before." Peter pocketed the find happily, sticking it in with the dirt and twigs and dead bugs he'd already gathered. "It's great!"

"And you remember it, Petey. It's important. I'm gonna tell you something now that's stood me in good stead all my life. When you get out in the world, you'll remember it and it'll keep you out of trouble. Remember, trouble's always looking for you, but if you're smarter than trouble is, you score big time. Got it?"

"Got it," Peter replied, waiting eagerly.

"Everything's like that," Mr. Venkman told him, gesturing in the direction of Peter's pocket. "People show you one side, and that's the side they want you to see, but there's always another side, a hidden one, and the really smart customer learns to figure out what the hidden side is. If you can't read people you'll never make that one big score that'll set you up for life. You've gotta learn to figure out how people tick, my boy. They call it psychology, but what it is, is good old fashioned horse sense. People have reasons for what they do, and smart folks learn from that. They can tell what somebody doesn't want known, if they understand people. Take somebody like Mr. Jones at the grocery store."

"That old guy," Peter said in surprise, though he liked Mr. Jones, who gave him penny candy for free when the Venkman fortunes were at low ebb and who listened when Peter wanted an ear to tell about the adventures he couldn't tell to his mom for fear of worrying her.

"That old guy was a hero in the war, Petey. He saved a bunch of guys from a German ambush and got a lot of medals."

"Wow!" Peter's eyes rounded. "Why doesn't he tell people about it?"

"Well, you've noticed how he limps, haven't you?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, though Mom says not to mention it to him."

"And she's right, my boy. But the reason Mr. Jones limps is when he saved all those people, he lost his leg. He's got an artificial one."

"Like Long John Silver?" Peter asked, wide eyed.

"Well, more modern than that. But one of the reasons he doesn't talk about the war is--can you think of one?"

Peter concentrated, and suddenly he could think of one. "Gosh. If he talked about it, he'd have to remember when they cut off his leg. That'd be gross. It might make him sad, too." It was spooky, but now that he thought about it, he could imagine just how Mr. Jones might feel. He'd never realized he could get right inside people's heads like that--and it was kind of scary, but it felt good, too.

"You could be right. And another reason. You tell someone you're a hero and they expect you to act like one all the time. Nobody can do that, not even real heroes. Heroes are for when the need comes up. Not for every day."

Maybe it was like not razzing the guys when he got A's in class and they didn't. Peter had learned right away it wasn't smart to brag about his grades to his buddies. They let him know pretty fast that it wasn't smart. Maybe this was the same. Peter stared at his father, terribly impressed. His father knew a lot about everything!

"So what have you learned?" Mr. Venkman asked. "You've learned not to take everything the way it seems. Look at everybody and think about them. It's okay if they take you at face value, because then you can pull the wool over their eyes, because most people can't really see past the end of their noses--and I don't mean being nearsighted. I mean not being smart. You meet somebody and you don't like him, you stop and think about what makes him like that. You might be surprised. Or you meet somebody and you find out you can take advan--well, uh, you pay attention to people, that's all. Knowing what makes people tick will put you ahead in any game."

Peter thought he was right. His dad knew what made people tick, and his dad was the smartest man he knew. Mr. Jones knew it, too, and he always knew when Peter was a little bit down because his dad had to go away again on business and wasn't going to be home for the cub scout dinner or for Peter's birthday--and then Mr. Jones would slip some jawbreakers into his hand or, once, a yo yo. Peter was going to be like that one day, he'd know what made people tick and show his dad that he'd listened.

"And you'll be sharing this cubicle with Dr. Spengler, Mr. Venkman, at least for the next month or two. I'm sorry, space is limited and at least we were able to get two desks in here. I'll run along now."

Peter Venkman and Egon Spengler came face to face in the doorway, Egon looking at this invasion of his privacy, his face tightening at the sight. He knew who Venkman was, of course, that Fraternity jock party type who cut such a swathe with the female undergraduates and never seemed to do a decent day's work in his life. Spengler had half-feared he'd get Venkman when he heard the younger man was beginning work on his Ph.D and needed a little office space. He should have agreed to share his office with Dr. Milligan a few weeks ago, but Egon's own Ph.D was so new he'd wanted to revel in it in private as long as possible--and this was the result.

He stared at Venkman, saw the irreverent gleam in the sparkling green eyes, saw them narrow as he looked Egon up and down, his expression clearly less than thrilled. Egon could almost hear the rods in his mind. "Geek. Grind." Venkman didn't like him, and if it came to that, he didn't like Venkman. He valued study and when he'd heard Venkman had received a Masters degree in psychology, he'd been astounded. He'd have expected him to leave with his Bachelor's and vanish into con man heaven--he'd never been sure why Venkman had come here in the first place. The university hardly seemed the place for a person who had such an irreverent attitude toward academe.

Reluctantly he offered his hand to the man who was staring back with equal dismay, and as he did so, his father's words of long ago echoed in his head. 'Look beneath the surface in everything you face.' He'd never have expected to apply the words to Peter Venkman, but now he narrowed his eyes and considered. Frivolous and given to partying he might be, but he was working for a higher degree--and someone had once told Egon it was funny that somebody like Venkman who never cracked a book got such good grades. There must be more to him that met the eye. Even a Bachelor's degree from Columbia didn't come without effort, let alone the brand new Master's. There had to be something more in that brain than a desire to impress the ladies. Suddenly Egon felt the first faint spark of curiosity about Peter as he wondered what it was.

Peter himself was openly dismayed. Not Spengler! Never did anything but crack a book, no fun, no parties, grind to the max. He even liked study and hard work more than parties and girls, or so Venkman had heard. Peter had hoped to get teamed up with someone female and gorgeous, someone who might want a good time, someone who'd look the other way when he did his late night cramming and when a subject got so interesting he became caught up in it and didn't remember he had a party to go to. But Spengler was watching him with intent blue eyes, magnified by his glasses, as if he could read Peter's mind. This was going to be uncomfortable. Spengler was an egghead and Peter didn't like eggheads. He took the offered hand warily as if he expected a trick, but Spengler merely shook hands and gestured toward the unoccupied desk. "Let me move the overflow out of your way," he volunteered, grabbing at a few folders, a set of pens, five or six books and--a geode.

Peter stopped abruptly, staring at it, sudden memories filling him. That long-ago camping trip had made such an impact on his life that he'd grown up determined to go into psychology, and how here he was, not satisfied with an undergraduate degree or even the Master's but on the way to a doctorate, and excited as hell about it. He didn't let it show, of course. Never let 'em see the true Peter Venkman, or only a few selected professors, maybe. He'd already surprised a lot of people. Now, as he looked at the geode, he suddenly recalled the one his father had held up for him in that long-ago lesson. Maybe the Egghead wasn't all rock. Maybe he was crystal inside, like the geode had been. Peter doubted it, but he'd learned along the way that it wasn't wise to waste your options. He was stuck with Egon Spengler. Maybe he ought to consider him pretty seriously before he started to weasel out of this arrangement.

"Let me give you a hand there," he said, grabbing for the books. "Anybody ever tell you your eyes will fall out with too much reading, Spengs?"

Spengler's eyes narrowed at the irreverent nickname, and Peter waited for him to correct him in an icy tone. 'My name is Dr. Spengler.' Instead, after the first moment of surprise, amusement lit the blue eyes, a wicked amusement of a type that Peter often saw in his own reflection, amusement that woke an answering delight in himself.

"They haven't yet," the physicist said. "So what do I call you? Venkie?"

Peter groaned, hating that nickname as much as Spengler had hated what Peter had impudently dubbed him. "Don't press your luck, big guy," he replied, relieved at that glimpse of humor, though it had masked itself immediately. Maybe old Spengs here was a geode, one of the good guys, but Peter would find that out in the days to come. He'd have to make sure, of course, because people had a way of turning on you when you least expected it and letting you down. He'd learned along the way that it wasn't smart to make friends too easily because friends used you and went on their way. Yet that gleam in Spengler's eyes had looked promising and Peter watched him narrowly. Okay, so the friend business could wait, but he had to share an office with this character and he might as well make the best of it until it fell apart. And maybe--just maybe--it wouldn't.

"Try Peter," he offered as he stacked Spengler's books crookedly on the corner of the blond man's desk.

"Egon," the new Ph.D replied.

"Egon? Sounds like the mad doctor's mad assistant."

"That's 'Igor'," Spengler corrected, adding hastily, "Or so I've heard."

"What's the matter, Spengs, don't you like a good monster movie?"

Spengler winced again, but this time, Peter didn't think it had anything to do with the name. Interesting. "Definitely not," he replied. "Though perhaps a ghost story . . . "

Peter looked surprised. "Ghost story? This is getting interesting, Egon old buddy. Tell me more."

Egon stared at Peter in some surprise. This was Peter Venkman? Yes, he was frivolous and irreverent, but no one had mentioned the wicked gleam of humor that lit his eyes. Yes, Egon's father had been right all along. There was always more to a person than showed on the surface. He might find Peter maddeningly unscientific and from the way those books were stacked, probably wildly untidy, and Egon wouldn't be surprised if he didn't bring in a radio to play loud rock and roll while he worked--but it wasn't going to be dull. He took the geode from Peter, noticing with surprise that the fledgling psychologist slid his fingers over the stone with fascination, almost fondness, before he gave it back.

"Ghosts?" Egon replied. "That could take a lot of time. And there's someone else you'll need to meet because he's often in and out of here. He's my lab assistant, Ray Stantz. We could use someone with a psych background for some research we want to do. What do you know about parapsychology?"

"I took a couple of classes. Good stuff. I signed up for some more. You can never tell where the bucks will be and I think maybe it's the wave of the future and I want to get in on it. So tell me about ghosts, big fella, and maybe we can figure out a way to make all this pay." He dropped into his chair and leaned back, testing it, a satisfied smile crossing his face. It held a lot of mischief, Egon realized, and he knew that learning to know this man wouldn't be easy--but it might be worth it.

As Egon talked, Peter listened. The guy was an egghead and what's more, he was one of those eggheads who must have swallowed a dictionary. Peter would have to do something about that. He couldn't have his office mate using all those big words--somebody might even think Peter understood them himself and wonder if he wasn't more of a threat than they'd expected. But maybe for now, until he got Egon's measure, he could put up with them--or would that spoil the guy, give him the wrong idea?

"Yo, Dr. Webster, time out. How about we make a few ground rules? No words over five syllables--we'll get a fishbowl or something and anybody who breaks the rules puts in a quarter--and at the end of the week, we go out and party our brains out. What do you say?"

Egon sighed. It was going to be harder than he thought--but then what worthwhile thing wasn't? "Only if we fine for loud music as well," he countered. "This is a two way street."

"Hey, no fair. We're in college, Egon. Didn't anybody tell you this was supposed to be fun . . . "

Egon groaned. Peter winked at him irreverently, and tipped his chair forward so he could prop both elbows on the bare desk top. "Come on, Spengs," he urged. "Go on about the ghosts. I just know there's a buck in it somewhere. Don't tell me you've got your lab assistant messing with this kind of stuff, too? Poor kid, give him a break. So tell me, did you ever see a ghost?" he asked invitingly, leaning forward. Egon might be a super brain and smug on top of it, but Peter suddenly realized he wasn't going to be dull.

"Well, not exactly," Egon began, turning the subject so smoothly that Peter almost missed it. Something going on here. Something that wasn't about to surface. It might be fun finding out what. Look out, ghosts, he thought irreverently. Here we come.

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