Holes in the Firmament

Part VIII

Andrea Borshinski

Regular staff meetings are a useful tool in promoting and maintaining open lines of communication, both on the horizontal and vertical levels.

I, personally, have found that the value of these types of regularly structured and scheduled meetings is approximately the same as teaching a pig to sing.

The tradition of the Monday morning staff meeting at Columbia reaches back to its foundations, and may have been in King George's original charter for it. Meetings, as well as classes, were briefly suspended during the eight years of the American Revolution. There is a story in the History department that once the treaty was signed on Friday, April 11, 1783, instructors were recalled to their posts and meetings at Columbia were reinstated on Monday, April 14.

Meetings start at eight o'clock sharp, and run until twelve. My personal view is that this is intended as a barbaric way to keep instructors from enjoying Sunday evenings, and allow those students who did time to recover from their excesses, thus keeping both their attendance and their grades up for the benefit of their alumni parents.

Fortunately, I've been both a department head and Chair holder long enough that the staff under me is mostly handpicked by myself. One of my personal requirements is a near-contempt of anything like a need for formal meetings. Over the years I've trained them to memo my office with anything of importance by Friday afternoon so I'll have the weekend to think it over if needed.

Except for Singe, over in statistics: he was a trophy snatch from MIT with an accent so thick it's a wonder any of his students pass. Sometimes I suspect he does it on purpose, some obscure eastern joke on the rest of us. He has a tendency to wander into my office any time something occurs to him, but since I can only figure out about one word in three, I just give him my best 'I'll get right on it/take it under advisement' nod and he wanders out twenty minutes later perfectly happy.

The main advantage of the 'memo system' is that not only do I have an entire weekend to mull over possible strategies, but I and the rest of my staff are able to enjoy a leisurely late Monday breakfast, or have a little extra time for this and that, including preparing for classes later in the day. I have also discovered, over the years, that any number of problems presented to me as such do not actually require any active intervention on my part, and a quick note or phone call will send the seeker on a quest for their own answers. This not only frees up my own time, but also cuts down on the occurrence of sudden-tree-death syndrome through excessive paperwork.

As I had observed a number of inconsistencies at Dr. Spengler's banquet Friday night, I decided to spend my Monday morning mulling them over. Taken individually they held no distinction, but taken together they formed an odd pattern, one that smelled heavily of a fishmonger's during high summer. In the Sahara. Without benefit of ice.

Which meant that possibly for the first time in recorded history, I was actually looking forward to the Chair meeting that day.

Unfortunately, I would be left with my speculations; Dean Yeager, who was also the Chair of the Physics Department as well as the Dean of the College of Physical Science, had called in sick that morning. How that fit in with the rest of what had occurred I wasn't sure, but at least the whole affair gave me something to chew over during the self-congratulatory preening of the rest of the Chairs present.

Dr. Stantz, as Chair of Engineering as well as Dean of Engineering and Applied Science was present, of course. While he didn't preen himself, he was clearly pleased to accept congratulations and kind words on behalf of his friend, Dr. Spengler. I wondered if their friendship was one of the reasons Dr. Spengler did not accept the persistent offers to join the Physics Department, that his star not eclipse his friend's.

The meeting itself was uneventful, with little progress made on any of the ongoing projects we were contemplating. On the positive side, several alumni who were generally reluctant to lend their support (read: money) to the University were more inclined to do so now that there was a Nobel winner on the teaching staff, albeit only part-time.

Throughout the meeting Dr. Stantz continued to glance at me across the table, but when I would meet his eyes he would flush and look away quickly. Fortunately for my reputation, Dr. Stantz was as well known for his expressiveness as he was for his inability to accept complements, so I'm quite sure nobody thought anything of it.

Eventually though the formal part of the meeting ended, and we all adjourned to the coffee urn at the end of the conference room. Quickly filling my own cup and grabbing a rather squashed-looking danish from the tray I ducked out of the way of the crowd and found a corner of my own. The danish might have been squashed, but one gulp of the coffee told me Elena had worked her particular brand of magic on the coffee; it was smooth as silk on my tongue and warmed me down to my toes, the faintest touch of chicory lingering in both my mouth and nose. I held a second swallow in my mouth, rolled it around my tongue, and tried to determine what brand she'd started with.

"My money's on Folgers."

I hadn't realized until my eyes flew open that I'd closed them to better concentrate. I jumped and started to choke when I swallowed. I glared down at Kirkwood, who only chuckled at my expression while he thumped my back.

Geronimo Kirkwood was one of the few employees of the University who'd been there longer than not only myself, but my older sister Elena as well. Physically the man reminded me of nothing so much as the Loraxx, that eco-minded creation belonging to Dr. Seuss. He was exceptionally short, exceptionally round, and exceptionally pink; his tonsured hairline was surrounded by glowing white fuzz that was only overwhelmed by the blazingly white bushy moustache he sported. His bright blue eyes twinkled with remarkably twisted good-humor.

For a man who studied religions, he had a near-unholy fascination with the tinker-toys of science, and his greatest despair was that the Catholic Church had yet to acknowledge that Galileo was right. While our vocations might have appeared to put us on opposite sides of a number of fences, our avocations gave us each room to work with the other, making us together a powerful one-two punch that we tried to only use for good.

He gave me another couple of polite pats on the back before he got to the point. "You know, if you'd just asked for the relevant class roster instead of making young Petrucci crash my new system getting to it, I would have just given it to you."

I coughed to cover my answer. "Plausible deniability," and I coughed some more, not entirely falsely.

Only long association with Geronimo allowed me to interpret his expression when his eyebrows went up; they were nearly as bushy as his mustache, which rendered his expression odd rather than surprised or inquiring. I watched them discuss my answer until they came to a consensus. "Plausible deniability." He frowned mildly, those same eyebrows nearly meeting over his nose. "Is there a reason I might need it?"

"Hmmm, maybe. I have a feeling I'm going to be stepping on some toes; you might be well out of the shoes doing the stepping."

He snorted. "Since when have I ever been afraid of being the steel toes in a pair of boots? Petrucci is one of yours isn't he?" he added out of left field. Well, left field for most, after twenty-odd years I was used to the way his mind worked.

"Yes, a nephew," it was my turn to snort. "He was heading for the Church, until you and you computers corrupted him."

"Ah, you mean the Church's toes." He laughed a little and shook his head. "You Bertolluci's; sometimes you out-Borgia the Borgias. So are you trying to become a corrupter of youth and turn him from the path of the angels to a life of crime?"

I laughed. "No, never. What God wants, God keeps. If God has made other plans, who am I to interfere? If that little job for me can turn David away from something he's been planning on his whole life, maybe it's for the best, hmm?" I spread one hand to encompass both the room and the greater world outside.

He cocked his head to one side. "You know, eventually Our Mother will come to embrace the new technologies in order to coax them back to the fold. A computer-educated priest could find himself in an excellent position. Maybe you should think about nudging him back to his original path?"

"Sooner the dead will rise from the grave." Movement behind Jerry caught my attention, and I saw Dr. Stantz trying to discreetly catch my attention. Of course, discreet for Raymond was just shy of jumping up and down and waving his arms. At the moment he settled for bouncing in place on his toes, so I decided to put him out of his anxiety. "Raymond," I said over Jerry's shoulder, "I hope you extend my congratulations once again to Dr. Spengler."

Jerry's eyebrows went up; apparently he hadn't noticed Raymond's approach. "Raymond, my boy. I've barely had a chance to see you lately, how have you been finding yourself?"

Dr. Stantz grinned back and flushed, "Usually I leave that to Janine; she's much better at it than I am."

I hid my smile in my coffee. Seven years, and still a newlywed, it was so sweet. I had to remember to collect from Elena; she hadn't thought they'd last more than five, but then she didn't know Dr. Stantz as well as I.

Jerry shot me a look that was more inscrutable than usual. "You know, Andy, Raymond here was one of my best students. It was a pleasure to see his name show up on several of my rosters."

"Really?" I strove for an enlightened look, ignoring Jerry's emphasis on the word 'roster'. "Which classes?"

"Parapsychology 101 and 102. It was in 102 that you met Dr. Spengler, wasn't it Raymond?"

Dr. Stantz looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Well, really we met in Metallurgy, but it was 102 that we started to become friends. Before that neither of us realized we shared an interest in parapsych. We got to talking after class and the next thing we knew we were roommates." His color subsided while he warmed to his subject. "Back then is when we started to throw around theories of how to prove that ghosts and stuff really exist, and all that is what eventually led to Egon's sub-atomic particle work."

I frowned. "So then really Dr. Spengler got his Nobel for giving parapsychology a scientific basis, although the community won't admit that because it doesn't admit that parapsychology can have a factual body."

"Not exactly," Raymond said. "It's more of a parallel work. It would be just as accurate to say that parapsychology gave Egon the basis for his quantum theory work; he believed that the unmeasureable could be measured by its nonexistence, and he was right."  He sighed. "It would be just great if we could find a ghost to try out some of the other theories we have."

Jerry held up a hand to forestall Raymond from sharing any of his more esoteric ideas. From the near-desperate look on his face I had to speculate that I was not the only colleague who was buttonholed for their ideas on, and experience with, the supernatural. "Nevertheless, as soon as I saw the two of you together, I knew you'd be important to the field. I just hope you're both able to continue that line as well as your more conventional ones."

Raymond nodded and he started to bounce in place, the first sign that his natural enthusiasm was about to run away with him. Really, if he could bottle it he'd make a fortune. "Egon's got some great ideas about detecting and containing ectoplasmic entities." He glanced from Jerry to myself, as if making sure we were following his impromptu lecture. "That's what we call the ghosts, and demons, and imps and stuff as sort of a generalized term; we've developed a really neat classification system, based a lot on Tobin's." He looked over at Jerry. "If you'd like one of us could come in and share it with your class. It would only take about five hours or so." He grinned, eyes sparkling with humor and excitement. "And then there's the psychokinetic energy, or PKE, meter. We've finally put together a working model, and all the tests have been successful." His crest fell at his next thought. "We're ready for field tests, but so far none of our leads have panned out." Typically, his eternal optimism started to reassert itself almost immediately. "But that's okay, we'll get there eventually."

Jerry clapped him on the back before leaving us. "Well, Raymond, when you can spare me some time I have some fascinating new translations of some Mesopotamian myths you might want to take a look at. Some of them look to be End of the World prophecies."

Raymond's eyes got huge and I could see his scholar's need for The Truth shining there, much as I knew my own appeared whenever I was presented with the intricate crystalline lattice of a new equation. In the true academic the need to know was never far from the surface.

"Wow, Dr. Kirkwood, that would be great! I bet Egon would be interested too. Would it be okay if he looked at them?"

"Of course, Raymond. Just let me know when either or both of you want to stop by and I'll be sure to be home." He nodded at me. "I'll be talking to you later, Andy, about young Petrucci's defection."

Defection? Lord, preserve my soul, I'm in deep doo-doo.

Raymond and I smiled after the old grouch with similar expressions of fondness and exasperation. "Do you think you'd be able to squeeze me in this afternoon so we can talk about the dinner? I'd really like to get your impressions and advice." Raymond finally turned back to me.

"I was counting on it, Dr. Stantz. Shall we say, one o'clock?"

He nodded absently, brilliant mind going at the speed of light. I'd always known Raymond was a genius, and had no doubt that whatever he and Spengler were creating, if it did, indeed, work, a great deal of the credit could be laid on Dr. Stantz' desk.

"I wonder why he got interested in parapsych?" he said absently, tucking the question away for later consideration. I felt a shard of pity for the inquisition Dr. Kirkwood was no doubt in for in the near future.

"I asked him the same question once. He said to me, 'Andrea, can you tell the difference between a vision and a visitation?' I had to say 'no' of course. "

Raymond studied me like a Rosetta Stone. "And what did he say?"

"That he couldn't either." I finished my coffee in a swallow. "I'm for Sal's for lunch, can I pick up something for you?"

"Hmm? Oh, no thanks," he said, jerking his mind back to the present. There was an unusually thoughtful look on his cheerful face. "I'm meeting Janine for lunch today."

"All right, just don't get too sidetracked and forget about me," I grinned when he blushed. "See you this afternoon." I left him there with his thoughts, and turned my own to what I could say to him. I had few facts and a great deal of speculation, some of which could be extremely detrimental to certain parties if it got back to certain other parties. Ray was unfortunately not known for his discretion.

There's a second, more informal tradition among Columbia's staff that has existed since just after WWII; not nearly as long as that of the Monday Morning Staff Meeting but long enough, and that is Lunch At Sal's.

Sal Goldstein was a veteran of the Big One who came home and used his savings to open a tiny little deli six blocks off the campus. The black-and-white pictures that adorn the wall today detail a classic American success story, beginning with Sal himself, arm around his wife Greta, who holds their youngest son in one arm, and has a firm grasp on the hand of the other. They're standing in front of the original storefront, a tiny, plastered two-story building with a hand-lettered sign. Above them, peeking through the checkered curtains of the second floor, you can just make out the round face and curly hair of their only daughter. That particular picture is one of my favorites, and if I'd ever had a daughter I would have wanted one just like her. You can see the curiosity and mischief in her face.

The rest of the carefully framed and dusted photos show various stages in the history of the store, as well as the growth of the Goldstein family. While the daughter is never seen again, apparently she married out of the family business, the two sons are seen growing up in the deli, learning to work there, and eventually take over at Sal's retirement.

Today, pictures of the current owners are in color and Sal's Deli covers not only both floors, upstairs an area for those who want a place to sit and downstairs still a full-service deli, but has spread out and converted the brownstone to the left for storage and office space. The business is presided over by Sal's sons, although most of the heavy work lands on the four grandsons and one granddaughter who are not only learning in the traditional ways, but all five also have bachelors degrees in business, marketing, and culinary arts.

Useful safety tip: Never play poker for money with Maggy Goldstein. Her degree is not in culinary arts.

Sal's may not be an entirely kosher deli, but I would personally put their food against any haute cuisine cookery found in any restaurant anywhere, and most of my colleagues agree. We also agree that the best comfort food this side of the Mississippi is Sal's Philly Style Cheese-Steak Sandwich, with a side of Lay's and a Coke.

Since they opened, Sal's has always prepared their own roast beef, beginning with perfectly seasoned round, slow roasted, then sliced wafer thin and lightly grilled. They use extra sharp cheddar cheese, especially crumbly for even melting, and both red and green peppers, as well as sweet onions, grilled and seasoned with the meat so the flavors combine. They bake the rolls themselves, then slice and toast on the same spot as the meat is grilled, so the taste soaks all the way through.

Each one weighs about a pound-and-a-half, has enough cholesterol to drop a dedicated couch potato in his cushions, and is worth every sit-up they cost. While I never failed to hit Sal's for lunch on Monday, I tried to restrict my cheese-steak intake to once a month. Of course, I made exceptions for trying circumstances, and I felt the current ones certainly qualified.

I walked the six blocks to the deli in a typical New York drizzle; just wet enough to make things miserable, but not heavy enough to end any time soon. Standing under the green and white striped awning I shook out my umbrella before folding it, then dropping it in the stand provided with a dozen others, all sitting there like a flock of bedraggled crows in the weather, a couple of brightly colored ones displaying their own ruffled plumage of a different feather as best they could. The bell over the door announced my arrival, barely audible over the busy lunchtime hum.

"Hey, Dr. B.!" David's enthusiastic bellow cut over the noise, his way of letting me know he knew I was there.

I cast a quick smile and wink over at the picture of my little girl as I always did. As sometimes happened the glare on the glass obscured her in a bright flash of white, but I knew she saw it. I turned my smile with an accompanying wave to David behind the counter, then pointed to a small table in the corner and held up five fingers. I had to dodge out of the way of a yuppie-looking couple that came in behind me, but after that it was a moment's work to tuck myself behind the little round table. I'd barely accomplished that when Maggy Goldstein whisked a damp cloth across the already clean table and slid a cup of hot tea with lemon on the side in front of me.

She scowled at me, hands on hips, in answer to my raised eyebrow. "Yes, tea. It's good for you, and the lemon has vitamin C to keep off colds. And you'll have chicken soup, not chips." She shook her rag at me for emphasis then disappeared back into the crowd around the deli case.  

Having literally watched this generation of Goldsteins grow up in front of me, I grinned and sipped my tea before adding a squish of lemon and more sugar than was probably good for me. Maggy would no doubt make somebody an excellent mother some day.

"Dr. Borshinski, how nice to see you again."

The cultured soprano voice woke me from my own thoughts, and I looked up to find Kathleen Spengler standing next to me, holding a white paper bag of take-out.

"Mrs. Spengler, what a surprise. I didn't realize you were still in town. Sit down, please, join me." I waved at the other chair at my table, not a bit surprised when she took it.

Today's look was warm and sophisticated, in a dark rose wool suit and cashmere overcoat that would probably require a second mortgage if I bought it. Somehow she managed to not have a hair out of place despite wind and rain, and I was uncomfortably conscious of my own scattered mane. A simple rose silk scarf was loosely in place around her shoulders, and the faint rain splatters on it gave me a clue as to how she managed to stay so perfectly coiffed.

"So what brings you out on a day like this to Sal's?" I asked while she settled herself, then I picked up my cup again to sip.

Mrs. Spengler shot me a quick look before she turned back to balancing her bag of food on one edge of the table. Her laugh was as cultured and silvery as her appearance. "Oh, Egon has a house just about three blocks over from here, and he's always going on about how good the food is, so I thought I'd just pop over and pick something up for us for lunch." She looked around the small downstairs area before adding, "I hadn't realized the place would be so busy."

I shrugged and set my cup back down. "It's Monday; you'll generally find a goodly number of the teaching staff here between eleven and three. Some of the TA's hold office hours here in the upstairs dining room." I managed to catch David's eye behind the counter, and pointed first at my cup then at Mrs. Spengler. When he nodded his understanding I turned back to my unexpected companion and answered the question there. "If you're not eating or drinking, the staff gets offended." I waved my free hand to interrupt her protest before she got further than opening her mouth. "No, not really, but they like to play it out that way."

A moment later Maggy was back with her nephew Tony in tow. David's oldest son wasn't more than eight, but he displayed a head of dark curly hair and dark brown eyes with the longest lashes I'd ever seen on a boy. I had no doubt by the time he was sixteen he'd be beating off the girls with a stick. Or maybe not.

But for today we three adults watched him hold his breath and slide a second cup of tea in front of Mrs. Spengler. When he managed without spilling a drop Maggy and I applauded and Mrs. Spengler graced him with a dazzling smile and a gravely polite, "Thank you." Tony grinned back, then disappeared back into the crowd to his regular job of adding paper napkins and plastic cutlery packets to bags of orders, Maggy following close behind.

I studied my unexpected companion from under my lashes, ostensibly stirring my tea and sipping while she fixed her own to her liking--a half-teaspoon of sugar and some cream from the tiny pitcher on the table left for coffee drinkers. Finally she sipped her own and gave a tiny nod of approval at the taste before restarting the conversation.

"Raymond, Dr. Stantz, that is, told me the idea of honoring Egon at a banquet was yours originally, not Dean Yeager's?" She looked at me, and one eyebrow quirked up to emphasize the question, but her expression told me it was only for confirmation. When I nodded, she smiled again. "Then I'd like to thank you for that; it's so difficult, sometimes, for Egon to see exactly how well deserved his honors are. And as one of the people on the guest committee, I know exactly how much work you put into it."

I chuckled at that. "It was a pleasure and an honor of my own; and a truly excellent chance to get together with some good friends at the University's expense. As for work, really, it was hardly anything on my part; just a matter of knowing who to bully and how, in order to get things done the way I wanted." I took another drink and waited while David, Tony's father and the senior partner, brought over a bowl of soup and a white bag similar to Mrs. Spengler's. When I peeked inside after he left, I found not only my sandwich, but a second container that looked to be full of soup as well. The delay gave me a chance to find the words to ask about one of the several things I'd noticed, but Mrs. Spengler beat me to it.

"The service was excellent during the meal, and I pointed that out to Janine, since she's the one that arranged for the students doing the work, but I did find the sudden change to the seating arrangements...unusual."

I frankly stared at her. "I thought you changed the seating at the last minute."

She blinked china blue eyes at me in surprise, then her lips pursed in a thoughtful moue. "No, no, it wasn't I." She frowned slightly and her eyes unfocused while she studied something in the tabletop. "It's not unusual to place the prominent members of the party are several different tables to, errrr, share the wealth, so to speak." Her eyes flicked up to mine and her look sharpened. "However, I know that Dr. Venkman and his guest were to be seated at the second table, between yourself and my brother-in-law Cyrus. Peter is not affiliated with the University, he was there as a representative of the stockholders of Spengler Labs, as Cyrus was there to represent the researchers. President Halstad and his wife were supposed to be on the other side of Egon, and Dean Yeager and his wife were supposed to be acting as host and hostess at Table Four."

"But Yeager and Venkman both ended up at your table, and Halstad at mine." Did she know the other reason I'd campaigned so hard for this? Did she even know her son had those kinds of tendencies? That, according to Raymond, Dr. Spengler was emotionally obsessed with somebody he'd known for years, and all indicators pointed to one of New York's most infamous womanizers? And how the devil do you ask somebody that? I dug into my soup and let the mouthful of peas and carrots in chicken broth keep me distracted. Unfortunately, Mrs. Spengler was still there when I looked back up.

"I could easily see Peter switching places with somebody to get away from Cyrus. My brother-in-law suspects Dr. Venkman of mocking him at meetings." She grinned, a wide-open devilish grin that took ten years from her already youthful face, even while it revealed the laugh lines around her eyes. "I hesitate to correct him; Peter doesn't mock him at every meeting, just the ones they're both at. There's little affection between them."

I gave her my own raspy bark of laughter in return. Such an action would match the gleam I'd caught in those green eyes. I felt my laughter drain away as I suddenly relived the taut, shivery feeling that had swept over me when I'd first seen the man this elaborate passion play had been focused on. Raymond hadn't warned me about the intensity of the man's charisma. I blinked and shook myself, like a waterdog coming out of a particularly deep lake, conscious of the flush creeping under my skin and the change in my breathing.

Mrs. Spengler was still watching me, and this time her smile was wry, and maybe a touch regretful. "I felt the same way the first time I met him. That was four years ago, so I assure you, the effect becomes easier to stand with time."

I swallowed my soup and pushed the half-empty bowl away. "You can see Dr. Venkman acting in such a way. Well, I can quite easily see Dean Yeager moving his own place to be near Halstad, who should have been sitting where Dr. Venkman was. I bet he had quite a nasty shock to find himself next to somebody he'd never met before. He probably spent half the night trying to decide if Venkman was somebody worth cultivating." I grimaced at the idea; imagine having the odious Jack Yeager trying to butter one up.

Mrs. Spengler looked surprised at that. "Oh, but, the way they talked, they seemed to know each other quite well." Her expressive face went thoughtful, and I'd have given a great deal to know just what connections were being formed behind those blue eyes. I was also fast getting the idea that Dr. Spengler's intellect hadn't come from only his legendary father.

I shrugged and stole a glance at my watch. Just enough time to get back to campus and eat before my meeting with Raymond. "It's possible they've met elsewhere, I'm certain if Dr. Venkman was ever in one of the science buildings I'd have heard about it from the swooning coeds. For days." I dug through my purse for my wallet, and left a ten on the table for lunch. Taking the hint, Mrs. Spengler started to gather her own things together, leaving money for her own tea behind.

"I'm sure you're right," she said, pulling on a pair of woolly, worse-for-wear mittens before joining me at the door. The wind had picked up, and the earlier misting had developed into actual rain; the walk back would not be particularly enjoyable. "Perhaps one of Peter's patients is a mutual acquaintance."

She stopped dead in front of me, one hand on the door handle, the other holding her soup securely against her coat. She started to turn towards me, eyes slightly narrowed and as intent as any good hunting dog starting a new scent trail, but before she could say anything the door opened behind her.

"Mother?"

We both jumped and looked up, I imagine with identical guilty expressions. Dr. Spengler had apparently come looking for his stray parent, and instead found a pair of naughty schoolgirls up to mischief.

"Egon!"

I watched, amazed, as all that suspicious acuity drained away, replaced by motherly concern.

"You were gone for some time; I was becoming concerned that'd you'd met with a misadventure."

I jumped in, feet, legs, and torso first, as I usually did. "My fault, Dr. Spengler. We ran into each other here, and you know how it is; one topic to the next." I plastered on my most archly inquiring expression, one known to my nieces and nephews to mean, 'think twice about what you're about to ask me for, then go away and think about it again'.

In return I received a replay of Mrs. Spengler's assessing gaze, this time inflicted on me by somebody nearly a foot taller than I. Oddly, I wondered if Edwin Spengler ever realized he never stood a chance against his wife in anything she truly wanted to know; that look would do the Spanish Inquisition proud. I took refuge in the umbrella stand, pulled out my own bedraggled crow and popped it open.

"Well, it's been nice seeing you again, Mrs. Spengler, Dr. Spengler, but I have to run. Monday meetings you know." I waved a cheery farewell before hiding behind my umbrella and directing my steps back to the university with as much dignity as I could manage. I could hear the Spengler's voices fading behind me.

"Mother, if you'd wanted soup, Sal's delivers."

"Oh, Egon!"

I was blown into the office fifteen minutes later than I expected due to several unexpected detours caused by flooded storm drains and intersections. With Raymond due any minute, I quickly shed my wet outerwear and hung everything to dry in the closet Admin called my private bathroom. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror I paused, holding my old wool coat in one hand, the other frozen in the act of brushing rain from the waterproofed surface. Iron gray streaked coarse, black, weather-flattened hair, and my cheeks were redder than usual from the wind, as was my nose. Automatically I reached for the hand towel I kept on the sink, then stopped myself from ruffling my hair with it. I stopped and took a second look deep into the large brown eyes that stared back at me.

It skittered across my mind that I was acting like a woman who was running late for a meeting with her lover. I snorted at the thought, but my mirror image considered that there might be a grain of truth to it. I took a second look at the idea and realized it was...just Raymond.

I had known from the first time I'd seen him, in freshman orientation so many years ago, that Raymond Stantz was different from the rest of the faux-jaded students I'd seen so far. He was truly a fresh man, eager to face the challenge of college and life, bringing with him an unbound enthusiasm for everything and everyone that caught his interest; and just about everything and everyone did. Raymond expected nothing but good from the world around him, and the world delivered. Nobody that I had ever met failed to provide Raymond with what he expected from them, usually to the benefit of both parties. Which was why I tried to nag him into taking the remedial math students as often as I could; kids written off as end-of-term dropouts by others were turned around, made excited again, and never spoke of him in less than glowing terms. He had the ability to bring a bud to blossom under the most trying of circumstances, by giving the gift of his heart.

Like everybody else, it seemed I'd fallen into the trap of giving Raymond exactly what he expected. He expected Dr. Andrea Borshinski to appear calm and unruffled under any circumstance, to have the answers at her fingertips. Or know where to find them if she didn't, possibly by arcane or otherwise mystical means. So now I rushed to appear just that. I nodded at my reflection, gave myself a grin and a wink then ruffed my hair with the towel anyways and tossed it and my coat on the sink. I strode out of the bathroom in time to answer a hesitant rap on my door.

"Raymond, perfect timing, come in," I opened the door and ushered Raymond into my office. I gave him a quick, glancing once over and took in his own damp state, rumpled hair, and a slightly sleepy look to his eyes that after thirty years of marriage told me more than one appetite had been fed since I'd last seen him. "How is Janine? Well, I hope?" I raised an eyebrow in inquiry and waved him to a chair, taking my own behind my desk.

He blushed and I felt my jaw twitch with laughter. "Yes, fine, thanks. She says 'hi'." He looked so uncomfortable at that moment I decided to take the ball and run, so to speak.

"So, Raymond, where did you disappear to so early in the banquet? One minute you were eating soup, and when I looked back, poof! You were gone."

With something else to focus on his blush quickly subsided. "Oh, there was a problem with the sound system power supply." He frowned. "The funny thing is, I checked it myself that morning and it was fine. Maybe there's a mouse in the house?"

"What do you mean, mouse? In President's House? What was wrong with the system?" It was my turn to frown.

"The sound system had a power drain, like it was grounding out somewhere, but none of the film students running the equipment could find the problem, so Sly, um Sylvester Kane, I don't know why he wants to be called Sly, found me and told me what was going on. And it was a good thing," he nodded seriously, still frowning and squinting his eyes while studying schematics visible only to him. "Somebody could have been really hurt. A power feed was wired backwards, and with the intermittent grounding anybody grabbing that microphone would have gotten a serious shock." He stopped and focused on my face in the present. "There was enough amperage going through there to maybe kill somebody."

Suddenly his eyes went huge, his pale skin dead white, and I started up out of my chair certain he was about to faint. "Dr. Borshinski, somebody could have died, and it would have been my fault! What if it had been Dr. Halstead? Oh my gosh, what if it had been Egon!"

I grabbed a glass of water off my credenza with one hand and pushed Raymond's head down with the other. After a minute his gasping breaths leveled out and I let him sit up, handing him the glass. "Drink," I commanded, surreptitiously grabbing the trashcan by the desk and pulling it closer. He choked on the first mouthful, but swallowed it and under my glare finished the glass. Seeing him still pale, I pushed him back into the chair. "Close your eyes for a minute and rest, I'll be right back." I watched until he complied, then stepped around him to have my secretary call Janine Stantz at home to come pick him up; I'd seen Raymond drive before and didn't think it would be a good idea, given his sudden shock and the bad weather, to put him behind the wheel.

While I waited for my secretary to call Janine I mentally ran through the list of Bertoluccis that were college age, but none of them were attending Columbia's Fine Arts program. The closest I could think of was Madeline, with the corps de ballet of the Met, and she'd been out of college for a good five years. Finally, the secretary hung up and let me know that Mrs. Stantz would be there in fifteen minutes to pick up her husband. I just nodded, and went back inside to see how Raymond was doing.

I could see his color was much better when I closed the door again, and I smiled when I held my hand to his forehead; yes much better, not as clammy.

"So, Raymond, a most serious, possibly life-threatening accident was forestalled by your little friend Sly coming for you. But the question remains, how could this have happened?"

Raymond frowned. "Well, I must have made a mistake when I checked the final installation, overlooked something." His voice was hesitant, edged with self-doubt.

I sighed. "Raymond, did you make a mistake in the wiring?"

"I…well, I must…I mean," he began, looking at me puzzled, head tilted slightly to one side.

"Did you make a mistake?"

"I…," he looked up at me. "No, I didn't make a mistake in the wiring. When we left President's House that morning, everything was the way it should have been." His face cleared, the relief on it a welcome sight. He ran his hand through already mussed hair, looked down then up. With his hair sticking straight up, I thought he looked like an overgrown Dennis the Menace. "I don't think a mouse could have rewired the lines the way they were done," he gave a wry smile. "So what could have happened?"

I turned away from him and poured myself a glass of water, more to hide my face than because I was thirsty. Not a mouse, I thought, but there was certainly a distinct odor of rat.

I shrugged when I turned back, sipping at my glass. "It would depend entirely on the skill and knowledge of whoever did it. Perhaps it was simply an ill-planned prank, the sound system failing at an unpredictable, and potentially embarrassing time. The frats," I pointed out, "are not always known for accurately assessing fallout and after effects."

Raymond's grin became more genuine for a moment then faded away again when he shook his head. "No, the leads were deliberately rewired, but somebody with at least some idea of what they were doing had to have done it. And if they had that much experience, they would have known the possible hazard. Everybody that works with electricity knows that it bites, sometimes hard."

"I agree. If it wasn't a mistake on your part," I leaned forward for emphasis, "which, Dr. Stantz, we've already established," I leaned back again, "the question becomes 'why?' Only the President and Dr. Spengler were scheduled to speak at that podium, so it would have to be somebody wanting to get to them."

"That makes sense," he nodded sharply. "But Dr. Halstad would have spoken first, regardless, and it's most likely that if anything happened, it would have happened to him. Why would anybody want to hurt Dr. Halstad?"

My stomach chose that moment to give me a genteel reminder that pastry and chicken soup were scarcely filling. I made a face and Raymond laughed. "I suspect, Raymond, that the answers to those questions go hand in hand. Perhaps it is somebody who had a plan to handle the immediate crisis that would be presented, showing them in a beneficial light and furthering their ambition in academic circles."

I refused to mention that any kind of decent investigation would no doubt turn up the wiring error and throw Raymond's own competence into doubt. With that kind of shadow, he might even be asked to leave the university. Which would leave the way clear for Dr. Spengler to take a position of prominence on the staff if, as I thought, he continued to refuse so as to keep his friend from being overlooked.

There came another knock on the door, followed by the entrance of the formidable Janine Stantz in search of her husband.

"Janine!"

The glare she gave him was both stern and loving. "Liz called; Dr. Borshinski said you weren't feeling well, so I'm here to take you home."

He waved her off. "I'm fine, Janine."

"And your point?" she shot back, firmly stepping on any explanations he might want to make.

Raymond glanced at me then back to his wife. Janine was tugging him to his feet, feeling his forehead, and checking his pulse at the same time. "We were just discussing the banquet, and…."

"Ray I told you, Egon needs to forget about it. The man's a womanizer of the worst kind, and even if he was interested in Egon, it would be for one thing only. And once he got what he wanted he'd drop poor Egon like a rock. Then where would we be?"

"Really, Janine. Do you think he's as bad as that?" I had to ask, casting a covetous eye over the white sack on the credenza when my stomach growled again.

She whirled around. "Come on, Dr. B., I saw him with Egon's mom all night. Not to mention Dr. Halstad's wife, the hatcheck girl and the girl with the huge, um, pom-poms that was serving drinks."

"But Janine, Winston said he's really a pretty nice guy."

Janine's head snapped back to her husband. "Nice guy. Nice guy! Yeah, maybe to another guy, he's a nice guy.

"Winston? You mean Winston Zeddemore?" I interrupted quickly, before Janine could take off on a tirade.

Ray nodded. "Uh huh. Zeddemore Construction does the maintenance on Dr. Venkman's building." He shrugged. "I guess Winston's met him a couple of times while doing his rounds. It's the…the…," he trailed off, obviously trying to remember the name of the building. "Funny, I remember Winston telling me, but I can't think of it just now. But it's somewhere near Central Park." He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Manhattan.

That rang a warning bell for me, but really, it wasn't that important so I didn't press the issue.

"Well, anyways, we need to get you home before you come down with a cold, or a flu, or pneumonia or something." Janine started hustling him towards the door.

"Oh Janine!" I called after them. When she looked back I gave her a grin. "Have you ever seen a woman display herself for a man by flirting with somebody else? Think about it."

By the color she turned I surmised she'd not only seen it, but had done it herself. I gave them a cheery wave and closed the door behind them.

"Alone at last, my pretty," I said evilly, making for my still waiting lunch. A moment later I had it spread out on my desk, the aroma of chicken soup, bell peppers, onions, and perfectly seasoned beef making me all but drool. I picked up half the sandwich, took a huge bite, and leaned back in my chair, eyes drooping from cholesterol-induced bliss. All was right in my world once more.

Suddenly there was a quick rap on my door, which promptly swung open to admit my nephew David, followed by an audio-visual equipment cart loaded with a pile of wires and boxes. I thought I saw a small television on the bottom shelf, but it was quickly obscured by the edge of my desk.

"Surprise, Aunt Andy! Admin has decided to drag you out of the Stone Age and into the Computer Age." He grinned at me, the brat, a cheerfully evil grin, until he spotted my lunch lying on my desk. "Hey, Sal's! Are you gonna eat that half? I'm starving."

I gave him my best glare, the effect only slightly marred by the fact that I couldn't talk around the mouthful of roast beef I was trying to chew and swallow simultaneously. Apparently repeated exposure mitigated the effect, since he just ignored it and kept giving me a hopeful look. Finally I swallowed and just sighed, waving a hand at him. "All right, all right. Just stop looking at me like that." I stood up and looked over the edge of my desk at the jumble of electronics on the cart. "You can have it, if," he looked at me, already starting on his half of my sandwich, "if, you put that thing together for me."

He swallowed and grinned. "No problem, I was already planning on it. It's part of my new part-time job here, assistant to the system analyst. I'll have you up and part of the university network in no time."

I frowned down at him while he dove into the cart and started unloading components. In short order my desk was covered in tools and wires, a fair sized stack of cardboard boxes on the floor of my bathroom. "You realize you're cleaning all this up before you leave, right? And have you talked to Marco yet, about this change in plans of yours?"

He sat up from under my desk where he was plugging things in to a strip he called a surge protector and reached for the last of what used to be my sandwich, finishing it off in two bites. "Yes, actually I have, and he's very happy about it. You know he's really had more calling to the Church than I have." He blushed slightly, "Besides, Sylvia says I'm too good-looking to be a priest. Too much temptation to the poor ladies of my future parish."

Sylvia? I felt one eyebrow rise up. But really, she was right; David was tall and well built, with the classic Rom features of the men in the family; pale olive skin, dark blue eyes and a thick head of black, curly hair on top of a whipcrack intellect. I sighed mentally. Perhaps it really was for the best that David and Marco switched roles, although at fourteen years Marco was still young enough to want to change his mind.

Taking my silence while I thought as release from the impromptu inquisition, David plopped down in my chair and began turning things on and feeding a series of black squares to the thing. 'Floppies', I knew they were called, although they were really fairly stiff. In a matter of minutes he had finished whatever he was doing, and began shutting the system down.

"All set," he said, starting to pick up the debris. I moved behind my desk and pulled the still covered and mostly warm Styrofoam carton of soup towards me. At least I still had that. "You won't get anything for a few more days, but as soon as we finish the initial installations I'll be back to show you how it all works."

He piled the last of his tools on the cart then took a last look around. "Well I'm off to Dean Yeager's office next. He, at least, has gotten pretty interested in computers in the last couple of months." I didn't miss the disgusted look he threw my way, and I made sure he didn't miss my unspoken 'your point?' "By the way, Mom wants to know if you and Uncle D. are coming to dinner Sunday. You should call her."

I opened my mouth to answer, and it hung there in sudden shock when Hurricane Elena slammed through the door.

"Andy! Oh my God! Andy!"

Elena looked liked she'd seen her own death. She was white as a sheet and her chignon was half undone and falling around her shoulders. Mud was splattered on her calves and her dress was soaked through. Whatever had driven her from her office was bad enough that she'd run across campus without a coat. She stood panting in the doorway, eyes wild. When I jumped up I could just see Maggie, the department secretary, standing behind her and shaking her head in confusion.

I shrugged back and motioned at David to shut the door; if the staff saw her like this she'd be mortified. " 'lena, what is it, what's happened?" Only a handful of things could shake her like this, and most of them started with 'death of ____'.

David appeared from the bathroom, glass of water and towel in hand. He handed them to me silently then discreetly faded back against the credenza. If there was a family crisis, he had the right to know about it.

It took a full minute for Elena to calm herself down enough to get the words out. "Oh, Andy! Nana's coming! She's flying in next month!"

Suddenly I understood what had driven Elena out into the rain. I staggered back into my own chair, visions of global catastrophes dancing in my head. In between thoughts of nuclear warfare and comets striking the earth, I wondered if I'd have enough time to clean out my linen closet and polish the silver. Only an earth-shattering event of such proportions would bring that iron-fisted Bertolucci matriarch out of her villa in southern Italy. My head sank to my hands in despair.

Silence reigned while the three of us considered the implications of such an event, until David finally cleared his throat.

"So, does this mean you don't want your soup?"