Ghost

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The President of Integration almost fell out of his chair. His ruddy cheeks turned sallow, his jaw dropped, and the hard blue eyes, behind their flexo-lenses, lost their look of keen inquiry and became merely stupefied. Ben Halliday slowly swivelled around and stared out at the skyscrapers of New York , as though to assure himself that he was living in the Twenty-First Century and the golden age of science.

No witches, riding on broomsticks, were visible outside the window.

Only slightly reassured, Halliday turned back to the prim, grey, tight-mouthed figure across the desk. Dr. Elton Ford did not look like Cagliostro. He resembled what he was: the greatest living psychologist.

“What did you say?” Halliday asked weakly.

Ford put his finger tips together precisely and nodded. “You heard me. The answer is ghosts. Your Antarctic Integration Station is haunted.”

“You’re joking.” Halliday sounded hopeful.

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