It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.
- EMERSON
Spengler was leaning across the kitchen table, an eggroll in each hand, his face a mask of intense concentration. “Imagine, if you will, that this eggroll is equivalent to the total amount of extrasensory energy available to the average man. We will call it one… one…”
“ER,” Stantz suggested.
“ER?”
“Eggroll. E-R. ER.”
Spengler lifted one eyebrow. “We can’t call it ER. An eggroll is a thing, therefore a conceptual entity, but it is not a unit of measurement. Eggroll length? Eggroll width? Eggroll what?”
“Call it ERM. Eggroll mass. One ERM.”
Spengler was satisfied with that. “Okay, one ERM is the equivalent measurement for the amount of ESP available to the average man. Now,” he said, bringing the eggrolls together, “I believe that if you double the amount, to, say, two ERMs, you’d have enough energy to blow the lid off a city the size of New York.”
“What lid?”
“The psychic lid. The inbred controls that make even one ERM unavailable to most people.” Spengler smiled smugly, popping one of the eggrolls into his mouth.
“Sort of like critical mass at a nuclear reactor, huh?” Stantz asked. Spengler nodded. “But how would you join two ERMs? What kind of psychic link would you need?”
Spengler whipped out his calculator, made a few notes on the side of an overturned carton from Hong Fat’s Noodlerama, and announced, “It could be done. A modification of the visual image tracking headset, filtered through an archetype unscrambler, locked into a psychic potentiometer on a feedback circuit would do it.”
Stantz was dubious. “Do we really want something like that?”
“Not unless you’ve got a powerful grudge against the City of New York. An unbridled psychic link between even two people would pull out the stops. It would be like unleashing all the ghosts that have ever lived in New York.” He stopped, thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah, that scares even me.”
Venkman came clattering up the stairs, hung his analyzer on the coatrack, and yawned.
“How was your date? We saved you some Chinese.”
“It wasn’t a date, it was an investigation. I think something’s possible there, but I’m going to have to draw a little petty cash, take her to dinner. Don’t want to lose this one.”
“Did you see anything?” Spengler asked.
“On the first date?”
“Ghosts. Did you see any ghosts?”
Venkman shook his head, then proceeded to rummage through the ravaged Chinese dinner, picking garlic shrimp out of the rubble. “Didn’t see anything. Didn’t get anything. Nice girl—no ghost. I don’t think she was lying though. Nobody cooks eggs on their countertop.”
Stantz and Spengler looked at each other. This wasn’t like Venkman. Something was affecting him. He picked up Spengler’s remaining ERM and popped it into his mouth.
“Anything happen here?”
They shook their heads.
“Nothing, huh? How’s the cash holding out? In English, Egon. Forget the calculator.”
Egon nodded. “Sure, in English. If you want to take Miss Barrett to dinner, I’d suggest you make it a Big Mac. This Oriental feast took the last of our money, and until we get a job, we’re flying without motors.”
“Ray, you said that all the indications were pointing to something big happening soon. You told me that things were going to start popping.”
“They will.”
“When?”
Stantz looked to Spengler for support. Spengler considered telling Venkman about their ERM theory but he didn’t look ready for it. He glanced out the window. It was a clear, red sunset, the darkness coming fast and hard, implicit in a front of heavy clouds hanging low over North Jersey. An omen? A portent? More like an analogy to the coming demise of their bank accounts. That eggroll must be getting pretty full. Something would have to break. It was only a matter of time.
“Soon, Peter. Soon.”
* * *
Though he would have rejected the concept on scientific grounds, Egon Spengler had just made a good guess. The crack in the cosmic eggroll that had manifested itself at the New York Public Library, and in Dana Barrett’s refrigerator, was about to widen at a first-class old hotel called the Sedgewick. Built in the thirties on the edge of the garment district, the Sedgewick was home to businessmen, trade shows, conventions, and vacationers. It was also the home of something else.
In the bridal suite on the twelfth floor, a time-honored ritual had just taken place and two people were whispering in the dark.
“Oh, Roy, aren’t you glad we waited?”
“I don’t know. It probably would have been the same.”
“Well, thanks a lot!”
High in one corner of the room, a light film of dust on the air vent was dislodged by something floating through it; a nebulous, persistent yellow vapor.
“What are you doing? Are you just going to roll over now and go to sleep?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“C’mon, honey. It was a long day, with the wedding, and the drive from New Jersey, and… you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
The vapor spread to the four corners of the room, hovering just below the ceiling, then began to intensify. A few curious tendrils reached out in the dark, looking for something interesting to examine. One of them discovered a small travel alarm on the bedside table and curled around it. This was fun. This thing had energy. Perhaps it could be induced to play. With a sharp snap the plastic clock face split, turning a sickly, fire-scorched brown. Confused, the tendril withdrew.
“Roy, your clock broke.”
“Nice going, honey. It was brand new.”
“I didn’t break your precious clock, Roy! Now where are you going?”
“To the bathroom, where do you think?”
My God, she thought. Have I made a serious mistake?
The light went on in the bathroom and the door closed. This was noticed by the vapor, which immediately flowed down and through the cracks of the door. Here, perhaps, would be something to play with.
“Brauuuuugh.”
“Roy, are you all right?”
“Brauuugh! Brauuugh! Brauuuuugh!”
“Sweetheart, that’s disgusting. Cut it out.” She slipped out of bed, wrapping the sheet around her, and started for the door.
“BRAUUUUUGH!”
Roy came charging out of the bathroom, both hands clamped over his mouth, stumbling for the other side of the room. That does it, she thought. If that’s the effect I have on him, he can just sleep alone. She stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door. My God, that smell…
“What did you do in here? It’s like something died…”
The room itself was discolored, the sickly yellow-brown of old damp newspapers, and smoke seemed to hang in the air, smelling of vomit and rot and old meat. As she watched, gagging, it coalesced and flowed into the mirror. That’s impossible, she thought. Smoke can’t go into a mirror. But it did, swirling in a whirlpool, forming, becoming solid, with features and movement…
It was a face.
The thing smiled, wagged a foot-long tongue at her, and belched. The mirror cracked.
Roy caught his wife as she ran by, screaming, and clamped a hand over her mouth so he could shout into the phone.
“Right… it’s smelling up the whole suite… I don’t know, it’s in the bathroom…I’ve never seen anything like it… twelve ten, the bridal suite, for godsake… Hurry!”
Janine Melnitz was fed up. She’d never been so bored in her life. When she’d first taken the job with Ghostbusters she’d assumed that it would be exciting. She’d been in a TV commercial with three men who were supposedly going to be catching real live ghosts. She’d seen the money pour into their building, their equipment, the bizarre ambulance that Ray Stantz insisted on calling an Ectomobile. And then they’d waited. And nothing had happened. She wasn’t even getting anywhere with that cute Dr. Spengler. Face it, kiddo, she thought. You’ve waltzed into another dead end. Best to cut your losses and move on, pick up some takeout, go home, watch Dynasty, read the want-ads.
She snapped off the light and grabbed her purse. The phone rang. Probably the man from Telectronics wanting his money again. She hesitated, then picked it up. After all, I am a receptionist. It’s not my money they want.
“Ghostbusters…”
The voice at the other end sounded nervous. “Is this really Ghostbusters?”
“Yes it is.”
“And they’re… they’re serious about this?”
“Of course they’re serious,” Janine said impatiently. Crazy, but serious.
“Oh, good. My name is J. M. Shupp. I’m the manager of the Sedgewick Hotel, and I wish to contract for their services…”
“You do?”
“I… we… have this ghost…”
“You have?”
She took down the information with a trembling hand. It’s real, she thought. It’s not a con; they’re really going to catch ghosts. Oh, Egon, you’re not crazy.
“Don’t worry, they’ll be totally discreet.”
She set down the phone, took a deep breath, and laughed. We really got one. We got one. “We got one!”
* * *
The alarm bell blasted Venkman out of bed just as he was falling asleep. He stumbled up, pulling on his socks, and ran for the lockers in the kitchen, where Stantz and Spengler were trying to put on the same pair of coveralls. A real call? Please, don’t let this be a false alarm.
“Ray, are the accelerators charged?”
“Certainly. Have you seen my boots?”
“In your hand. The traps?”
“The traps are fine. It’s the ERM, Ray. The crack is widening.”
“Yes, and so soon. My calculations were correct.”
“What are you guys talking about?”
“The crack in the cosmic eggroll, Peter. We’re going to have more business than we know what to do with.”
“I certainly hope so,” Venkman replied. He launched himself at the pole, hit, and plummeted into the garage.
“Where’s my trinocular visor?”
“It’s in the car, Ray.”
“It’s not a car, it’s an Ectomobile.”
“Whatever you say, Ray,” Spengler cried, grabbing the pole and descending. Stantz looked about him and realized that he was ready. He took a run at the brass pole.
“Geronimo!” he cried, but his legs were too far apart and the impact was cushioned by precisely that part of his anatomy he’d been trying to protect. With a surprised whimper he fell through the hole.
Venkman grabbed him and dragged him toward the passenger seat as Spengler, his arms full of traps and detectors, loaded the rear compartment. Janine handed him a clipboard with directions on how to get to the Sedgewick and the nature of the complaint, and then, on impulse, kissed him on the cheek. Egon, surprised, gave her a thumbs-up and grinned.
“Will you get a move on here, Egon?” Venkman cried from the passenger side. “You’re driving.”
“What’s wrong with Ray?”
“He dented his bumper. Let’s go.”
With a blaze of lights the old Cadillac’s motor roared to life, the banks of rooftop sensors, antennae, and microwave transmitters swinging to alertness. Janine triggered the door opener, Venkman hit the siren, and they were off.
* * *
The doorman of the Sedgewick had seen a lot of strange vehicles in his thirty years on the job, had heard a lot of strange sounds, but the moaning, ululating siren of the Ectomobile brought back childhood memories of Eastern Europe that he had taken great pains to forget, and he instinctively crossed himself. When it screeched to a halt at the curb, his jaw dropped. A radar dish and a microwave tracker swiveled about to point at him, and the old doorman probably would have run had not Shupp, the manager, appeared in the doorway.
Well, they look professional enough, Shupp thought as three men in coveralls alighted from the converted ambulance and began strapping on large electronic backpacks and belts bristling with metal implements. They wore brushed-metal, flip-down visors, boots, and knee and elbow pads over their gray coveralls. The face of one was obscured by a cyclopean headset. Another strode forward, his hand out to shake.
“I’m Dr. Venkman. You are…?”
“Mr. Shupp, the manager. Thank you for coming so quickly. The guests are starting to ask questions and I’m running out of answers.”
They moved into the lobby, people turning to stare at the three outlandishly dressed men. A group of Japanese tourists immediately began snapping pictures.
“Has this ever happened before?” Stantz asked, now fully recovered from his mishap with the pole.
“Well, most of the original staff knows about the twelfth floor—the disturbances, I mean—but it’s been quiet for years. Then, two weeks ago, it started again, but nothing like this.”
“Did you ever report it to anyone?”
“Heavens no! The owners didn’t like us even to talk about it. I hoped we could take care of this quietly tonight.”
Egon shook his head. “Like social disease,” he exclaimed loudly. “You think it’ll go away if you ignore it, and then, eventually, your—”
“Egon, the job, remember?”
Ray Stantz was walking the manager toward the elevators, cleverly distracting him from Spengler’s outburst. “Don’t worry, we handle this sort of thing all the time.”
“You gotta be cool with these people, Egon,” Venkman said.
“I was appalled at his unprofessional attitude.”
“Well, we’re the professionals. That’s why they called us.”
Ray shook the manager’s hand and the man withdrew, leaving them alone in front of the elevators.
“Twelfth floor, huh?” Venkman pushed the button. Something tugged on his sleeve. It was an old man in an overcoat and alpine hat, carrying a newspaper. He poked Venkman in the chest.
“What are you supposed to be?”
“Me? We’re exterminators. Somebody saw a cockroach on the twelfth floor.”
Stantz and Spengler smiled. The old man whistled. “That’s gotta be some cockroach.”
“Well, you can’t be too careful with these babies,” Venkman said. “Going up?”
“That’s all right. You go ahead. I’ll wait for another car.”
They had the elevator to themselves.
“I just realized something,” Stantz said. “We’ve never had a completely successful test with any of the equipment.”
Spengler raised a hand. “I blame myself.”
“So do I,” Venkman agreed.
Stantz shrugged. “No sense in worrying about it now, right, Peter?”
“Sure. Each of us is wearing an unlicensed nuclear accelerator oh his back. No problem.”
“Relax,” Egon said. “I’m going to switch on.”
Before Venkman could protest, the warning light on Spengler’s proton pack flared red and the accelerator kicked in with a deep, disturbing hum. Stantz and Venkman edged away as the whole car began to vibrate, dust motes kicking into motion in the suddenly polarized air. The hair went up on Venkman’s neck and he felt a crawling sensation on his scalp, as if a thousand lice had begun a breakdown competition among the roots of his hair. He swallowed uncomfortably, noticing that Stantz had curled his lips back and away from his teeth.
“Ray, you okay?”
Stantz shook his head. “Egon, the fillings in my mouth are beginning to heat up.”
“That’ll stop when you cut in your own accelerator,” Spengler announced. Stantz nodded and switched on. Venkman’s eyes were starting to hurt. Here goes nothing, he thought, and kicked in his own unit. Immediately the symptoms subsided as he was surrounded by the proton generator’s field. Maybe these things will work. The door opened and they stepped out on the twelfth floor, instantly alert for any sign of trouble, but the floor was brightly lit, tastefully appointed, and quiet.
“What do you think?”
Spengler consulted the aurascope on his belt. “Definitely something here.”
“Stay on your toes. Don’t let it surprise you.” Suddenly a squeak and a clank from behind them. They froze, and then Stantz and Spengler whirled and fired, mutlicolored streams of supercharged particles ripping out of the induction nozzles. They struck the walls, shearing great ribbons of flaming wallpaper into the air, blowing holes in the carpet, exploding a light fixture. A doorknob spun through the air, striking and then going cleanly through a solid wall. The streams struck a maid’s cart, twisting the metal, rebounding in flashes of uncontrolled energy. A box of soap burst into flames and a dozen rolls of toilet paper dispersed, hitting the walls and the terrified maid who crouched screaming on the floor. “Cease fire!” Venkman cried.
“What the devil you doin’?” called the maid in the sudden silence, slapping at bits of burning paper that were drifting down around her. “You crazy?”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“We’d better adjust the streams,” Spengler suggested.
“Yeah,” Venkman added disgustedly. “And let’s split up. We can do more damage that way.” He turned and stalked off down the hall. Spengler and Stantz set off in the other direction.
“I’m getting high readings near the air vents. It must be using the duct system to get around. I told you we’d find something. You head that way and I’ll go north. And keep your radio on.”
Why not? Spengler thought as he shouldered the induction nozzle and reached for his trusty plasmatometer. Valences, that’s the key. Ghosts leave an ethereal spore, but I can track them. He edged along the wall, tapping gently, watching the lights flashing on the little detector. He came to a door, tapped his way across it, then examined the crack at the top, sides, along the floor. The easiest way for them to get in, he figured: cracks, vents, keyholes. The door opened. He looked up to see a tall, beautiful woman in a bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a turban of wet toweling. Careful, Egon, he thought. They can be devious, like the one in the library. Still, she seemed pretty solid and she certainly had legs.
“Yes?”
He stood up. “Were you recently in the bathroom?” he asked, running the plasmatometer across her front. No response there.
“What on earth gave you that idea?”
“The wet towels, the residual moisture on your lower limbs and hair, the redness in your cheeks indicating—”
“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes. Now, what do you want? And get that thing out of my face.” Spengler withdrew the detector. “When you were in the bathroom, did you notice anything that was yellow and unusually smelly?”
The woman stepped back and slammed the door in his face. Spengler shrugged and moved on.
* * *
On a lower floor, Venkman, induction gun held protectively before him, was moving cautiously down the hall, feeling stupid. Dressed up like Buck Rogers, hunting ghosts. Is this any life for a grown man? He stopped beside an unattended room-service cart and consoled himself with an order of shrimp cocktail, not noticing the trail of yellowish stains along the wainscoting.
Ray Stantz was standing very quietly in the center of an intersection, staring at his PKE meter. He had tracked the ghost down to the fifth floor and suddenly the needle was going crazy. Stantz tapped the mike on his headset.
“Egon, I’ve got something. I’m moving in.”
He headed cautiously down the hallway toward another T-intersection at the end, around which came the sounds of clinking plates and the faint smell of something old and ugly. He pulled down his induction gun, but held it pointed toward the floor. No sense in blowing away another maid, or some Puerto Rican busboy. Still, the readings and that smell. He turned the corner at the end.
“Yaaah!”
Twenty feet away, hovering over a room-service cart, was the object of his search: a free vapor, apparently composed of a series of compacted noxious gases, with a face like a misshapen potato and a pair of spindly arms. Stantz watched fascinated as it rummaged through the dishes, tossing some of them on the floor, and cramming leftover scraps into its mouth. It had to be the one. It matched perfectly with the manager’s description.
“Ray. Where are you? Are you all right?” came Spengler’s voice over the radio.
“Egon, you should see this thing. It’s so ugly.”
The vapor raised a half-empty bottle of wine and chugged the remaining contents, the wine pouring through it and out onto the carpet. Satisfied with that trick, it tossed the bottle back over its head and began rooting around in the plates like a hog after truffles.
“Where are you, Ray?”
“Five south, I think. I’m moving in. I don’t think it’s seen me yet.”
This time it downed a mass of half-eaten salad, which was obviously too spicy, for the thing sneezed, spattering the wall with greasy residue. It belched loudly and patted its rudimentary stomach. Stantz was disgusted.
“Ugh, what a slob. I’m going to take him.” He snapped the visor down over his eyes and raised the induction rifle. “Freeze, Potatoface!”
It turned toward him and let out a piercing scream as Stantz fired, tearing a flaming crater in the wallpaper. The vapor did a wingover and sped off down the hall, dragging the cart behind it. Stantz took off in pursuit, calling for Egon and Peter to watch for it, but when the ghost reached the end of the hallway, instead of turning, it passed right through the wall. The cart hit directly behind it and overturned, trashing the carpet as Stantz arrived. He peered at the wall, which had turned an ugly yellow. There were drops of ectoplasm oozing in thick, stringy trails from the spot. Well, at least I hit it. But where did it go?
* * *
Venkman was steamed. He had wandered down to three and was leaning against a wall, pulling disconsolately on a cigarette and staring at the ceiling. This bites the big one, he thought. I actually work for a company called Ghostbusters. Not even I thought it would come to this. Beep, beep, beep. Beep?
Venkman looked down at his PKE meter. The red light was burning and the thing was signaling wildly. Quickly Venkman keyed his headset. “Ray, something’s here.”
“Where are you, Pete?”
“Third floor. Get down here.” He unshipped the long induction rifle, and braced himself as the accelerator cut in with a whine.
“Sit tight. I’m on my way.”
“Well, hurry. It’s real close.”
Suddenly, with a rattle of dishes, a room-service cart sailed past the end of the corridor, followed closely by a yellow-green floater trailing a haze of smog. Venkman goggled at it. The ghost stopped, turned, and goggled back. Venkman felt the blood drain out of his face.
“It’s here, Ray,” he whispered. “It’s looking at me.”
“Don’t move. It won’t hurt you.”
“How do you know?” The vapor had begun to undulate from side to side, its attention still fixed on Venkman.
“I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”
With a bob the vapor started toward him.
“Well, I think you guessed wrong. Here he comes!”
“On my way.”
“What do I do?”
“Shoot it!”
“Gaaaah!”
Stantz came barreling out of the stairwell, checked his detector, and sprinted down the hallway, screaming, “Peter, hang on,” but when he got to the site Venkman was flat on his back, his arms and legs flailing frantically, his body covered from head to belt in thick yellow ectoplasm.
“Gross.”
“Aaaagh, aaagh!” Venkman cried, spitting a glob of the disgusting stuff from his mouth. “It slimed me. The little mother slimed me!”
“You all right?”
Venkman spat again, his face screwed into an expression of extreme disgust. Stantz had never seen him look so angry. “I’m going to get that little grub if it’s the last thing I do. Nobody slimes Dr. Peter Venkman! Nobody!”
“Where’d it go?”
“That way.”
They hurried back toward the elevators and found Spengler peering through the doorway of a banquet room. A sign announced: reception welcoming the tokyo trade council: 8:00 p.m. He slammed the door and put his back to it.
“It’s in there. What happened to you?”
“He got slimed. Did you bring the trap?”
Spengler indicated a metal box the size of a toaster fixed to his belt and connected to a long coaxial cable. “We ready for this?”
“I am,” Venkman growled. “Let’s get it.”
“Right,” Ray agreed. “Visors down, full stream. Geronimo.”
They tumbled into the room, closing the door behind them. It was an ornate formal banquet hall, high-ceilinged and ostentatious, hewn beams converging in the center at an immense crystal chandelier. A long line of buffet tables fronted one wall, piled high with food and a carved ice punch bowl. There was a fully stocked bar. Stantz looked at his watch. Seven forty-five. Only fifteen minutes to do the job before the room fills up with Japanese businessmen. “Do you see it?”
“The food,” Venkman said grimly. “It’ll head for the food. Spread out.”
The liquid in the punch bowl boiled and erupted a stream of yellow gas. The vapor surfaced, glaring at them.
“Fire.”
The searing energy bolts smashed the table, blowing food and broken bottles across the room, sending the vapor tumbling behind the bar. Stantz swung and fired.
“No, not the mirror!” Spengler screamed, throwing himself flat as the energy stream diffracted into a thousand tiny fragments, speckling the walls like shrapnel. One of them tore away Venkman’s tool belt, making him dive under a table.
“Sorry. Where’d it go?” They scanned the room, trying to ignore the burning buffet tables. In war there were casualties. Venkman heard a muffled pounding on the door.
“Battle area, go away,” he shouted. Spengler touched his shoulder.
“Peter, there’s something I—”
“There, on the ceiling!” Stantz pointed toward the chandelier where the vapor was circling, using the glass and metal fixture for cover. He dropped to one knee and fired, tracking on the ghost, setting fire to the supporting beams. The sprinkler system kicked in. Venkman tried to cut off the thing’s escape but succeeded only in blowing half the chandelier to fragments. Stantz fired again and completed the job, the great lighting fixture plummeting down, breaking the back of a large dinner table. Silverware flew through the air.
“My fault,” Stantz called. “I’ll pay for it.”
“It’s probably insured. Where’d it go?”
As if it had heard, the vapor peeked out from between the great support structure. Venkman raised his induction gun.
“Wait, wait!” Spengler cried out urgently. “There’s something I forgot to tell you.”
“What?”
“Don’t cross the streams!”
“Why not?” Venkman asked suspiciously.
“Trust me. It would be bad.”
Venkman pushed back his visor and rubbed the ectoplasmic residue off his face. “Egon, I’m not your kind of scientist. Precisely what do you mean by bad!”
“It’s hard to explain. Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and finding yourself confined forever in another dimension.”
“That’s bad,” Stantz agreed, his eyes still on the lurking vapor.
“No,” Venkman replied, “that’s it. I’m taking charge. You guys are dangerous.” They nodded sheepishly. “Now, nobody does anything unless I say ‘Got it.’ “
“Got it.”
“Let’s do it. It’s not going to hang around all day waiting for us. Ray, take the right. I’ll take the left. Now!”
The energy streams shot out, penning the vapor between them. It moved to slip between but Venkman and Stantz brought the streams closer together and it retreated. As long as they kept them tight, it couldn’t get by.
“Good, good, ‘ Venkman called. “Nice and wide… move with it… steady…”
Spengler watched, fascinated, as the two streams slowly came together, the vapor caught between them.
“Now, very slowly, Ray, let’s tighten it up. Hold it there, I’ll come down. Egon…”
“Right here.”
“Get ready to cap it.”
Egon kicked in his accelerator. “Okay, but shorten your stream. I don’t want my face burned off. And don’t cross them…”
The vapor began to whirl, darting at the stream, and suddenly Stantz was out of control. A cascade of energy began to leap from his stream to Venkman’s. “Back off!” Venkman screamed.
“I’m losing it! I’m losing it!”
The vapor slipped free and streaked for the back wall.
“It’s heading for the vent. Cut it off!” Large sections of the rear wall exploded, flaming rubble showering down, turning to mush as the sprinklers hit it. Egon’s stream raked across the air vent, driving the ghost back. The pounding on the outer door was beginning to grow violent and Venkman considered blowing the doors off. Let the turkeys see what we’re up against. No, they’d just take it wrong if I fried the manager by mistake. He fired, driving the ghost back toward the ceiling as Stantz’s beam went wide, exploding the liquor cabinet.
“Ray, on the ball. You gotta catch it.”
This time Stantz’s markmanship was accurate and they held it where the chandelier had been, tightly boxed in a grid of flowing energy. “Make it quick,” Stantz cried. “Almost out of charge on these packs.”
“Ready, Egon?”
Spengler hit his belt release and the trap fell to the floor. “Alternately shorten your streams. Force it down.”
As they edged the vapor toward the waiting trap, it seemed to realize what was happening and erupted forth with a startling array of belches and gas, each worse than the last. The men recoiled in disgust but held their ground as clouds of the gas contacted the streams and erupted into flares of burning color. Egon poised his foot over the pedal control. “Lock it in, now!”
The streams suddenly separated and shortened, forming a cap over the vapor. Stantz was yelling hysterically, like a kid on a roller coaster. Venkman was not so sure. His charge indicator warning light was winking. “Better get it, Egon. I’m outta juice here.”
Egon stamped down on the pedal, opening the trapdoors on the top. An inverted pyramid of glowing charged particles leapt toward the ceiling, cold light that streamed back toward itself even as it exploded outward, pulling the vapor down and in with a thunderous roar like a thousand locomotives. The spring-loaded doors snapped shut and everything was silent, excepting the last poots of energy on Ray’s pack as the charge gave out. He switched it off and they stared in awe at the trap, sitting silently in the middle of the floor, a curl of smoke rising from it. Egon tiptoed forward and checked the valence indicator.
“It’s in there,” he confirmed reverently. “My God, we did it. We trapped a ghost.”
Venkman picked up a severely damaged champagne bottle. “That calls for a drink,” he said, pouring the remaining bubbly over his head. He looked around at the ballroom, wondering if the hotel’s insurance company would consider it an act of God. Come to think of it, the very basis of insurance coverage would probably be changed by what they had done tonight.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Stantz said happily, pulling off his visor. Venkman turned on him.
“Are you kidding? Look at this mess. We almost got killed. It was about as easy as trying to push smoke into a bottle with a baseball bat, but—”
He looked at Stantz, then at Spengler. They were staring at him, waiting for his next word, his instructions, and he realized that, like it or not, he was in charge. For better or worse, he now commanded the Ghostbusters. He looked about him, watching the water puddling on the floor from the sprinklers, the burning tables, the ectoplasm-smeared chandelier imbedded in the oak flooring. Venkman’s Wrecking Crew. Well, it was their first time and they did catch the ghost.
“This was a bit rough, and we had a few technical surprises,” he said, with a sharp look at Egon, who blanched and shrugged, “but it’ll get easier. We just have to work out our tactics. Wanna grab that trap, Ray?”
* * *
The manager, the assistant manager, the maintainance man, the locksmith, and a flock of Japanese tourists fell back in panic as Venkman pushed open the doors. He raised his hands and announced, “We came, we saw, we kicked its butt!”
Shupp tore his eyes away from the destroyed banquet hall. “What was it? What did you do?”
“We got it,” Stantz called proudly, holding up the smoking trap. The vapor, in irritation, threw itself against the walls of its polarized prison, sending little displays of static lightning over the surface of the box. The tourists backed off, cameras clicking wildly.
“What was it? Will there be any more of them?”
“Sir, what you had there was what we refer to as a focused, nonterminal, repeating phantasm, or a class-five full-roaming vapor… a real nasty one too.”
Venkman tore the customer copy of the bill from his clipboard and handed it to the manager. “That’ll be four thousand for the entrapment, plus one thousand for proton recharge and storage.”
Shupp seemed more terrified of the bill than he had been of the original ghost. “Five thousand dollars! I had no idea it would be so much. I won’t pay it.”
Vankman shrugged. “Fine. We’ll let it go again. Ray…”
“No, no. All right. Anything, just leave.”
Well, Venkman thought. Gratitude, so to speak.
* * *
On the street there was a new surprise. Someone had tipped off New York’s tireless press corps and a horde of people had converged on the scene. Uniformed police were struggling to keep them back from the Ectomobile. As the Ghostbusters emerged, covered in strange clothing, weapons, ectoplasm, and soot, the crowd broke into applause. Spengler nudged Venkman. “You’re in charge. You deal with them.”
“Okay, Egon, but watch how I do this because we’re all gonna have to know how.” The reporters surged forward.
“Nate Cohen, with the Post. What happened in there?”
“Dave McNary, INS. Did you really see a ghost?”
“Did you catch it?”
“Beverly Rose, Omni. Is this some sort of publicity stunt?”
Before Venkman could answer, Stantz pushed his way through and held up the smoking trap. Weak static charges played over the surface. The vapor was tiring out.
“We got one,” Stantz cried jubilantly. Flashbulbs and strobes went off, and a minicam crew fought its way forward.
“Can we see it?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Venkman leaned forward and raised his hands, and a brace of microphones was shoved into his face. “This is not a sideshow. We are serious scientists.”
“What proof do you have that what you saw was real?” the woman from Omni called.
“Proof? Well, the manager of the Sedgewick just paid us five big ones to get something out of there.” He wiggled the trap. “Is that proof enough for you?”
“Are you saying that ghosts really exist?”
“Not only do they exist,” Venkman replied, “but they’re all over the place! And that’s why we’re offering this vitally important service to people in the entire tristate area. We’re available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We have the tools and we have the talent. No job is too small, no fee too big. We’re ready for anything…”
* * *
Spengler, confused by all the noise, had slipped away and was hanging back at the edge, eating a Baby Ruth he had shagged off the hotel newsstand. Let Venkman handle the reporters. I’ve got to figure out a way to safety-interlock that problem of stream length before someone gets hurt.
“Mister. Hey, Mister! Come here, over here, Mister!”
Spengler peered into the darkness. Hanging over a police sawhorse was a young man dressed in a black canvas jumpsuit and chains, a red bandana tying back his chartreuse hair.
“Me?”
“That’s right. Come here.”
Spengler had never seen anything quite like him, and wandered over to study the apparition. “Who are you?”
“They call me Mister Dave, man. You a Ghostbuster? Wha’s your name?”
Egon pointed to his name, embroidered large on his chest, unaware that part of it had been obscured by flying ectoplasm.
“Okay, Spen’le. Lemme see that gun, man.”
“They’re not guns. They’re charged particle throwers.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mister Dave whispered. “I know. I just wanna see ’em.”
“I couldn’t do that. You might hurt someone.”
Spengler turned to go, but the youth lunged across the barricade and caught his sleeve. “Wait, wait! Let me ask you something. If you like shot Superman with one of those guns, would he feel it or what?”
Spengler considered. “On Earth, no—but on Krypton we could slice him up like Oscar Mayer bologna.”
“Wow! Hey, thanks, Spen’le. You okay.”
“Egon, get back here.”
Spengler wandered back to where Stantz and Venkman had just finished singing the theme song from their commercial. The reporters were eating it up. “Get over here, Egon, they want a group picture.” Spengler stepped between the two; they closed ranks tightly around him, and the flashguns went off. We did it, he thought as his vision faded into a white blur. We got one.