SLIME

by Sheila Paulson

Originally published in Of Dreams and Schemes 17

Prolog

I can't see.

Nothing, not a trace of light, no matter how hard I try. It's dark here, so dark it feels like there's never been any light at all. Never. Not since time began.

That sounds so weird and spooky, but that's exactly what it feels like. I can't see anything.

But maybe that's good.

Because I remember what I saw last. It was my fault, even if the ghost had already got me. I did it. I killed Egon. And now I'm trapped, here alone in the dark. I don't even know if the guys are searching for me. Maybe they don't want to find me after what I did. I didn't mean to. I'd never hurt Egon, but I couldn't help it. Guys, it was an accident. I didn't mean it.

Maybe they can carve that on Egon's tombstone. "Here lies Egon Spengler. 1956-1991. Killed by a friend. He didn't mean it."

Oh, gosh, Egon, I'm so sorry. If only I had another chance.... I'd do anything.

I couldn't even manage to call 911. Some friend. Blundering around in the dark, becoming lost. Nobody comes when I yell. And now it feels so weird and eerie that I don't want to yell. Maybe nobody will hear me but the ghost, and I can't fight the ghost alone, not when I can't see. I can't be a Ghostbuster if I can't see. I can't....

My face burns like crazy, and itches worse than poison ivy. It's all I can do not to scratch it till it bleeds. Was this what it was like for Peter when he went through it? He's sure a lot braver than I am.

Peter.

Does he hate me now because I killed Egon? Oh, Peter, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it.

I wonder if they'll come and find me. I wonder if they've even thought of searching yet. That last fading glimpse I had of Peter before the light was cut off.... So shocked that he resembled a robot, kneeling there, groping for a pulse.

"He's not breathing." There wasn't a scrap of feeling in Peter's voice when he said that, but my fading glimpse of his eyes showed his total desolation.

I killed Egon.

What's that creepy-crawly sensation on the back of my neck? Somebody's here. Somebody's watching me. Somebody who isn't talking, and I think that has to be bad.

"Who's there?"

No one answers.

Egon's dead. I can't see. And I'm no longer alone....

*****

Earlier that same day

Peter

"This could be extraordinarily bad"

Uh oh. When Egon starts talking like that it usually means major trouble. I watched him push his sliding glasses into place on the bridge of his nose and stare at us almost apologetically. Egon Spengler, Ghostbuster. Eager deliverer of bad news. You'd think he got a real charge out of it.

"Bad?" I readied myself on the balls of my feet, thrower in hand. What was it with Egon? Who had appointed him the team's doomsayer? "Bad how, Spengs? Tell us quick, because His Nastiness is about to make a return appearance." I hadn't really let the ghost out of my sight except for a couple of seconds when I'd reacted to Egon's words. I gestured skyward with the tip of the thrower. The Class Five we'd been chasing through Central Park had evaded our particle streams with the ease of a real pro, and had come way too close in the sliming department. The only reason it had missed so far was that there had been a lot of other tempting targets before the crowd ran like rabbits. That's why El Spook-o hadn't just spotted me and decided, 'Aha, a perfect target,' the way ghosts usually did. A gorgeous Sunday afternoon in September always drew crowds to the Park. Worse, a bust usually drew more of them, in the same mentality that would lure crowds down to a dock in hopes of witnessing an impending tidal wave or cause gawkers to slow down to stare as they drove past an accident. People were weird sometimes. But the ghost had a huge head and a mouth full of jagged teeth--little Petey Venkman's least favorite type of spook. One clear glimpse of that hungry mouth had driven the crowd into frantic retreat. You'd think they were about to be tagged for jury duty. I envied them the option. Fighting nasty entities with honking big teeth isn't exactly at the top of my list of favorite things to do.

"Don't let it slime you," Egon cautioned hastily as the grey entity dived for the four of us. "Blast it quickly."

Good advice. I shot one quick, disbelieving stare at Spengler as I took aim at Mister Teeth. "Let it slime us?" I echoed whimsically as I ducked the ghost's strafing run and sent a quick blast after it. "Surely you jest? Do you think I deliberately volunteer to be slimed?"

"It sure seems that way," called Ray, a big, happy grin spread across his face. You'd think he liked being slimed, but if he did, how come I was always the target of choice?

"Why not?" Winston automatically ignored my complaint and Ray's teasing in reply. You could always trust old Zed to stick to business. He angled a neat, conservative shot that almost snagged the zipping entity before it soared around in a tight circle to try again. Close, but no cigar. We'd zap him next time around.

"Yeah, Egon, what's wrong?" Ray pelted across the grass, sending hopeful bursts in the direction of the ghost. It was too fast, though, and we all missed. We'd have to pace him, grow used to his movements, anticipate them. Ghosts were usually predictable enough for us to find their rhythm and pin them down eventually. 'Course this gooper was taking a little longer than usual, and now Egon was ringing the doom-and-gloom bell.

"These readings are alarming." Egon had tucked the meter into the front of his jumpsuit, still activated, so it could warn him of the entity's motions and still leave his hands free for the proton rifle. Multi-tasking, that was one of Egon's gifts. "I suspect being touched by the slime would be bad."

There he went with the understatements again. With Egon, 'bad' could mean anything from a little inconvenience to the end of all life as we knew it, and you could never tell which one he meant from the tone of his voice. You could if you looked him right in the eye, but that wasn't an option now. We couldn't take our attention from the Fanged Menace long enough to check him out. "Uh, Egon, you wanna clarify that? Bad how?" I called.

"I suspect the slime contains properties which would be most unpleasant." Talk about stretching out the suspense. Of course we had to keep ducking and firing during the explanation, but I was starting to become a little impatient.

So was Winston. "Define unpleasant." He whirled as the ghost soared past him. He never let ghosts get the drop on him if he could help it. That combat experience from 'Nam kept him on his toes.

Ray just kept on firing like a guy shooting targets in a carney. Hated to tell him but he wouldn't win the stuffed bunny if he snagged ol' Teeth. You have to watch Ray when he's that caught up in a bust. He's one of those guys who runs toward danger instead of away from it.

"Don't let him get too far ahead of us," I warned, and we charged after Ray without turning our backs on the Class Five. The four of us bunched together automatically, back to back, facing outward, so the ghost couldn't sneak up on us. "Go on about the slime, Egon," I urged him.

"I think it might cause a chemical reaction in the skin," Egon replied. "I believe it might react more adversely to you, Peter, due to your propensity for allergies."

"Okay, Egon, thanks. So I get slimed and I swell up like a balloon or come out in welts? Not the appearance I'm real eager to achieve. Or is it gonna be worse?" Go ahead, make my day.

"I fear welts might be the very least of it. Certainly skin irritations. I've never before detected readings like this from a simple Class Five. It's fortunate I've widened the range of the meter to detect a wider array of ghostly propert-- Look out! Blast it!" He fired wildly. Egon could become caught up in his readings, but this time around he hadn't let his eyes leave the ghost. A specter that could, at best, give you giant hickeys, wasn't my idea of fun. I couldn't help wondering if it had slimed anybody before we arrived. I risked one quick glance at the crowd. They'd withdrawn to what they considered a safe distance, and I thought was a sign of their total insanity, and shifted with each ghostly swoop. No evidence of allergic reaction in that quick scan.

The ghost put on a burst of speed and zipped past us, hissing like a big snake. It shot out one long, taloned hand and swatted at Ray, who dropped and rolled to avoid the touch.

"Ray!" I yelled. Hard to tell if Stantz had been hit or not. I shifted sideways to see. Those talons could slice and dice a guy with no trouble whatever. Ray scrambled to his hands and knees and pushed himself upward with a quick grin to let us know he was fine. With luck like that, he ought to buy lottery tickets regularly.

The ghost screeched to a halt in midair, zipped at me, and whacked me hard on the left arm. With a sickening sense of anticipation, I felt its lethal ectoplasm seeping through the sleeve of my jumpsuit as the ghost whooshed off at an angle, chortling to itself. What the heck? Was it a case of 'tag, you're it'? I was 'it' all right. My skin crawled uncomfortably where the slime touched. This was not good at all. I don't know how much of it was anticipation and how much was Egon's promised 'badness', but it started to itch right away. Dry slime could itch a little--drove a guy nuts, which is why I was always in line for the first shower when we came home from a messy bust. That was an irritation and this was--I don't even want to think what it was. I could practically feel the welts coming up. My pulse raced. I hovered there unmoving, waiting to see if it was going to close up my larynx and keep me from breathing, but that didn't happen. At least not yet....

"Peter!" Ray fired a blast at full streams. The toothy character caught the tail end of the stream and screeched in horror at the first bite of particle energy. It cast a hotly reproachful glare at Ray, as if he'd just broken the rules of whatever weird game it had been playing. With insulting ease, it shook itself free of the glittering stream and soared straight upward, higher and higher, like a miniature rocket. Fighting not to scratch and expose my other hand to the slime from hell, I watched it fatalistically as it shot upward, growing smaller and smaller until it vanished from sight. Egon's meter produced a faint, half-stutter of a beep, then it fell disappointedly silent and the antennae lowered.

Egon ignored it. He took two quick, purposeful steps to me and caught my wrist so he could examine the affected arm. Ray and Winston crowded in to see, although both of them darted quick glances around to watch out for the ghost's return. Last thing I wanted was for any of them to be slimed. Nasty little ectoplasmic cocktail. God, it itched.

"Careful, Spengs," I warned, although I didn't have any slime where Egon touched me. I could tell that without even checking because the rest of my forearm already tingled and twinged like fury. I grimaced at the crawling-ant sensation. Was it spreading? "To quote the esteemed Spengler, I think this is bad." I wasn't dizzy. My blood pressure hadn't dropped. It seemed like all the symptoms were on the surface, which was good. I knew my pulse was too fast, but that might be only panic or anticipation. I didn't want to go into anaphylactic shock. Been there, done that, had the snapshots to prove it.

"Quick. We must wash it off." Egon glanced around. We weren't far from the Reservoir. "Over to the water, Peter. Take off your jumpsuit. Hurry." From the urgency in his voice, he was remembering my bee sting experience and determined to avoid a repeat. We were a long way from Ecto. I kept epinephrine there, since I was definitely allergic to bee stings and I'd once had a bad reaction. These symptoms were a lot milder, but we all knew that repeat exposure was sure to make it worse.

Winston popped the releases to free the straps of my proton pack. When Egon had designed those safety buttons, he'd come up with a great idea. Saved us a lot of time when somebody was hurt on a bust. Winston scooped up the pack and bent to grab the straps while Ray yanked the zipper of my jumpsuit down. While Egon stood guard with the meter in case Mister Teeth decided on a return engagement, they undressed me as if I were a little kid, careful not to touch the saturated sleeve, and flung the affected coverall down on the path beside the water. "I'll want to study it," Egon said without sparing it a second glance. "Winston, you watch it. Don't let anyone snatch it for a souvenir. Keep an eye out for the ghost, too, although my meter should alert us if it returns. Peter? How does your arm feel?"

"Like it's chow time for a whole colony of fire ants," I admitted. Already, blotchy red welts were forming. I wanted to go at them with my fingernails and dig in hard. Anything to ease the itching. Except that then my other hand would itch, too. I gritted my teeth and practiced will-power while I ran through the list of symptoms in my mind.

"Quickly, wash it off. That should ease the worst of it." Egon's eyes monitored me. He'd probably been mentally checking the symptom list, too. That was Egon, always on the job. At least my breathing still seemed okay. So far so good--if you could call the way my arm felt right now 'good'.

I flung myself down at the water's edge and plunged my arm in nearly to the shoulder. Ahhh. Yeah, that was the ticket. Energetically I sloshed it around and felt the worst of the burning ease, although I could tell the ectoplasm had already done enough of its dirty work that water wouldn't cure it.

Ray knelt beside me and used the water to scrub at the lingering slime. I tried to jerk away. "Are you nuts, Ray? You'll catch it, too. I wouldn't wish the way my arm feels on Walter Peck, let alone my buddies. Well, maybe Walter Peck...."

"Don't touch it, Ray," Egon warned.

"It's okay, the water's helping," Ray returned automatically. He didn't stop his underwater scrubbing. What a pal. I hoped the water would dilute the goop enough to spare him. "Does that feel better, Peter?"

"Well, yeah, a little," I admitted cautiously. Removing the slime and the coolness of the water did help. It simply didn't do the whole job. I rolled my eyes at Egon. "What is this stuff, anyway, Spengs? There aren't gonna be more ghosts with slime like this, are there?"

His eyes were filled with worry for me, but his brain was going a mile a minute the way it always did. I was glad of both. "Since we have never encountered a ghost with such potent slime before, I truly hope it is an unusual occurrence, but I have programmed the readings into the meter so that any ghosts in future with similar slime can be detected instantly."

"Any ghosts with similar slime?" I craned his neck to stare up at Egon in disbelief. "Are you saying it could be the wave of the future?" My voice rose to an unhappy screech. My arm itched and throbbed, and it didn't exactly make me Mister Objective.

"Think it's not just that one ghost then?" Winston asked practically from his sentry post on the path. Beyond him, the crowd bunched closer, goggle-eyed. They might not know what was going on, but Ghostbusters didn't usually stick their arms in the water after an unsuccessful bust. They were probably composing the stories they'd call in to the National Enquirer. I could imagine my picture on the front page, arm in the water, butt in the air. How many of our 'fans' had cameras? Not exactly the suave, debonair image I liked to project to the world.

Egon didn't notice the crowd at all. A focused guy. He frowned over the output on the meter screen. "It might be that there has been a shift of the properties of ectoplasm, or that a doorway between our realm and that of this new ghost has opened. Or it's simply an abnormality," Egon concluded.

I sloshed my arm to and fro in the water. "So we might end up hip deep in ghosts with slime that can take the skin right off of a person? I don't like this, Egon."

"Nor do I, Peter." I think we had best proceed to the nearest emergency room so you can be treated. You are the last of us I would choose to be exposed to such ectoplasm."

"Yeah, I don't like it much myself, though I wouldn't wish it on you guys, either." Was the itching starting to spread? I yanked my arm out of the water and moved a few feet along the shore before I plunged it in again. Didn't help to continue to expose myself to the stuff, even diluted by the water. Ray trailed me, fussing the whole way, and Egon shifted with us, while Winston stood guard over my abandoned jumpsuit.

I hated hospitals, but maybe Egon had a point. If there was a chance that more than one ghost had such potent slime, doctors needed to know about it as soon as possible in case people started breaking out in hives from it like I had. Besides, I needed to know if it would keep getting worse. Maybe the doctor had a nifty miracle cure. I raised my voice. "Was anybody but me slimed?"

The crowd shifted and muttered to themselves, but nobody admitted a problem. Some people just stood and watched when the ghost's attention was engaged by the Ghostbusters. Others became caught up in an exciting bust and got in the way. We often found ourselves tripping over some eager groupie who wanted to be in the thick of the bust. Maybe when they found out about the slime that took affected them like poison ivy, they'd give us space.

Egon knelt beside me and took another reading. "I think you've removed the contaminant now, Peter. Your biorhythms are stable. Let's see your arm."

I pulled it out of the water. From just above the wrist to just over the elbow, it had broken out in red, patchy welts. Fast-acting stuff. They itched. I could have sworn they had grown, but now that the gooey stuff had been washed off, the rate of proliferation seemed to have eased. Good. Welts like that on my face would probably ruin my chance for a date. People would avoid me like the plague--or as if they thought I had the plague.

"I think we'd better take you straight to the ER, Pete," Winston called from his position on the path. "That looks more like an allergic reaction than just a simple skin irritation. You breathing okay?"

I took a cautious breath. Still okay in that department. "Yeah," I said. "I think so. What about you, Ray? You were touching it, too."

Ray held out his hands. He had very a slight redness there that hadn't puffed up any. "I didn't have real direct contact, though. My hand was already in the water when I touched it. I don't know if it took you worse because you have a tendency to allergies already, or if it didn't affect me because I had a diluted exposure."

"Well, it itches. I vote we zap that ghost the second we see it again." I craned my neck and studied the sky. My arm took so much of my attention I'd nearly forgotten the ghost. Good thing my buddies were alert. "Where is it, anyway?"

Winston waved a hand at the hazy morning sky. "It took off. Straight up out of sight."

"The readings indicate it is gone," Egon confirmed. "I've been monitoring for its return, but we've seen the last of it."

"For now," I muttered darkly. I didn't think we'd finished with Mister Teeth. When I was finished with him, he'd be stuck in the containment unit for eternity, and I planned to have the pleasure of slamming him in there myself.

"We better put the word out, send a description of the ghost to the TV stations," suggested Ray. "I'll give 'em a call on the mobile phone in Ecto and let them know that people should watch out for this one and call us if they see it."

I groaned. "Just great. If they see a spook or specter even remotely like it, they're gonna call us by the dozens. We'll be all over town chasing ghosts who are the same color or the same size and otherwise nothing like the Slime Devil. This won't be fun."

*****

Ray

"Well, Peter?" Egon asked when Venkman returned to the ER waiting room to join us. He'd been in there long enough to make us to start to worry. "What did the doctor say?"

"That I have to go on steroids," Peter said with a groan. "I already had a steroid IV thingie in there. And now I have to take a six days' treatment of the stuff." He displayed a little case. "A prednisone burst. Worse," he added reluctantly, probably knowing from past experience that Egon would ride him unmercifully if he concealed a serious medical problem, "the doctor says that since my reaction was so quick this time a second exposure could be a whole lot worse."

"Worse how?" I stared at him apprehensively. "You mean like anaphylactic shock?" I had a bad feeling about this. Mostly, Peter's propensity for allergies showed up in his hay fever, although he was also allergic to bee stings. The hay fever hadn't been bad so far this fall; he hadn't taken his antihistamines lately, had he? Would that make a difference?

Peter's head bobbed. "Yep. I hafta carry an epi pen, just in case, till we bust the stupid entity." He grimaced. "Do I have a big target on my backside, or what?"

I walked around behind him to check. "Nope, not a target in sight."

"Cute, Stantz. Your uncle who left you the joke shop because he said you had a crummy sense of humor was right on the money." He displayed his arm. "Mostly it's just here. Doc says washing it off so quick was the right thing to do."

"I bet it itches, though," put in Winston sympathetically.

Peter frowned like he was trying to think of anything but the constant, irritating tingle he must be feeling. "No fair, Winston, you had to remind me."

I couldn't help wincing at the sight of the big welts on Peter's forearm. My own hands were already easing; they hadn't puffed up at all, but they itched mildly, even from the underwater contact. I had seen one of the ER doctors, too, although my visit had been a lot shorter than Peter's, and he'd said I hadn't needed any medication, though I might if I were slimed again. He'd applied a little anti-itch cream in the examining room, and it had tamed it right down. "The doctor said repeat exposure would be bad for the rest of us, too," I agreed. "He thinks it could be progressive." I spread out my hands. "See, I'm okay."

"If the ghost comes again," Winston decided, "you hang back entirely, Pete. Egon and I will be the first line of defense. You'll take it carefully, too, Ray, since you received a mild exposure. It's slime, not a normal allergen. It might not follow the usual rules."

"Precisely," Egon replied. He caught hold of Peter's unaffected arm and studied him sternly. Egon does that when he's worried; you'd think he's all business, but he's not, inside. "We don't want you to be affected again. Even if you dose yourself with epinephrine, Peter, the results are certain to be unpleasant. It might be better for you to wait in Ecto if we meet up with it again. It's a Class Five, after all, and three of us can easily bust a Class Five. We busted Slimer on our first case, after all."

Peter grinned reminiscently. "Yeah, and that was so easy."

"That's because we didn't know what we were doing," I reminded him earnestly. "The chandelier was my fault." I grinned faintly. In spite of the mass destruction, that bust had been fun. That was when I realized how much I was going to love being a Ghostbuster. "The guys are right, Peter. You sit it out when we meet the ghost again." I knew it might not be possible. Busts were awfully fluid, with everybody running in all directions at once. Egon had once programmed a gadget like a pedometer to wear strapped to his ankle on a bust and used it to trace a pattern of his motions. When we returned to the firehouse he plugged it into a computer program he'd designed. The path it had printed out had turned out more complex than the worst labyrinth, with many crossings and turnings, and that was just the movement of one of the Ghostbusters.

"So we have to be careful when it comes back," I reminded him. I wasn't even thinking about my own potential for reaction. I never got slimed as much as Peter did, anyway. Egon had once suggested he had slime-attracting pheremones, an idea that Peter had greeted with horror.

"And hope he doesn't have brothers and cousins," Peter agreed. Uh oh. I felt a niggle of alarm. What if the ghost was the first of a whole new brand of spooks and specters? Egon and I would have to design a protective element into our jumpsuits to make them impervious to slime. Special gloves, even protective headgear like beekeepers wore. It would be great! I couldn't help grinning at the image. And wouldn't Peter just hate being all covered up so that the TV cameras couldn't pull a close-up of him on a dangerous bust?

"Did the doctor instruct you to take time off, Peter?" Egon asked. I figured I would recruit Egon when they returned to the firehall to see what we could come up with in the line of protective covering. Maybe even a chemical solution to soak our uniforms in. Might be a good idea anyway, especially if it would keep our cleaning bills down.

Peter hesitated, and the urge to capitalize on his misfortune sprang to birth in his eyes. He really liked playing that game. You'd think he'd expect us to fuss over a hangnail. Egon and Winston always told me I could be a little soft on the issue, but I could be tough when I had to be.

"Couldn't persuade him to let me kick back and put my feet up," Peter admitted reluctantly. "You sure you got that meter programmed to detect this stuff?"

"You can be certain of that, Peter." Egon's expression was serious and dedicated and earnest, the look I always associate with him, then he made himself smile. "But remember, I can tell the difference. Any excuses to avoid normal slime will not be tolerated."

"Would I do that?" Peter struck a noble pose. When he did that, he usually just looked kind of silly, but none of us called him on it. The fact that he could die of the slime made all the difference.

*****

Peter

"You guys have to pay me more than this."

We arrived home from the hospital and piled out of Ecto to the sight of a frustrated Janine Melnitz frantically wielding the phone. All the extension lights blinked in unison, and the frazzled receptionist glared at us, her eyes glinting. I couldn't help grinning. She hated it when she couldn't keep up. A little teasing might be called for, though I had to watch it. When she was too stressed, she could practically draw blood.

"Everybody in the city is calling to say they're in danger from a ghost with poison slime. If you go out on all these calls, it'll be Christmas before you're done." Her eyes fell on me, and I could tell she'd decided it must be my fault. Gleefully, I rose to the occasion, only to be forestalled before I could fan the flames.

"The word went out on the news then?" Egon went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. Aha. Did I detect an interest there? I'm supposed to be the team's expert on the fairer sex, but Egon played it so close to the vest with Janine that you could never tell for sure. "I'm sorry, Janine. I didn't think the special bulletin would air before we returned to the firehall to explain."

"Slow news day." I pulled out the tube we'd picked up at the pharmacy on the way home and rubbed some more of the anti-itch cream on my arm. It felt so good when I first put the cream on, but then a little while later it was like I hadn't even done it. At least the itching hadn't spread. The welts seemed to be pretty much contained to my forearm. Just as well. There were a few favorite portions of my anatomy that I didn't want to feel the way my arm did.

Janine's eyes followed my gesture and her eyebrows lifted. "What the heck happened to you?" she asked suspiciously, just like she was sure I'd been slimed on purpose.

"You said it, Janine. Poison slime. I'm just a martyr to duty here, sacrificing myself in the name of humanity."

She measured the welts with her eyes. "Oh yeah, that looks like a real biggie. Some kind of killer rash. I'm really upset for you."

Egon yanked his hands away from Janine's shoulders and frowned at her. He didn't usually stand in the way of my verbal spats with Janine. I think he actually enjoyed them, although he wouldn't admit it, and he never took sides. He was taking them now. "A repeat exposure could kill him, Janine. People with propensities to allergies could find themselves in severe danger from the ghost. Did you take a proper description with each call? We must weed them out. We can't waste time right now on other ghosts. We washed Peter's arm off immediately. Someone who didn't know better might not be so quick."

"Could kill him?" Janine repeated in a smaller voice. She was always quick to pick on me, but never when the chips were down. She could be a real sweetie when I was really in trouble, although she'd ride me more afterwards to make up for her lapse. She caught herself immediately. "Well, you finally got what you wanted, Doctor V, a chance to hang back and let somebody else be slimed for a change."

I felt my mouth tighten. Hard to maintain perspective when my arm was blaring misery at me. "Yeah, right, Janine. The doctor said it could have a cumulative effect. Check out Ray's hands. I don't want any of the other guys to go through this. A few welts--well, yeah, that'd be nice for Walter Peck or some other sweetie like him, but major allergic reactions and anaphylactic shock? No way."

Ray put his hands behind his back. "I'm okay, Peter. I don't have any allergies. I think it'd just be like poison ivy, nasty but not fatal, for the rest of us. We'll stop the ghost. Let's see the call orders, Janine. The sooner we bust it the better."

He and Egon shuffled through the sheets. Mostly when she took calls, Janine wrote down the address and a one or two word description, so they sorted them quickly. Any that didn't fit the description of a spindly grey gooper with a big head and a mouth like a dentist's nightmare was set aside for later.

"Some of these are old enough that the ghost may have moved on," Egon said after a quick check. "Peter, I want you to suit up again, just in case. We'll take you on the bust, but we'll be more careful than usual. I want you to carry that epi pen with you in case we spot the entity."

"We have to catch it quick," Ray insisted. "Maybe we should just go out in Ecto and be ready if a call comes through. Head up toward Central Park again, in case that's its usual stomping ground."

"I think must have entered our realm recently," Egon disagreed. "We'd have had reports if it had slimed anyone else and caused results like Peter's. What alarms me is that the news reports produced such an instantaneous response. I'm afraid we've created a panic. Anyone who has an encounter with a ghost, even a harmless one, will race to the emergency room or call 911. We have to bust this one quickly before we overwork the hospitals and the paramedics. The city will expect us to."

"Yeah, and I have to say I agree with the city this time," I chimed in. "The sooner the better." I took out a clean jumpsuit. With the air of a martyr for humanity, I pulled it on and zipped it up. Oh, goody. The fabric scratched against my arm in the worst possible way. This wouldn't be fun. We had to grab the ghost fast, and then I planned to the rest of the day off, and maybe tomorrow. I could curl up beside the bathtub and let my arm soak....

"What about Scotchguard?" Janine suggested. "You know, spray your uniforms with it. Maybe that would help."

"An excellent suggestion, Janine." Egon must have forgiven her for riding me earlier. Or maybe he just appreciated a possible solution, even though it was sure to be incomplete. We could hardly Scotchguard our faces and hands. "Will you handle that?"

She mumbled something about spraying us not being in her job description, but she went away to fetch the spray can.

****

Winston

"So the ghost's hiding out in a basement now?" I asked without enthusiasm as I stared down a long, narrow flight of stairs into a darkness only barely eased by several unshaded bulbs that hung from the ceiling. We'd spent the better part of the afternoon checking out the calls Janine and Ray had decided might conceivably be Mister Teeth, as Peter had so colorfully named our gooper. So far, we'd come close to it only once not that far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We'd no sooner screeched to a stop on Fifth Avenue when it had spotted Ecto, hissed in fury, and zipped away high in the sky toward Midtown. So we'd headed south, alert to possible sightings, until a new call came through, just south of Delancey Street. We headed there with the siren wailing--Ray loves it when we use the siren, and Pete enjoys the attention--and arrived at a block of slightly seedy apartment buildings and offices, where a burly, balding man in an undershirt and a pair of jeans belted well below a huge beer, gut flagged us down. He bounced impatiently as we put on our packs and then led us into the lobby. The ghost might have tried to hide since it knew it was pursued. I hoped it wouldn't be harder to trap it inside. Egon's meter confirmed that it was nearby.

Our client introduced himself as Fred McElroy, the superintendent of the block of buildings. "It went down there." He stabbed his finger at a flight of stairs. "The basement's a big, partly open area that runs under all the buildings in this block. The same landlord owns them all, and they were built to open into each other. The apartments used to be a warehouse area that was converted right before the Depression." He threw a nervous glance down the stairs and scratched the bald spot on top of his head. I could tell he wanted out in the worst way.

"Lots of nice places for it to hide and jump out at us," Peter groaned. "You saw it?"

McElroy nodded. "Yeah, and it was just like that artist's rendition on the news." The super was one of those guys who didn't have a shred of imagination. Probably wouldn't panic if he saw any ghost at all--unless he knew it could hurt him. "Great big head, huge teeth." He shuddered elaborately, the way he might if a rat had jumped out of a garbage pail at him. "I just stepped aside double quick and let it go. Figured I didn't want to have an allergic reaction if I could help it. I've got asthma."

"Very wise, sir," Egon agreed with absent-minded politeness. He fussed over the meter, although it had been practically glued to his hand all afternoon. "My readings match the ones we took in the park earlier. I suggest you remove yourself from the area, sir, until we trap it."

"Yeah, you called that one. I'll be over at Flannery's." McElroy gestured out the open door toward the bar across the street and headed over there in a great rush. Didn't surprise me. You wouldn't see my dust, either, if I had to encounter a nasty ghost when I wasn't armed and used to it. I didn't want to even think about my first bust. Some things are better forgotten.

Egon led the way down the stairs, the meter thrust out before him like a knight with a sword. "It's here," he said over his shoulder. "We might have a better chance to trap it in an enclosed place. Peter, you stay to the rear and make sure one of us is between you and the ghost at all times."

Peter grimaced. "That's gonna look good in the press," he muttered. He wasn't one for hanging back where it was safe, never had been. Usually he charged into danger to make sure Egon didn't forget about everything but the readings, and Ray didn't let his native exuberance lead him into trouble. Between the two of us, keeping the two science-types safe was a full-time job, but Pete could get carried away, too, if he thought any of us were in danger. He'd throw himself into the thick of the bust without a moment's hesitation to protect us, and then later claim he'd done it for the publicity. Be careful, Zed, I told myself. Somebody has to keep a level head here.

With a sympathetic pat to Peter's shoulder, I passed him and hurried down after Egon. Ray came third, so hot on my heels he'd be around me, ready to charge into the fray, the second we were down. I could practically taste Peter's frustrated vibes as he hurried after us with his thrower drawn. We're sure not in the right frame of mind for this bust.

The stairs led down a good two flights before they delivered us in the cellars. I nearly collided with Egon, who had stopped on the third step from the bottom. The place resembled a giant maze for running human-sized rats through--I hoped we wouldn't be the rats this time while the ghost ran us. A multitude of partition walls only rose to just above eye level. Some of them held abandoned and mildewy cartons and crates while others were empty of all but dust. I saw a washer and dryer in one of the near ones, with a load of laundry in a basket abandoned on a table. Concrete pillars at intervals supported the high ceiling. A few catwalks crossed the cubicles here and there, some of them with railings and some without. Lights hung suspended from frayed power cords that could probably short out at any second. Since they hung nearly to the tops of the walls, the corridors between the rooms were shadowy and indistinct. My dad's construction company would have collective heart failure over the state of the place. Even though Egon's meter beeped steadily, we couldn't see the ghost.

"Somebody get the number of the decorator," Peter caroled irrepressibly behind us. "He must never decorate again."

"Boy, this is gonna be tough. I never saw a place like this before," said Ray. "There are too many places for Mister Teeth to hide." I had to grin. We'd all adopted Pete's name for the gooper. "Which way, Egon?" Ray juggled his thrower, and I wondered if the exposure to the slime had made it tough for him to secure a good grip.

Egon gestured with the P.K.E. meter at the passage to the left, which quirked off again at an angle. "There. It isn't moving. I think it's down in the cubicles, where the light doesn't reach. If we can force it up into the open area, we'll have a clear shot."

"If it doesn't go right up through the ceiling." Peter kept that suggestion soft so he wouldn't be overheard. Some Class Fives didn't talk at all, and if this one had popped over from the Netherworld or some other weird, ghostly dimension, the odds were it would only understand the throwers. It was sure to remember the encounter in Central Park. Probably it was hot for revenge. I hoped it hadn't sent for a few cronies to help out.

Ray pulled the ecto-scopes over his eyes and surveyed the sprawling labyrinth through the specially polarized goggles. "You think this is where it came through?" I asked. After a minute, he gave a frustrated sigh and pushed them up on his forehead. "I don't see any unusual overlay."

"I'm reading no evidence of a cross-rip or any residual power to indicate that one opened here in the immediate past," Egon replied. "I think the ghost simply came to ground here. It's this way." Sternness touched his voice. "Peter, I don't want to have to remind you to stay in the background."

"'s okay, I've got my epi pen," Peter reassured us. "It's not like I want to go into anaphylactic shock. Besides," he added with a sudden, bright grin, "I'm Scotchguarded, remember? If this works, we'll see if we can convince the company to pay us major bucks to do a commercial. 'Scotchguard your clothes against the evils of slime. Recommended by the Ghostbusters.' How much do you think we'd make? I think fifty-thou would about cover it."

"We didn't protect our faces and hands," Ray reminded him. "Gosh, Peter, be careful."

"Yeah, I hardly want to crank our insurance rates up another notch. You watch it, too, Tex. We'll both play hands off this time around."

We set off in single file. Peter muttered another gripe about the dementia of the designer but, for the most part, he was quiet and wary. I wasn't used to him quiet. He usually breaks the tension for us on busts with a motormouth commentary. When I glanced over my shoulder at him, his hands were gripping his thrower so tightly his knuckles had whitened. Probably kept him from scratching.

The disaster happened so fast that, afterward, I was never quite sure of the actual sequence of events. Ray was in the lead, all gung ho and full of excitement. That's our Ray. Never really could get a handle on him, but I wouldn't have him any other way. He still had the scopes perched on his forehead when he swung around to make sure we were coming.

The second he turned, his eyes widened with horror. "Peter! Look out!" He lunged for the psychologist, tackled him around the waist, and flung him to the unforgiving concrete floor. Pete's breath went out in a pained whoosh and he sputtered unhappily, not quite winded. At the very moment Ray moved, the meter squealed with overload. Egon yelled a wordless warning and whirled, yanking up his proton rifle. A second later, the ghost sailed past, hissing and chortling, right through the spot where Pete had stood only seconds before. It must have circled around behind us. That baby was way too fast. When Egon and I fired, it eluded the streams with insulting ease, popped over the top of a partition with a rude noise that might have, in a human, been a catcall, and vanished. Wonderful. I could already tell this would not be my favorite bust.

"Thanks, Tex. You're now officially...in my will," Pete wheezed with a big grin. "Least, as...soon as I...catch my breath."

Ray bounced up eagerly and spun around to help Pete to his feet. He was reaching a hand down to Pete, whose breathing was already easing, when the ghost sailed over the partition and smacked Ray full in the face, right across the eyes. The ecto scopes went flying--but they had been on his forehead, not over his eyes. Ray gasped and choked and sputtered. God, what if he'd gotten it in his eyes? What if he'd swallowed some of it? Hastily, he rubbed his forearm across his face, but it only served to smear the grey ooze. The fabric didn't absorb it--a triumph for Scotchguard--but at least it cleared his eyes.

With a furious yell Peter bounded to his feet and sent off a quick burst at the ghost. Egon shouted, too, and fired once before the ghost dived over another partition and disappeared, but they both missed. I had a bad angle, so I went to Ray. I'd been designated official carrier of the canteen we'd brought along in case we needed to wash anybody off quick.

Ray let out a panicked yell. Had there been time for him to close his eyes? Could the nasty stuff actually blind him?

"Careful, Ray, don't open your eyes yet." I draped the canteen's cord over Ray's neck in preparation for cleaning him off but there wasn't time to open it before the ghost returned.

I wasn't sure if Ray could see, but he was the only one in the right place for a clear shot. He powered up and fired, his face already reddened, the skin around his eyes puffy and swelling. His fingers fumbled with the controls of his thrower and he muttered, "Full streams, full streams." He was squinting bad, but he could hear the ghost coming for him. Egon tried to fire, but he hit the partition instead. It sizzled and a portion of it exploded in a burst of smoldering splinters. At least we weren't close enough to get pincushioned.

"Get down, Ray!" screeched Pete and grabbed for his arm, just as Ray jumped to one side. Peter's scrambling fingers missed him by no more than half an inch. The ghost dove again and Ray fired at it as he moved. He caught his foot on a chunk of board from Egon's blast and flailed for balance.

His stream lashed out, brushed the ghost and caused it to hiss and screech as it worked free. The proton stream jerked, slid sideways in an attempt to track the ghost, and zapped Egon, just like a target at a shooting arcade. With a choked-off scream, Egon went down in a heap and didn't move.

"Egon!" Peter's agonized cry stabbed my heart. He flung himself down beside the fallen physicist so hard that the landing must have jarred every bone in his body. All color leached out of his face. He looked as bad as Egon did; Egon, who was lying there so still, his face practically wiped of color. Even his lips were pale.

He's dead. I know he's dead. "Stop firing, Ray," I yelled.

The thrower sizzled into silence and then clattered to the concrete floor as Ray let it slip from suddenly nerveless fingers. "I hit...." He squinted down at us fuzzily through his swollen lids, then horror ran across his blotchy face and he took an appalled step backward. "I hit Egon? Oh, god, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He retreated another step. I couldn't take the time to reassure him. Instead I knelt opposite Peter. Ray had muttered about full streams, for God's sake. Full streams! Sweet Jesus, full streams could disintegrate a man at the speed of light. No one could walk away from that. I know he's dead. My heart thudded in my chest like it wanted to come up my throat and jump out my mouth. God, this would kill us all. Peter's eyes were huge pits, so hollow they scared me. And poor Ray--God, he'd never forgive himself.

"Come on, Spengs, talk to me," Peter coaxed in a voice that held not one shred of emotion. He was practically in shock himself. He wouldn't have noticed the ghost if it swarmed over the partition and slimed him from head to toe. I cocked my head and listened for it, but I couldn't hear it. I hoped it didn't choose to return now. Better make sure your thrower's handy, Zeddemore.

Pete pressed his fingers up against Egon's neck to check for a pulse. His hand was shaking and he stilled it with a deliberate effort and found the right place. He held his breath, his mouth drawn rigid. For an instant, he relaxed; he must have felt the pulse. Thank God. Then his eyes widened so drastically I half expected his eyeballs to pop out. "God," he breathed, then he shot me a desperate, helpless glance. "He's not breathing."

"Rescue breathing, Pete," I urged. "Take his pack off, fast."

We tore the pack off with frantic fingers, shoved it aside, and lay Egon flat. Pete's breathing from his near-winding was under control again as he positioned Egon, checked the airway, pinched his nose and then closed his mouth over Egon's to breathe life into him. Egon didn't need CPR, not if his heart was beating, but I had to make sure it kept on beating, so I grabbed his wrist to monitor his pulse. Thrower backlash could be nasty, and Egon had taken a direct hit. What had Ray done when he'd messed with the controls on his thrower? He couldn't have hit Egon with full streams, not if his heart was beating. Had he turned the dial the wrong way? If not, I wasn't sure Egon stood a chance, even if Pete could start him breathing again.

"Ray, how did you set your thrower?" I called over my shoulder as Peter labored away at the mouth-to-mouth. My hand that wasn't around Egon's wrist stretched out and clasped Pete's shoulder, rising and falling as he moved. I doubted he even felt it, but I knew it was there.

"F-full streams," faltered Ray in the background. Pete flinched when he heard it. Ray drew a shuddering breath that was almost a sob. "Though we'd better...we weren't stopping it. Is he...?"

I tried to force reason into a situation that was too far beyond reason already. "No way that was full streams. If you'd hit him with full streams, you'd have neutronized--" Don't go there, Zeddemore.

Peter just kept breathing for Egon with utter singlemindedness. I didn't even try to attract his attention. Egon's life depended on the mouth-to-mouth. I knew Peter would switch places with Egon in a heartbeat. God, Pete was so torn up. I could feel his agony with each movement. The shoulder under my hand was as rigid as steel. Without glancing up, I continued, "I think you reversed it, Ray. Low power, not max. His heart's beating. I can feel his pulse under my fingers. Go call 911, Ray. Right now." When he didn't move, I raised my voice. "Ray! Go call 911! Now!"

"I...okay...." Ray blundered away, stricken. I had a bad feeling he hadn't registered my reassurance, but I couldn't risk calling him back to make sure--we needed paramedics now. The thrower banged against Ray's feet, and he yanked it up impatiently and slammed it home as if he couldn't stand to touch it.

"Wait, Ray?" I yelled after him. "The ghost's still here, remember? Can you see okay?"

"I'm fine, I have my thrower," Ray mumbled. He retreated still further. Was that the way to the stairs? I was half turned around in this crazy place, but I was sure Ray was headed the wrong way. "Hold it, Ray! It's over here." I nodded in what I thought was the right direction.

No response.

Shit. I can't be two places at once. I stared down at Peter who, oblivious to the exchange, kept on breathing for Egon. Even in the shadows of the passage, his face was nearly as white as milk and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Egon's pulse felt steady beneath my fingertips, but my own heart lurched at the sight of Peter's tormented expression. I didn't want to break contact with Pete--he needed the comfort of the touch--but we had a nasty ghost lurking. I gave him a squeeze before I let go.

"Just let me set my thrower, buddy."

He didn't acknowledge my words. I wasn't sure he even heard them. Quickly, I dialed my own thrower to full streams, then I took out my trap and positioned the trigger in easy reach, just in case. I corralled Egon's dropped P.K.E. meter, made sure it was working, and checked it out. No trace of the ghost, at least not close by. I cranked the volume up so we'd have advance warning. Prepared as I could be for new disaster, I reclaimed the lax wrist to monitor Egon's heartbeat. Thank God it was still there.

Like an automaton, Peter gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. How long had it been? One minute? Two? He'd started right away, and Egon's heart was still beating, felt pretty good, too. How long would it take the paramedics to arrive?

"I saw it leave. You didn't catch it."

Pete didn't even react to the clatter of the super's feet or the suddenness of his accusing words. He was off in another realm where all that mattered was the need to blow air into Egon's lungs. When McElroy saw what was going on, he jerked to a halt, shocked and momentarily speechless. He watched Peter for a minute then he blurted, "What the hell happened?"

"Accident with the thrower," I replied shortly. "Go make sure Ray called 911, will you? We need paramedics now."

"I didn't see him out there," the guy replied. Self-importantly, he whipped out a cellular phone as if he couldn't wait to show off his new technological toy, flipped it open, and punched in the three numbers. "Can't hurt to call again. He dead?"

Pete heard that. He jerked like he'd been slammed with a cattle prod, flung one hot, resentful glare at the super as he caught his breath, and bent again to his task. I reached out and patted him on the shoulder. He didn't welcome the touch. I think he felt it, but I couldn't be sure.Hang in there, Egon. Breathe!

McElroy babbled an urgent request for assistance into the cellular phone and gabbled out the address. "Yeah, they're giving him mouth-to-mouth so you better hurry," he urged. "It's an emergency. It's a Ghostbuster. Hurry." He kept the phone out. "They said to stay on the line. They want to know if there's a heartbeat."

I snatched the cell phone from him and relayed what I knew to the dispatcher. Pete didn't even notice when I let him go. "It's a little like electric shock," I explained and gave a brief description of the throwers and the information Egon had drilled into us about thrower accidents. "It's a little like what can happen with a lightning strike; even if the heart stops, it can start up again before the breathing. But Egon's heart didn't stop, just his breathing, and Pete's doing mouth-to-mouth right now. We don't get the lower or upper extremity paralysis that can come with a lightning strike, and if we're lucky, we don't have any burns. Egon doesn't have any obvious ones. He was zapped at low power. It unbalances the electrolytes, but that can be fixed. Relay that to the paramedics so they'll know what to expect." I described a couple of other incidents of thrower backlash, so they'd have all the information needed, and then they told me to hang on the line while they relayed it and not to break the connection. The paramedics would do that when they arrived.

About ten seconds later, Egon gasped, choked, and jerked convulsively as he started breathing on his own. The pulse beneath my fingers never faltered. I relayed the information to the dispatcher, who reassure me that the paramedics were only five minutes out from our location. I gave directions how to find us when they arrived.

Pete sat on his heels and yanked breath into his lungs as hard as he could. Nearly made him black out. I never saw the poor guy so stressed. The hope that flooded his face was as wary and timid as a baby deer.

"Egon?" he faltered. "Egon, you breathe, do you hear me? You keep breathing." He grabbed Egon's other hand and clasped it tight in both of his own. "Hang in there, Spengs, you're gonna be fine."

Pete and I watched each new inhalation and exhalation as if they were miracles. A tear spilled over and trickled down Peter's cheek, and he didn't even notice it. I went around beside him and slung my arm around his shoulders, and we sat there together, watching Egon breathe. I felt for the pulse in Egon's neck. Figured I had better monitor it until the EMTs arrived.

"It wasn't full streams, Pete," I explained. "Ray's eyes were puffy from the slime reaction and he reversed it."

Peter's muscles tightened under my arm. God, did he blame Ray for what had happened? It was an accident, and Ray was sure to be torn up about it. Poor guy, he'd sounded so freaked when he realized what he'd done. I wondered where he had gone. Egon needed him. He should have made for the nearest phone.

I wasn't sure how well he could see. What if he'd taken the wrong turn? What if he was lost down here? What if he couldn't find a phone--or even the way out?

I hesitated. I needed to find Ray, but I couldn't leave Peter alone at a time like this, either. "Pete?"

He didn't lift his head. I don't think anything short of a nuclear detonation could have torn his gaze from Egon. God, it had been too close. He moved his head to acknowledge the question.

"It was an accident."

"I know. But--god, he could have died." His voice was shaky and uncertain and full of emotions he usually kept deeply buried inside. "I know it's not Ray's fault. I know what the stupid slime can do. But...." He tightened his grip around Egon's hand and raised it to hold it against his chest. "If he'd died...."

"He didn't die, Pete," I said quickly. "He's breathing just fine, his color's better, and his heart's beating strongly. Egon would never blame Ray. And you know better than anybody what that slime feels like. Imagine if you got it in your eyes."

Pete flinched. I wasn't sure he could see past the urgency of what had happened to Egon, but for all his smart mouth, Pete's one of the most empathetic men I've ever known. He muttered, "God," under his breath, almost too softly to hear. His emotions were stretched too thin. If he had one more crisis dumped on him, they'd snap, and he'd shatter into a zillion pieces. I tightened my grip around his shoulders. I wasn't that far from snapping myself.

"We'll find him," I said. "Egon's gonna be fine, and he'll never blame Ray for this, any more than you will. The meter says Mister Teeth is gone. McElroy knows this place inside out, so I'm gonna send him to search for Ray. He's probably out waiting for the paramedics right now if he didn't get all turned around down here." I didn't bother to ask the dispatcher about another call. I sat there, one arm around Pete's shoulders, my other shoulder hunched to hold McElroy's phone to my ear, my fingers against Egon's neck. I'd probably be stiff later but who cared?

"Yo, McElroy?" I called.

The super hovered uneasily. I wasn't sure if he were afraid the ghost would return, worried that we'd sue him because Egon was down on his property, or afraid to move more than a foot or two away from his precious cell phone. Didn't matter, because he was going to have to.

"Yeah?"

"Ray was slimed in the eyes, and I'm not sure he can see clearly." Better not remind Pete that he might not be able to see at all. Or voice the thought that had kept niggling me even though I tried to ignore it--that any possible blindness might be permanent. Pete had enough to worry about. "We sent him to call 911, but he might have become turned around down here. The ghost's gone, so it's safe. Will you track him down for us? I'll hold your phone for you and give it back when the paramedics show up. He went that way." I lifted my hand from Pete's shoulder just long enough to point.

He didn't want to go. But I hadn't made it a request. The left side of his mouth twisted up in an expressive grimace, and he hitched at his protuberant belly before he nodded. "Yeah, okay. But that phone cost me major bucks, so treat it well."

"Right now all that matters is that it connects me to people who can help Egon."

Pete didn't raise his head. He hadn't stopped watching Egon for a split second. "Go find Ray," he gritted out and there was such menace in the tone that McElroy nodded automatically and whirled. I listened to his lumbering footsteps until the sound vanished to be replaced by the faint wail of an approaching siren.

"You okay, Pete?"

He shuddered. "I...forgot about the itch," he said inanely as if it took a real effort just to think. Now that Egon was breathing again and he could relax, he was on the verge of falling apart. I didn't call him on it. He had the right.

"You did what needed doing," I said. "Egon's gonna be fine, thanks to you." Egon was breathing strongly and even shifting restlessly. Had to be a good sign. "You saved him, Pete. That's what matters."

"That's what matters," he echoed obediently. "Egon? You hear me?"

Egon's head moved slightly in the direction of Pete's voice, but he didn't open his eyes. Hope flared vividly in Pete's face. His hands tightened convulsively around Egon's, and he risked one quick glance at me. "He moved his head."

"Means he knows you're here, Pete. He's gonna be okay."

We heard a yell and footsteps on the stairs, and I raised my voice and bellowed, "We're down here!"

As the paramedics approached, Peter muttered under his breath over and over, "You're gonna be okay, Egon. You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be just fine."

*****

Ray

I don't know how I managed to get turned around. I guess it's easy when you can't see. I'd headed for the nearest phone, the thrower banging against my ankles and had paused only long enough to snatch it up and slam it into place. I hated to think of using it, but the ghost might show up and I'd need it. If I could stop it, it wouldn't hurt anybody else. Or make anybody hurt somebody they loved. Oh, Egon....

I heard Winston shout after me, but I didn't stop. I had to call 911. Maybe it wasn't too late....

He's not breathing....

If Peter and Winston did mouth-to-mouth, he'd be okay. They'd resuscitate him. The paramedics would finish the job. Had Winston really said his heart was beating or was that only wishful thinking? I'd scarcely heard anything beyond Peter's desolate claim.

The place was a labyrinth, even for people who could see, and my eyes had swollen completely shut. Even if they weren't, that last glimpse I'd had of Egon lying there dead was so fuzzy that I was afraid that when the swelling went down, I'd be blind.

But if the swelling went down and I could see, then I'd have to see the expression in Peter's face because Egon was dead. I'd have to see myself in the mirror. I'd killed him. I hadn't meant to. I'd never hurt Egon on purpose. But the reason didn't matter. Egon was dead, and I'd killed him.

Winston had told me to call 911, but I couldn't find my way out. Trailing my hands along the rough walls, I'd followed passages that twisted and backtracked until I could no longer hear Peter or Winston. Then I went through an open door and heard it bang shut behind me, and when I tried to open it, it wouldn't budge. I thought maybe I was sealed into one of the rooms, but the partitions didn't go all the way to the ceiling. If the door wouldn't open, I could always climb out. I just wasn't sure how far I was from the others.

"Winston!" I yelled. Whoa! The sound of my call bounced back at me. That was weird. Talk about an echo. It didn't sound like there was a ceiling over me--or even a floor below me, but more like there was a huge empty place all around me. It was kind of spooky. I could almost imagine nasty eyes watching my every movement. It was dark, too. But maybe that was just because I couldn't see. I tried to pry one puffy eyelid up with my fingers but it didn't produce a shred of light. I hoped that just meant I was in the dark. I didn't want to be blind. To lose Egon and my sight--and probably the friendship of the other guys for killing him....

I'd tried to adjust for full streams to stop the ghost, but I must have turned it the other way. Egon would have been vaporized if I'd gotten full streams. But he wasn't breathing, Peter said. I hope I never again hear such desolation in Peter's voice.

Oh, Egon....

I had to get out of here and do something.

Carefully I shuffled ahead, feeling my way with my feet, my arms stretched out, and nearly fell when my foot came down on...empty space.

My arms windmilled until I caught my balance. I back-tracked to the sealed door and sat down to think about my situation. That made the canteen bang against my chest. Winston had slung it over my neck, but hadn't had a chance to wash out my eyes. I scrubbed my hands on my jumpsuit to make sure I didn't have any slime on them, then opened the canteen. Tilting my head, I poured a little water over each eye. It didn't ease the itching, but I figured it would help to rid myself of any slime I hadn't rubbed off already. Once I'd done that, I cupped more water in my hand and let it trickle over first my left eye and then my right eye. Under my fingers, I could tell that the skin had ballooned up and that my eyes were swollen shut.

I used most of the water from the canteen to rinse out my eyes but I kept a little bit to drink in case I was trapped here. Peter and Winston had too much to think about to notice I was gone. Once Egon was ...once the paramedics came, they'd wonder where I was. Surely they'd send Mr. McElroy to call the paramedics when I didn't return. What if getting lost took away any chance Egon had...?

Don't think that, Ray. I had to find the way out of here now, not sit here while my imagination made the situation as dark as possible. The ghost could show up any time. I didn't want it to return. I never wanted to see it again. See it....

I ran through the list of symptoms of anaphylactic shock that we'd all memorized after Peter's bee sting reaction. My pulse felt pretty normal. No obvious drop in blood pressure. Onset had been pretty quick, with the swelling. I doubted worse symptoms would hit me later. They hadn't with Peter. We were dealing with an ectoplasmic manifestation that mimicked an allergic reaction. There were bound to be differences.

Okay, Ray, now what? I fastened the canteen securely then I pushed myself up on my hands and knees and crept over to the drop. I reached down--and encountered a step. When I leaned farther down, I found another one, and there was even a railing on the left side. I wasn't sure where the stairs went; I couldn't hear a sound down there except for a faint, distant, muted rumble that indicated a subway passed nearby. The main cellar was two levels down from the street. This went down much farther.

We'd trekked through a lot of subterranean layers of the city when we'd been checking out Vigo the Carpathian's psycho-reactive slime. Mood slime, Peter had called it. I wondered if this place connected with the subway system. We weren't too far from the B and D train routes out to Brooklyn; it could be one of them. Maybe I could find my way onto one of the subway platforms--if I was lucky, or if I could see.

First, I tried the door again. It wouldn't open. I could zap it with my thrower, but an inner reluctance kept me from trying. I was afraid the sound of the thrower would draw the ghost, and I couldn't take Mr. Teech out, alone and blind. Besides, a part of me was reluctant to touch the thrower. I'd have abandoned my pack if it hadn't been too dangerous to leave for someone else to find. Winston would have called the paramedics by now. He'd have sent McElroy, or even gone himself, although that would have meant leaving Peter alone....

I just couldn't bring myself to draw my thrower and blast open the door. I couldn't stand the thought of touching it. I'd go down the stairs instead. I'd find a way out there. I'm sorry, Egon.

So I stood up, grabbed the wooden railing, and felt my way carefully down the rickety stairs that vibrated slightly with each step. I counted them as I went. Twenty, thirty-five, seventy. I had counted up to eighty-seven when I reached the bottom. It was still totally dark. There was a flashlight on my belt, but I didn't turn it on. Even if I could see a sliver of light through the swollen lids, it wouldn't be enough for me to find my way--and it might attract nasty types who lived down under New York. If there weren't any light, no one could see me, and it was better not to call attention to myself. If there were, then they already knew.

Another faint, muted rumble. Subway, far off. Every New Yorker is so accustomed to the distant roar of the subway that we filter it out. I concentrated on it now to tell which way it was. I should go in that direction. But the sound faded away to my right, and then there was only the huge weight of darkness, pressing down against me.

Oh, Egon. A couple of miserable tears oozed out of my swollen eyes. I felt them as a momentary relief from the burning, itching sensation. I wished I had more water. I wished I could just sit down and bawl.

I had to find my way out. The last thing Peter and Winston needed was to worry about me. They might be mad at me for blasting Egon--I was mad at myself, even though I knew it was an accident. I shouldn't have even tried to fire when my vision was so bad. But they'd still worry. I knew they would.

If only I'd been able to blast the door, I might be with them right now.

But I couldn't stand the thought of using the thrower.

Did that mean I couldn't be a Ghostbuster any longer?

I started walking so I'd have to concentrate on that instead of my morose thoughts. Slowly, feeling my way with my feet, arms outstretched so I wouldn't walk into a wall. The ground was rough and uneven under my boot soles, like stone or packed earth. There'd been a door and steps, so somebody knew about it. Somebody used it. Maybe Mister McElroy knew about it, and he'd tell the guys when they noticed I was missing. They'd find me if I couldn't find my own way out. Maybe I should just return to the stairs and wait for them.

I turned around and retraced my steps. When I'd walked what I thought was the right distance, I groped around, but there weren't any stairs. There was just space in all directions. I moved back and forth, arms outstretched, never knowing if I missed the steps by just inches or if I'd become so turned around I had tried the wrong direction entirely.

Finally, I sat down on the cold floor--it was uneven stone--to take my bearings and to reason out what to do.

That was when I became aware of a new discomfort. The hairs lifted on the back of my neck and I raised my head, listening. I couldn't hear any footsteps, no scrape of shoes against stone, but I knew that someone was watching me, someone who could see. For all I knew, somebody was shining a light on me.

"Who's there?"

No one answered. That was worse. Somebody watched me, weighed me, realized I couldn't see them. I was helpless.

"Come on, who's there?" I tried again.

There was another silence, then a voice came out of the darkness. "Can't you tell?"

Whoever it was didn't realize I was blind. If I told them, they'd know I was helpless. If they were nasty, they'd take it out on me, maybe even kill me. But the voice didn't sound nasty. It sounded sad and lonesome--and young, maybe around eleven or twelve years old. Maybe I'd found a runaway. There were mean kids running wild on the streets, but this one didn't sound bad. I'd have to take a chance.

"No," I said. "My eyes are swollen shut. I can't see."

"Why?"

"Because I got slimed. I'm a Ghostbuster. A ghost slimed me and the ectoplasm made my skin swell up."

"It did?" The boy sounded shocked. "I didn't know that could happen."

"Neither did we until today. This slime has some properties that triggers an allergic reaction. It attacked Peter first. His arm's all swollen up. Then it got me, right across the face."

"That's too bad." The kid sounded like he meant it. "I'm sure sorry."

"It wasn't your fault. Can you tell me where I am? I want to get out of here and find my friends."

"The other....Ghostbusters? Where are they?" I couldn't tell if that was uneasiness or excitement in his voice. Would a street kid who hid under the city know about us or would survival take all his time and concentration? I didn't want to ask him too many questions or he'd take off--and I needed him to show me the way out.

"They're...." I could hardly say it. "Egon's dead. I blasted him by mistake when I couldn't see." I bowed my head so he wouldn't have to see the anguish on my face.

"Your friend? You killed your friend?" The kid's voice shrank down to a horrified whisper.

"I didn't mean to." Boy, that sounded lame. "Peter and Winston are okay. I have to find them. I need to tell them how sorry I am."

"What are you doing down here?"

"I got lost. I couldn't see and I took a wrong turn. Can you show me the way out?"

"I...better not."

I hadn't expected that. "Why not?"

"I can't go up there anymore. I can't be around people." He sounded nearly as despondent as I felt.

"Did you...run away?" I asked.

He hesitated so long I was afraid he wouldn't answer, then he said softly, "I ran away. I didn't know it would be...like this. I thought it would be...fun."

"I can help you go home." It was an automatic, instinctive offer. I knew Peter would help, too. He was such a softie where kids were concerned. Probably because it hadn't been that easy for him when he was little, never enough money, his mom working two jobs to make ends meet because his dad was out running cons. Peter would be first in line to help this kid. It might even give him another problem to think about instead of Egon....

The thin, desolate voice went on. "You can't. I...can't find the way. I've looked and looked."

"Maybe we can find the way out together." I paused. "My name is Ray. What's yours?"

"Uh... Joe." I was pretty sure it wasn't his real name, that he was lying. He'd probably learned to be cagy since he ran away from home.

"Joe, do you have a mom and dad?"

A long silence, then, hesitantly, "Yes."

"Do you want to find them again."

"More than anything."

"Then I'll help you find them. I promise."

He didn't answer at first. Then he said as if he were crying, "You can't. No one can."

My stomach lurched. Maybe they were dead. Maybe he'd run away because they were dead. I'd lost my own folks when I was about Joe's age, and it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me--until I killed Egon. "I'll help you," I promised. "We'll work it out. Joe, is there enough light down here for you to see?"

"I can see. I...wish you could."

"You'll just have to be my guide dog till we find the way out."

"What's a guide dog?"

I wondered how long he'd been on the streets that he didn't even know that. Maybe he was like the people who lived in the tunnels like Vincent in the old Beauty and the Beast TV show. "I'll tell you all about it," I said. "But now, I need you to pull me out of here and steer me in the right direction. There are some stairs around here somewhere. Can you see them?"

"Yes. They're right behind you just out of reach. They go up and up and up."

"Up at the top of them is a locked door. Maybe you can figure out how to open it. It leads into a basement under some buildings, and once we climb up, we'll be back in the world."

His voice rang with stubbornness. "No. I can't go up there. I can't go into the world."

Maybe he'd stolen something or broken the law. Maybe the police had chased him before he hid down here in the dark. "I'll help you," I said. "I'll be with you. It'll be okay."

"No, it won't," he insisted drearily. "You don't understand. I can't even show you, not if you can't see." I pictured him standing there defiantly in tattered clothes, head bent, unable to meet my eyes, and I scrambled up and took a step in his direction.

"Don't come any closer." Panic ran through his voice.

I stopped dead. I didn't want to risk scaring him away. "It's okay. I won't. But I really need your help, Joe. You wouldn't want to strand me down here in the dark, would you?"

"No. I'll help you up there. I promise. But I can't go with you. If you can't see, you can't tell why."

I wondered about that. Was there something wrong with him? Was he deformed? Was he afraid people would mock him. I'd been a chubby kid who liked comic books and horror movies, and I didn't fit in with the other kids much. Now that I was grown up and had come to terms with all that, I could empathize with others. Maybe his parents had abandoned him when he was little and he'd been on his own ever since.

"You sound like a good kid," I said. "The way somebody looks on the outside doesn't matter. Only what's inside a person really counts."

"Really?" Joe's voice was awfully skeptical, but he sounded hopeful, too. "Even if somebody did something...bad, even if they didn't mean to, and it...hurt people, would you still help?"

"If you didn't mean to do it, I'd help. Even if you did but you were sorry. I didn't mean to hurt Egon. I'd never have hurt him. He's like my brother and I...love him. But I...killed him. You couldn't have done anything like that, could you?"

He hesitated. "No, I...I didn't kill anybody. But I...made things bad. I didn't mean to. I didn't know. I thought it was a game. I thought I was just playing." He sounded like he was crying, his voice all thick and muffled.

"Then we better help each other," I said quickly. "There's probably some slime on my uniform, so you better not touch me. Here's a pair of protective gloves. I'll throw them to you and you put them on. They're thick and shielded so you'll be okay; you won't get the slime on you." I pulled them out of my belt and tossed them in the direction of his voice. "They'll probably be too big for you, but I don't want you to have an allergic reaction."

I heard the swish of fabric as he pulled the gloves on, then he was beside me and a hand took my arm. The fingers felt really skinny through the fabric. I wondered when was the last time Joe had eaten a good meal.

"Come on," he said. "We'll go now. I'll take you to your friends. Then they'll tell you why you can't help me. But I won't hurt anybody anymore. I promise, Ray. I promise."

"I know you do." I wish I could have hugged him, but I couldn't risk it--even accidentally.

"Joe, if the ghost shows up, I want you to promise to stay behind me," I said. "I won't let it hurt you."

"Is it bad?" he asked.

"I don't know if it's mean on purpose," I said. "Some ghosts try to hurt people. This one slimed Peter and me. That happens a lot on the job. But its slime was so potent that it was dangerous."

"Is a ghost automatically bad?" he asked. He sounded like he genuinely wanted to know.

I had to think about that. We busted ghosts that bothered people, that caused trouble, but we didn't bust all of them. Some of them dispersed peacefully with a little help from us. Some of them came over from the Netherworld or places like that just to have a gander around. Paranormal tourists. They didn't do any harm besides scaring people, and they usually went away again. Slimer was a Class Five and he wasn't bad. I explained all that as we started up the steps, and he listened carefully, I could hear my boots clomp on the stairs but I didn't hear his shoes. He was probably barefoot, poor kid. All I had to go on was the thin little hand that clutched my arm.

I realized I'd lost count of the steps. It was going to be a long way up.

It was worse than I thought. As we climbed, I felt the stairs quiver under me and realized with a sudden horror that they weren't very steady. "Careful, Joe," I urged. "The stairs are a little wobbly and I think--"

I didn't have a chance to finish. With an ominous clatter and rattle, the step beneath me gave and I felt the rest of them tilt, lean, and drop away in a horrible rush.

*****

Peter

I didn't care that the paramedics said Egon was breathing normally and that his heartbeat was strong. Until the doctor came and said he was going to be all right and until I saw him and talked to him and he answered, I couldn't let myself believe it.

Winston didn't allow me to pace. He said it made him tired to watch me. He sat beside me on the waiting room sofa and yanked me down every time I tried restlessly to stand up. He dug into my pocket for the anti-itch cream and made me dump my jumpsuit so I could treat my arm. He insisted I cover every bit of the affected area thoroughly and evenly. I knew he was giving me a task to concentrate on while we waited. My mind so was focused on Egon that I applied the cream automatically. I even answered Winston's conversational gambits on auto-pilot.

Egon had stopped breathing. I still remembered how that knowledge had hit me. It felt like I'd stepped out in front of a midtown bus and been knocked flying for half a block. Egon had stopped breathing. He'd nearly died.

He'll be all right. He'll be all right. He has to be all right. God, even imagining the world without Egon in it freaked me. He'd been there so long, become so important to me, to all of us. I'd never had a brother until Egon came along. Now my family included three brothers, and I couldn't do without them.

My arm still itched, but I scarcely noticed it. It simply didn't matter. Not with Egon in the ER, not with Ray god knows where. The police were searching for him--but there'd been no trace of him since Winston had sent him to dial 911.

Ray.

He'd blasted Egon. I wasn't mad at him, at least I didn't think I was mad at him. I knew how the slime felt and I'd only gotten it on my arm. He'd gotten it on his face, in his eyes, for god's sake. He might be blind.

But I wasn't sure how I'd react to the sight of him with a thrower in his hand. And that was stupid. I shuddered and felt Winston's hand on my shoulder.

I don't know how Winston always manages to be such a tower of strength. I knew he was as worried as I was. But he'd been there all the time, doing what needed to be done, letting me be the one to administer the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, even when he'd probably have done it better because I'd been a little winded at first. He'd known I needed a task to occupy my mind, that I'd have gone bonkers if I'd had to sit there and watch with no responsibility. But it had been his stability the whole time that had kept me going. We all relied on that steadiness of purpose when the chips were down. Counted on it. Glancing at him now, I could see the tension that ran through him as we sat there. It wasn't his way to freak, to run around in circles and angst out loud. Didn't mean he wasn't as shaken up as the rest of us.

"Glad you're here, buddy," I said quietly.

He couldn't have followed my train of thought, but he produced a reassuring smile and patted my shoulder again. "Where else would I be?"

"He'll be just fine," I said stoutly. "I know he will. It's gonna be okay, Winston."

He digested my words and realized I meant to comfort him, not to whistle in the dark. His teeth flashed white in a huge smile. "Oh, man," he murmured, "this part of the job sucks."

"You called it, right on the money." I took a deep, shuddery breath. "What about Ray?"

"You think he's staying away on purpose?" he asked so fast I knew it wasn't a new idea for him, any more than it was for me.

"He's gotta feel awfully bad," Winston continued. He sounded so tentative I knew right away where he was going with it. He was afraid I was blaming Ray for what had happened.

Hell, maybe a part of me couldn't help it, but it wasn't Ray's fault. It was the fricking ghost's fault.

"Soon as we know Egon's okay, we'll have to go and find him," I decided, although I didn't want to leave the hospital until I'd talked to Egon. I wasn't sure I could walk out the door without that reassurance.

"Egon's not gonna blame Ray for the accident," Winston told me. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know that." I also knew he might react involuntarily the next time Ray pulled a thrower on a bust because that was human nature, and I would be the same. We'd both get over it. As long as Egon was all right, we'd get over it.

I shook my head violently. No. I couldn't put conditions on forgiving Ray for an accident. I couldn't do that. Even if Egon.... Don't go there, Peter. No matter what happened, Ray was out there alone and miserable, and maybe blind and.... The litany of worry continued.

I cast my mind back to the nightmare in the cellar. "Winston! I bet he doesn't even realize Egon's alive."

"Say what?" he said more loudly than necessary. Two women at the far side of the waiting room who had been politely trying not to stare at us gave up all pretense and fixed their eyes on us like spotlights.

"He'd have heard me say Egon wasn't breathing. The way his eyes were swelling shut, I'm not sure he saw me react to finding a pulse. He was gone before I even started mouth-to-mouth. What if he doesn't know how it came out? What if he thinks Egon is dead?" I could have sworn there wasn't room in me to see past Egon's condition, but that speculation pushed me over into whole new areas of concern. In my mind's eye, I could see Ray, wandering around out there, either still down in that huge labyrinth of a basement or somewhere out on the streets. Maybe he'd tried to go home. Janine hadn't seen him. She'd be here already if it weren't for rush hour traffic. But I didn't think he'd go home. I could have sworn he'd come here. Or someone would bring him.

Damn it! This was New York. Wander around blind and people don't rush to help you. They rush to mug you.

Winston jumped in. Probably knew exactly what nasty place my mind had just gone to. "Quit that, Pete. Ray's a Ghostbuster and he's tough. Sure he's feeling bad, but he's not stupid. He'll know it was an accident. Besides, I told him Egon had a heartbeat. He knows Egon's alive." He drew a deep breath, trying to decide if Ray had actually registered his words. "He'll find help. After all, he's the kind of guy everybody rushes to befriend. That wino he gave a twenty to actually paid him back, remember? And that time we were separated on a bust in a bad neighborhood, I swear that guy who brought him home safe and sound was a drug lord. Never harmed a hair on his head."

"Yeah, you're probably right," I said, although I wasn't reassured. Ray might get out of trouble, but he was also a real pro for getting into it. And he had that long-repressed tendency to do guilt. I'm a prime example of the way the insecurities of childhood can creep up on you when you're least expecting it. My dad has a lot to answer for, and when I'm cool with life, I handle it just great. When I'm not so cool with it, I know where it's all coming from, but that doesn't always mean I handle it right. We're all like that. This would push all Ray's buttons. A part of me might blame him for what had happened, but I'd never do it as thoroughly as he'd manage to do it to himself, anyway.

"Maybe we should head out to hunt for him as soon as we hear the official word on Egon," Winston offered. "Call McElroy, anyway, and see what he came up with. He's there with the police. I'll do that now. He gave me the number of his cell phone."

I thought fleetingly that it might be good for us to pick up a few cell phones of our own. We had the walkie talkies--and why we hadn't tried to call Ray on them while Egon was being loaded into the ambulance I couldn't say. Too shook up to be reasonable? Hard to have good judgment when your foundations are crumbling under your feet. Dammit, we should have tried. And of course, neither of us had thought to leave one with McElroy, either.

When the time came, I'd take huge pleasure in slam dunking Mister Teeth into the containment unit.

"Ghostbusters?" It was a doctor in the doorway. She was tall and extremely thin with slicked-back, greying hair and not a trace of make-up. The white coat bagged on her and her stethoscope banged against her flat chest. But she was smiling at us, and in that moment, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. "I'm Doctor Jessica Laughton, and I've seen you both on television enough to know who you are."

I jumped up and raced to meet her. "Is Egon okay?"

The smile expanded. "Yes, he's doing extremely well. He'll make a quick--and complete--recovery. I'm glad we had the specifications of your weapons. I'm told his heart never stopped. You started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation immediately, and he responded nicely. He's conscious and rational, oriented to time and place. We'll keep him overnight for observation, and if there are no complications--and frankly, I don't expect any--we'll discharge him in the morning."

My knees nearly buckled in sheer relief. I willed them to straighten, then I flung my arms around her and gave her a big smooch full on the mouth. Our audience over in the corner stiffened to rabid attention, but I didn't care. "Doctor, you're beautiful," I said, and when I backed away, I could swear she'd been transformed into sheer gorgeousness.

Doctor Laughton cast a doubtful glance at Winston. He had to be as relieved as I was, but he contented himself with giving her a massive hug and then pumped her hand so vigorously that she checked her fingers when he let go to be sure they weren't crushed. "Thanks, doc. Can we see him?"

"Yes. For ten minutes, no more. I want him to rest. We have him on an IV solution, and he's hooked up to a cardiac monitor just to be safe, but don't let that alarm you. That's precautionary. His vital signs are normal." She frowned, and I felt my heart lurch at the sight of it.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing with Doctor Spengler. But he expressed concern over Doctor Stantz. He said that his friend had accidentally blasted him, that he'd gotten a toxin in his eyes and couldn't see and had tripped over a board. He's worried about his condition, but I checked in the ER and Doctor Stantz isn't there. If you could reassure him about his friend, he'd sleep easier tonight."

"That's gonna be tough, doc," Winston admitted. "In all the confusion, Ray disappeared. We don't know where he is."

In the middle of my overwhelming relief about Egon's recovery, those simple words stabbed through me and a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. How could I go in there and tell Egon that we'd saved him only to lose Ray?

*****

Egon

Ever since I revived in the ER, I'd been monitoring my body's reactions to the accidental neutronizing. Ray must have inadvertently dialed his thrower to lower power, a fact for which I was profoundly grateful. The tremors in my hands had almost completely ceased and the annoying tic in my left eye was gone entirely. Vision was normal once the doctor had let me put my glasses on. Appropriate sensation and motion in all extremities. The IV solution should take care of the mild side effects of my body's disruption within the next several hours. Excellent. Doctor Laughlin would prefer me to remain hospitalized overnight. While I acknowledged that she was correct and that it was an appropriate precaution, and one that I should insist upon for any of my teammates, the situation was unusual. From Ray's instant reaction to the face full of ectoplasm, I knew how treacherous the substance could prove.. The ghost was too dangerous to be allowed at liberty.

Doctor Laughlin had refused to give me any information on Raymond's condition, and I was dreadfully afraid that meant his vision was permanently affected. I asked to see Peter and Winston, and she had promised to bring them to see me. It seemed as if she had been gone far longer than the few minutes necessary to fetch them, unless, for some reason, they weren't here.

Had the ghost harmed them after I lost consciousness? I had a vague and fuzzy memory of Peter's voice, urging me to be all right, reassuring me, and two hands clasping mine so tightly that, even now, my fingers felt slightly crunched. Peter, determined not to let go, offering himself as a lifeline. And, in counterpoint, Winston's baritone, reassuring Peter, providing the voice of reason as he so often did. They had been safe then. What alarmed me was that I could not remember the sound of Ray's voice in the murky depths of my semi-consciousness. Surely Ray hadn't felt so bad about the accident that he'd gone away? Yet even that option was better than the other possibilities that skated across the edges of my brain, that he hadn't spoken because he was unconscious, that his reaction had been worse than Peter's.

The only reason I disallowed that option was because the other guys had been so exclusively focused on me. If Ray had been lying there unconscious beside me, they'd have been talking to him, too. Surely, they didn't hold the accident against him? Peter could hold a grudge with the best of them, but this was Ray, who had been, in essence, his kid brother since college.

Something was wrong. Here I was, bedfast, hooked up to an IV and monitoring equipment, still too shaky to find the answers I sought. I didn't even have my P.K.E. meter to check for the guys' biorhythms and make certain they were close at hand.

"Yo, Spengs."

Finally. Peter stood in the doorway with Winston at his side. They feasted their eyes on me the way starving men might gaze at a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings, so much concern and affection in their expressions that I felt humbled. Peter saw me react to their presence and that freed him from whatever constraints had halted him in the doorway. He catapulted to my bedside, snatched up the hand that was free of the IV, and cradled it in both of his own.

"You scared the hell out of me." The accusing tremor in his blurted words told me he was still reacting to his fright. I know my Peter very well. I could have soothed him with comforting words, but while that might work for Ray, Peter needed stronger medicine.

"Hardly my intention, Peter. I didn't awaken this morning with an urge to scare you. Had I done that, I might have introduced a fleet of cockroaches to your shower."

His mouth quirked involuntarily, although he didn't totally unwind. I hadn't expected it yet. At his side, Winston let out a smothered chortle that he tried to turn into a cough.

"You put any roaches in my shower, Egon, and you'll be dog doo-doo." His fingers automatically checked my pulse then stroked the back of my hand. I doubled he even realized he was doing it. His eyes held the remnants of the anguish I'd heard while in my groggy, half-aware state. Peter had performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Knowing how the need to do that for Peter, or Winston or Ray, would have affected me, I resolved not to say the wrong things. A little cautious teasing might help, once he finally believed I was not dying.

"Fortunate that I have no captive roaches at this time." I offered him a reassuring smile. "Thanks, guys. You kept me going." Maybe it would have been better not to remind them, but I owed them my life.

"You'd have done it for us," Winston said, then grimaced disgustedly for stating such a truism. He reached over and patted my shoulder. The three of us held that pose for a long moment, affirming the emotions that were beyond expression. Sometimes, when a situation became particularly hairy, the need for tactile reassurance was all the more evident among us. Peter had explained that in his flip, off the cuff, psychobabble terminology that he uses to conceal his gifts of the knowledge of how people operate. As usual, Peter had been right. One would never dare tell him so, however, or he would gloat. He had gloating down to a fine art.

He wasn't gloating now. Instead, his eyes held grim secrets. If I filtered out his colossal relief at my survival, I could see the shadows that still lingered, shadows that were only partially induced by reaction. He didn't want to scare me, but he was scaring himself. Sometimes, Peter's imagination is his worst enemy.

"How is Raymond?" I asked with careful mildness. "I hope he knows I do not hold him at fault for what could not have been prevented."

Peter's grip on my hand tightened involuntarily, and he darted a quick, sidelong glance at Winston, whose mouth hardened. That wasn't good.

"You will tell me immediately," I insisted. "Where is Ray?"

Peter and Winston conferred with an arch of eyebrow and twitch of mouths, then Peter reaffirmed his grip on my hand, squared his shoulders, and admitted reluctantly, "We don't know."

"You don't know?" Repeating people is not a habit of mine, but I couldn't prevent myself from doing it. "How could you not know?"

Peter took a deep breath and plunged into an explanation. "Winston sent him to call 911. His eyes were swelling up pretty bad. I thought he'd just taken a wrong turn in that weird basement area. But the super and the cops searched the place. Not a trace of him. He must have gone out somehow. There were a couple of locked doors, but Ray wouldn't have had the key for them and they hadn't been zapped open with a thrower."

"Yeah, and he never called 911 either," Winston confirmed. "We know he was having a slime reaction, but if he'd collapsed, the search party would have found him. You wouldn't think he'd take off without finding out how you were, Egon, but...."

"Maybe the ghost removed him," I offered. It was clear from the way they flinched that both of them had already considered that alternative, which might well be the only logical one. I wasn't sure those locked doors were a prevention. They might have locked behind Ray.

"Yeah, we thought of that," Peter admitted. "We weren't picking up biorhythm readings from Ray when the paramedics were working on you. That worried us. Winston had me ride in with you and he brought Ecto here, but he took five minutes to do a walk-through before he left. The ghost wasn't reading, and neither was Ray. We checked with Janine as soon as we arrived at the hospital and told her about you. She'll be here any minute. Ray hadn't called her. The police are still searching for him."

"And that means what, Peter?" I tightened my own fingers around his when he would have let go. "I'm recovering from a neutronization, not a quadruple bypass. You can tell me what you think. It won't kill me. I should rather know than lie here and imagine incorrect possibilities."

At times, Peter can be almost as protective as my own mother. This time, he was trying to protect me, but he also wanted to charge out there and find Ray. That he didn't know where to start had limited his options. If Ray were no longer in the cellars, he could be anywhere. Had the ghost removed him, an option that I was reluctant to contemplate because of the nature of its ectoplasm, he could be dead, a possibility Peter and Winston had already acknowledged. There would be no biorhythm readings for them to trace. If he were simply trapped behind a locked door, he could blast his way out, and unless it was lead-lined or composed of some other material that affected the meters, there should have been biorhythm readings.

"Well, maybe it means the ghost took off. We scored a few good hits. Maybe Mister Teeth was tired of us and left."

"Do you believe that?" I asked him mildly, arching one eyebrow.

He shrugged. "No."

"Do you think he made off with Ray?" That might explain the unhappiness in Peter's eyes.

"Coulda," he conceded warily as if he feared admitting it would confirm it. "But you know Ray. Sure he's not as much into guilt trips as he used to be. But...we think he went off believing you were dead." He ducked his head so I couldn't see his eyes. "He'd have heard me say you weren't breathing, but I found a pulse and I nodded to let Winston know. I thought Ray would pick up on it, too, but if he couldn't see...." His voice trickled away to silence, then he added, "Winston said your heart was beating, but from the way Ray reacted, we're not sure he--was capable of understanding that. We shoulda...."

"Peter, if you imagine for one second that Ray's possible misconception is your fault...." Ray wasn't the only one of us who could do guilt. Peter often tended to wave off any such feelings in a high-handed manner, but I knew him better than I knew anyone else.

"Heck, Egon, I was the one who knew what the slime could do. I only got it on my arm. I should have thought of that."

"Ah. I see. I was on the verge of death, no longer breathing, and you should have considered that Ray might have fuzzy vision and fail to notice a nod. I admire your ability to partition your feelings."

He risked a glance at me. "Well, I shoulda," he persisted.

"You weren't the only one there, Pete," Winston reminded him. "I wish we'd made sure he understood. We didn't expect the slime to affect Ray so quickly. If we'd been thinking, we'd have guessed this might happen. We're not perfect, any of us. Well, except for Egon here...." He encouraged me to play up.

I hesitated. "I don't expect the rest of you to strive for such an impossible standard."

Peter's tensed shoulders relaxed fractionally, and he flashed a grin at me. "If you weren't already down, I'd have to thump you for that. We all know that only the great Venkman comes close to perfection on this team." Then the momentary flash faded, and his shoulders slumped. "Egon, we'll head out and find him. You're gonna be okay, and Janine'll be here, as soon as she fights her way through rush hour traffic, to stroke your fevered brow."

"As I do not have a fever, Peter...." I protested.

Winston snorted with amusement. "Like she'll care?"

That made Peter chuckle, too. "Just think, if she times it right, she'll be here to help with your sponge bath. She'll love that."

I could well imagine; my mind played out that scenario involuntarily, and I sternly willed it away. "You needn't wait until she arrives, guys. Go and find Ray." Peter still held onto my hand. He hadn't let go once. I tightened my grip around his fingers. "It's all right, Peter. You'll find him. They'll start him on medication, as they did you. We know that the slime doesn't cause tissue damage, as evidenced by your arm. His eyes will be fine." I didn't allow myself to consider how sensitive the human eye actually was. There was no need to borrow trouble. We had sufficient trouble already.

"I gave him the canteen before I sent him off," Winston added. "He'd have washed out his eyes. Once the swelling's down, he'll be fine."

We were all whistling in the dark, but it was true. Peter's skin was swollen and reddened, but there were no open wounds. I had to believe Ray's vision would be unimpaired. And if it wasn't, we'd deal with that when the time came. The slime was ectoplasmic. If there was no medical solution to the crisis, there might be a paranormal one.

"Go and find him," I urged.

Winston nodded. "We'll track him down. Come on, Pete."

Peter hesitated, then he gave me a ferocious hug before he let go and followed Winston, walking backward all the way to the door.

When they were gone, I settled to wait as patiently as possible and gave my mind over to a thorough analysis of the new ectoplasm. I might as well put my time to good, constructive use.

But I found it remarkably difficult to concentrate.

*****

Ray

The stairs fell away beneath my feet, and I yelled involuntarily even as I grabbed for Joe. Maybe I could break his fall.... There wasn't time for coherent thought, but I tried. I really tried.

His hand was torn from mine. "No," I yelled. Then two hands closed around my wrists and yanked me clear of the collapsing scaffolding. Suspended from that grip in mid-air, I could only see darkness. I didn't know what was happening, only that I wasn't falling. The drop yawned invisibly beneath me. Boy, I could understand why Peter hated heights so much, and why Egon had quietly freaked when he had once fallen from a rooftop during a bust. I couldn't tell who was holding me but the hands felt like Joe's.

"Joe?" I faltered.

"I've got you, Ray. I won't let you fall." It was Joe's squeaky voice. I'm not a skinny guy; he couldn't hold me, even if he was hanging from the platform at the top. It might give way, too.

Then, to my astonishment we swooped upward. What on Earth...? "Joe?" I blurted.

"I won't let you fall. I promise. It's my fault you can't see. I'll save you."

"Your fault?" I echoed. It was so weird, being yanked up like...like a ghost was carrying me. His fault I couldn't see.... Was Joe a ghost? Was he actually...Mister Teeth.

"You're the one who slimed us?" I asked. I didn't want to make him mad, not when he was all that was preventing my fall. I remembered that sad little voice saying he couldn't go home, he couldn't come with me because he'd done bad things even if he hadn't meant to. Gosh, if I could see, I'd have recognized him. I'd have known he was the ghost we'd been chasing all day. He'd been really quick to take the gloves. He must have known it would hurt me if he touched me. That had to mean he didn't want to hurt me, didn't it? Maybe he just didn't know. I could remember the gooper in Central Park, and it was almost like it was playing tag with us.

"I didn't know it would hurt. Everybody else ran away, but you came and played--only your weapons hurt. I didn't know they were weapons until then, so I left. I kept trying, but nobody would play. Then you found me again, and I thought maybe you wanted to play after all, but you just kept on trying to shoot me. Then I saw you trip and hit your friend by accident, and he fell down, and everybody was so horrified that it scared me. I knew then that I'd been...bad. That I shouldn't be here. Nobody likes to play, and I hurt your kind. I just want to go home." His voice trailed off in a sob.

He wasn't an evil ghost, he was a little kid ghost who had sneaked out to have a good time and found the world a nasty place. I felt sorry for him.

"You mean you gave up your game when I ki--when I hurt Egon?" I asked. Egon....

"Yes. I didn't want to play any longer after that. I just want to go home, but I don't know how."

"Maybe we can help you," I offered. I'd have said that even if I wasn't hanging in midair. If I could find out how to send Joe home, I could save something out of the situation.

"Really? Even after what I did, you'd help me?" He sounded more than ever like a lost, wistful child. "I better put you down. I'd hate to lose my grip." We swooped sideways through the air until I felt a solid surface under my feet. I let out my breath in a big whoosh of relief.

"Yes, we'll all help you," I said. "As soon as you realized what was happening to us, you stopped. That's good. You didn't mean to hurt us. Is there any way you can help me out of this place?"

"I can open the door." I sensed him move carefully past me, but he didn't touch me. There was a clatter and it must have opened. I could feel a difference in the air. Even better, the darkness wasn't total. I could see a faint glow of light, just a narrow band of it in between the puffiness of my eyelids. Light. I wasn't blind after all. When the swelling went down, I'd be able to see.

And Egon would still be dead....

The relief trickled away so fast it was as if I'd never felt it.

A gloved hand closed around my fingers. "Come on. I'll show you the way out. Then I'll hide down there in the cave. When your eyes are better, you can come back and help me if you want to."

"I'm going to help you," I promised. "You have my word on it."

Suddenly, the walkie talkie on my belt crackled to life. I plucked it off and activated it, and pushed the 'send' button. "Ray here."

"Ray? Ray, you're alive?" Peter's voice was a relieved squawk. I could hear the anxiety melting out of it. I hadn't been sure he could forgive me, but, gosh, it sounded like he had. "We've been tearing the place apart hunting for you. Are you okay?"

I pushed the button. "I'm okay. My eyes are swollen shut, and I took a wrong turn." I sucked in a deep breath for strength to continue. "Peter, I'm so sorry. I never meant to kill Egon. You know I didn't. If you want me to, I'll go away, so you don't have to put up with me anymore."

I could tell as soon as he spoke that he'd been waiting for me to release the button so he could talk. "Stop it, Ray. You didn't kill Egon. He's alive. He's gonna be just fine. So forget about leaving. If you do, I'll come after you and drag you home by the hair."

I stiffened. "He's alive? Really?" Maybe he was just trying to reassure me. But Peter wouldn't lie to me. I knew he wouldn't.

"Pete's right, man." Winston. "Egon would be here if he could, but they won't let him out of the hospital till tomorrow. He told us to find you fast. He wasn't breathing right at first, but his heart never stopped--Itold you that, but maybe you didn't hear me--and we did mouth-to-mouth, and he started breathing on his own before the paramedics showed up. Where are you? We'll take you to the nearest phone and you can talk to him. He'll tell you himself."

I clutched the walkie talkie while tears leaked out of my swollen eyes and ran down my face. Egon was still alive. I hadn't killed him after all.

"Ray! Ray! Ray!" I could hear the guys yelling over the walkie talkie. They were probably homing in on me right now with a P.K.E. meter set at my biorhythms. Yeah, I could even hear their distant voices calling without benefit of the walkie talkie. They were coming to rescue me, even if I didn't need rescuing. Peter would ride me about pulling the old guilt number, and they'd fuss over me. It was all right. But I couldn't find my voice or stop the relieved tears. I could only stand there, shaking with reaction, and let their voices wash over me like a blessing.

Joe snatched the walkie talkie out of my hand. He must have seen me hit the send button because he spoke quickly. "Ray's all right. He's just relieved. I'm here with him. Don't blast me when you come, because I promise I won't slime you again. Ray said he'd help me go home."

Peter's voice rose to whole new dimensions of freaking. "Who the hell isthat? Ray? Are you okay? You better be okay? Is that the ghost? Has it hurt you?" His voice hardened. "Let me talk to Ray."

"Let me talk to him," I said to Joe and then raised my voice. "It's okay, Peter. That's just Joe. He's a runaway kid from another dimension, and all he wanted to do was play. He didn't mean to hurt anybody, and he just saved my life. Don't blast him. I promised him I'd help him find his way home."

I could hear the distant sounds of Peter and Winston, running toward me. They'd be here in a second. I turned to Joe. "Better stand behind me, just in case." Then I put up my hands and tried to pry my eyelids apart enough to be able to see. The effort gave me a slightly fuzzy view of a dusty hallway with the partitions along the inner wall and the door that led to the catacombs area at my back. I couldn't walk around with my eyelids propped open like this, but at least it would see me through the reunion. I'd be given medicine like Peter had and the swelling would go down. I could see, and Egon was alive, and if I felt any lighter I could fly as high as Joe.

Peter in the lead, the guys barreled around a corner and screeched to a stop. Even with my eyes at less than 20/20, I saw their panic, then their relief at the sight of me, followed by suspicion when they spotted Joe. Peter gripped his thrower firmly in his hand, his mouth tight with anxiety and rage. The ghost had caused all this, and Peter was not the most forgiving of men.

"I won't hurt you," Joe said uneasily. "I promise."

They did a double-take at that little kid voice from the specter who had given us such fits, then they turned to me. Peter lunged at me, wrapped his arms around me, and hugged me hard. The gesture yanked my hands away from my eyes, but that didn't matter. The relieved arms closed around me so tight that all the air went right out of my lungs. His thrower whacked against my proton pack, but he didn't even notice. "Ray, Ray, Ray," he chanted in my ear. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Suffocate me?" I asked as lightly as I could, but I grabbed him back.

He didn't let go completely, but he eased his grip enough for Winston to snatch me away from him, give me a fierce embrace, and ruffle my hair.

"Winston!" I yelled as I realized there might be a new problem. "I've got slime on me. Don't. Peter, you didn't get it on you again, did you?"

Winston yanked his hand away, then it returned. "It's dry, Ray. I don't think it'll hurt me. No biggie if it does. We all qualify for a little downtime after this. Okay, Pete?"

"Yeah, it's not reacting." Peter took me by the shoulders and tried to move me sideways. "Ray, you're between us and the ghost."

I planted my feet and stood there, as firmly in place as a tree. "No, Peter, I won't let you blast him. When the stairs in there collapsed, he saved my life. Even if you're mad about Egon and about your allergic reaction, I'd be dead if not for Joe."

His hands stopped pushing. "Dead?"

"I just held him up when the stairs fell." Joe's voice was tentative. "I'm really sorry. I just wanted to play. Everybody but you ran away. I thought you were playing. I didn't know I'd make you swell up like that."

I don't think Peter had any plans to give Joe the key to the city, but I could feel his hesitation. Peter was a real sucker for lost kids, and that's exactly what Joe sounded like.

"Joe?" he asked dubiously. "That doesn't sound like your run-of-the-mill Netherworld name."

"It's really Jodivas," the ghost admitted. "But I heard somebody call somebody else Joe and it was close enough. Besides, my parents call me that for short."

I pried open my eyes just in time to see Peter's classic double-take. "Your parents? And they would be...bigger than you?"

"More than twice as big," admitted Joe proudly. I was watching Peter, not him, but I could tell from Peter's involuntary step away that Joe had stretched himself to his full height.

"Teeth, too?" Peter prompted.

"And claws."

Peter swallowed hard, and Winston shuffled his feet uneasily. Then Peter called himself to order. "So, what are you gonna do with this stray, Ray?" he asked, and I could tell from the question that he felt sorry for Joe, big teeth and all, and relieved that the ghost had saved me. He wouldn't like it, but he would go along with my plan.

Winston scratched his head. "Yeah, Ray, it's not like it's safe to take him with us. All he has to do is touch--"

"Uh, Winston...." Peter was warning Winston not to give Joe any ammunition against us, but I knew that part would be okay.

"Joe came through a small cross-rip," I explained. "I want to track it down and help him go home."

Peter's expression was divided between active disbelief and the warm fuzzy grin he gives me when he's exasperated with me and proud of me at the same time. "Only you, Ray," he said with sheer affection. "Only you. And what will you do with him in the meantime? I'm not taking him home with us. He'll leave slime all over the furniture."

"No lie," Winston agreed. "He probably won't mean to, but the last thing we need's a coating of killer slime."

"Oh, that's okay," I said airily, grinning at them both. "We'll just keep him up on the roof."

Peter rolled his eyes at me. "Yeah, Class Fives on the roof. Every home should have one." He slung his arm around my shoulders.

"Come on," he said. "We'll take you to the hospital. They'll check you out and then you can see Egon."

See Egon? I thought I'd never do that again. "That's great, Peter," I said and fell into step with him. I still could barely see, but with Peter on one side of me, Winston on the other, and Joe trailing us at a safe distance, I didn't even have to watch where I stepped.

*****

Egon

It seemed like hours had passed since Peter and Winston went off to fetch Ray. Janine had come to see me and gone again. She'd hovered for fully an hour, fussing over me the way Peter would enjoy most--and the way I enjoy the least, although I didn't have the heart to tell her so when she was so concerned. Maybe there was a slight advantage to the fussing, although Peter would never hear it from me. She would have stayed all evening, but she inadvertently let it slip that she had a family get-together, so I assured her that I was in no danger, that I was only here as a precaution, and that it would be more upsetting to me to know she had missed her gathering than to have to wait alone. I wasn't sure I would have won that argument, but just then Peter telephoned and put a penitent Ray on the phone. We conferred for five minutes, and I felt myself relax with the knowledge that Ray was all right, and that I'd had the chance to make it very clear to him that what happened had not been his fault.

When Janine saw how much the call had reassured me, she finally consented to leave. She kissed me goodbye, and made a good job of it, since we were spared catcalls and a month's worth of innuendos from Peter. One of these days, I must chide him most sincerely about his immature behavior on such occasions. Since he wasn't there, I was able to respond to Janine in kind. Only the nurse coming in to check my vital signs ended our farewell.

I was lying there, smiling faintly, anticipating the guys' return when I heard a hesitant voice.

"Egon?"

I lifted my head and there was Raymond, standing all by himself in the doorway. He wore a tentative expression, complicated by the degree of swelling around his eyes. There were red splotches here and there on the rest of his face and left ear. To deal with the severity of the swelling, his fingers propped open his puffy eyelids just far enough to allow him vision. Peter had promised to see that Ray was examined before he brought him to visit me. The sight of him standing there steadfast and uneasy was what I needed to complete my cure. Time to change that expression on his face to a more positive one.

"Ray, thank god you're all right. We were very worried about you." I wanted to make that point first, to reinforce the fact that it would have never occurred to me to blame him for the thrower accident, that my main concern had been for him.

"Me? I was okay, just a little turned around. You're the one...." His voice trailed off and he ventured a couple of wary steps into the room. "I didn't mean to--" he began.

"Raymond Stantz, if you actually dare to apologize for what couldn't have been prevented--"

"Well, it coulda," he insisted as stubbornly as only he could manage. "I had no business firing the thrower when I couldn't see. Yeah, it was an accident, but it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been so careless."

"You still had some vision when you fired, Ray," I pointed out. "Your eyes weren't completely swollen shut then, and the ghost was attacking us." When he opened his mouth to argue, I made a broad gesture with my hand--his vision couldn't be at peak efficiency or he'd have seen from my expression that there was no need for further recriminations. "I refuse to allow you one second of blame for the accident. Now it seems the ghost wasn't even completely at fault, or no more than Peter is when he does something stupid simply because he's Peter." The protesting howl from the corridor outside reassured me that Peter was standing by as I'd expected, ready to jump in if needed. I'd raised my voice deliberately.

Ray ignored my amusement at Peter's reaction. "But you almost died."

"But," I reminded him patiently, "I didn't."

"You knew the job was tough when you took it," Peter called from the hall. I knew him well enough to be certain there would be retaliation for my remark. He didn't come into the room. He must have known only I could reassure Ray completely this time.

Ray produced a little grin in Peter's direction, then he turned to me. "I'm sorry, Egon. Even if you guys don't want me to say it, I have to."

"Nobody says you can't be sorry, Ray. But if you apologize, you must then accept my response. Anything else is unfair to me. And my response is that I do not blame you, that I am relieved we are both going to be all right, and that we should move on and put the incident behind us."

He took a couple of steps closer until he was right up against the bed. "Really?"

"Of course, really," I said in as careless a tone as I could manage, to let him know I had no intention of dwelling on it, or making it more important than it needed to be. "Now, Raymond, I want to hear about this ghost of yours. Peter said you intended to find a way to return it to its own dimension."

I saw the tension leak away from him, and his hands dropped and fumbled for mine. I put them out and grasped his. We held on a moment, then he let go, and already his excitement was building. He groped for the visitor's chair and dragged it over beside the bed. "Gosh, Egon, just wait until I tell you about Joe. It's gonna be so great. He's just a little kid ghost and all he wants is to go home. I know we can find where he crossed over and help him." His mouth curved up in a typical Ray smile, and I felt myself smiling in return--until I saw Peter looming in the doorway.

"When Peter does something stupid just because he's Peter?" he echoed me sternly. "Who was it, I ask you, who decided to store his molds in the refrigerator--right next to the leftover casserole and forgot to check which one he put on the table for dinner?" When I attempted to interrupt, he held up his hand to check me. "No way, Spengs, I'm on a roll. And then there's Ray, bringing home a ghost with honking big teeth and toxic slime. So let's forget about the unlikelihood of Venkman stupidity and move right on to more appropriate topics of conversation--like my upcoming press conference. I'm gonna be so great. Fame. Fortune. Glory. Well," he added consideringly, "fame and glory anyway." He only shut up because Winston came into the room behind him and poked him hard in the ribs and rumpled his hair. It didn't do to let Peter get away with such behavior. Peter let out an anguished cry and jumped away, hands raised to protect his 'do'.

Ray's face crinkled up into a delighted smile, full of relief and happiness, and then he cracked up laughing.

*****

Peter

The only good thing about having Old Teeth up on the roof was that it chased Slimer away. He'd venture in, realize the slime devil was lurking, shriek piercingly enough to shatter my eardrums and then he'd be gone again for hours and hours.

I didn't like the thought of ever encountering that slime again, even if my arm was a lot better. The itching was pretty much over--unless I really thought about it, and there was an expanding space between the shrinking blotches. The swelling around Ray's eyes had gone down enough that he could see again--the doctor's examination showed no injury, thank goodness. The return of his vision meant I couldn't sneak up on him and pull jokes on him, but I'd mostly done that so he'd know we weren't mad at him for the thrower accident. I didn't want to see that wistful, little boy, I've-been-bad expression he can produce at the drop of a hat. I know for a fact he's used it on me a time or two when he didn't think he'd been bad, but he has a reprehensible sense of humor--how's that for a big word, Spengs?--and sometimes he'll pull pranks on me. I kinda like it when he does that, though I'll never let him know.

Egon was released yesterday morning, and all of us, including Janine, went to fetch him. He gave a pretty lame imitation of a sick man, although Doctor Laughton said to keep him home from any major busts until the following day. Since Ray still couldn't see well enough, and my arm was still puffy, we voted the day a holiday.

Before we started our downtime, I insisted on a little experiment. I brought Ray his thrower and made him put it on. His face whitened.

"Now, let's see you with your thrower, Ray."

He hesitated, cast an anguished glance at me, and then turned to Egon. Egon's face was slightly pale and his muscles had tightened. Yep, I was right not to wait. Everybody forgave everybody, but human nature can always throw a few curves.

I grinned encouragingly. "Come on, Tex, fastest draw in the west."

He curled his fingers around the thrower. Winston held his breath. So did Egon. I was encouraged to see that, in spite of his tension, Egon's body language willed Ray on. Ray spotted that, too. His hand shook a little as he drew the thrower. I knew it would have been worse if he'd waited.

"Good, good," I said in my best Doctor Freud voice. "Now power up."

Winston grimaced at my miserable failure at an Austrian accent, but Egon and Ray didn't notice. Both of them watched the thrower as Ray held it. Then Ray lifted his eyes to Egon. Egon smiled rather sickly. Ray's return smile was every bit as weak.

"Ah, yes." I walked around them in a big circle. "Classic reaction. Make a note of this, Janine. Where's your steno pad? I want to write this up for my next article." I stroked my chin in as professorial an attitude as I could manage. "I see a Pulitzer with my name on it."

Ray and Egon whipped their heads around and stared at me. I saw hastily concealed amusement in both their expressions. Egon groaned.

"Peter. Never try to seek employment as an actor."

"What, never?" I wailed. "I thought I was pretty good."

Two heads shook in perfect unison. "Nah," Ray replied. "Better stay a Ghostbuster. That's where the money is." He glanced down at his thrower then up at Egon. Egon nodded.

Both of them relaxed. I knew they'd probably still feel the tension for a bust or two, but I thought the worst was past. They'd proved they could handle it, at least in a controlled situation. Damn, I'm good when I put my mind to it. I nodded to Ray to holster up, took his pack, and passed it over to Winston to return to Ecto. Then I draped my arms around my two buddies' shoulders. "So, did we learn a nice little lesson, courtesy of the famed Doctor Venkman?" I prompted.

"Yeah, that the famed Doctor Venkman is full of himself," Ray retorted gleefully. He sounded slap-happy.

"Well, we've always known that, Raymond," Egon concurred.

"When one's so close to perfect, it's hard not to be," I defended myself.

Winston came back and the three of them descended on me like avenging furies and totally destroyed my hairstyle. It wasn't fair. Put myself out to help, and see what happens.

When they finally let me go, they were smiling, so I decided I'd just have to live with it.

After my little test, Ray and Egon retreated to the lab where they conferred for hours in science speak. Some of the time, they even let Mister Teeth come in, with strict instructions not to touch anything, or drip slime on anyone, and to do exactly as Egon said. I was glad they clarified it. Ray was too much of a softie to be strict enough. Egon might become carried away in his fascination with meter readings, but he wouldn't allow any of us to risk anaphylactic shock. He made sure I had my epi pen in hand if I even crossed the hall outside the lab when Joe was inside.

Joe. Heck of a name for a Class Five. A kid Class Five, too. I didn't mention it to the guys, but I felt sorry for Joe; he was pretty much lost, a runaway who'd changed his mind and then couldn't find his way home.

Egon caught me up on the roof talking to Joe not once but twice. The second time just a little while ago.

"Hell, yes, uh, I mean, heck yes, your folks will be glad to see you," I was insisting.

"They'll be mad."

"At first they will, but they wouldn't be mad if they didn't care about you. That's what good parents do. They might yell at you a lot--at least human parents would, and yours sound like they have the same instincts. But all the while they're yelling, what they're really saying is that they love you. They wouldn't have been so worried if they didn't."

The ugly fanged face transformed. He still wouldn't win any beauty contests, but for the first time I could see past the 'nasty' ghost that had nearly cost a couple of buddies their lives. He was scared, he was lost, and all he wanted to do was go home. "That's what they'll do," he conceded. "I don't mind if they yell."