Free Ghostbusters by Richard Mueller Page A

consoled himself with an order of shrimp cocktail, not noticing the trail of yellowish stains along the wainscoting.
    Ray Stantz was standing very quietly in the center of an intersection, staring at his PKE meter. He had tracked the ghost down to the fifth floor and suddenly the needle was going crazy. Stantz tapped the mike on his headset.
    “Egon, I’ve got something. I’m moving in.”
    He headed cautiously down the hallway toward another T-intersection at the end, around which came the sounds of clinking plates and the faint smell of something old and ugly. He pulled down his induction gun, but held it pointed toward the floor. No sense in blowing away another maid, or some Puerto Rican busboy. Still, the readings and that smell. He turned the corner at the end.
    “Yaaah!”
    Twenty feet away, hovering over a room-service cart, was the object of his search: a free vapor, apparently composed of a series of compacted noxious gases, with a face like a misshapen potato and a pair of spindly arms. Stantz watched fascinated as it rummaged through the dishes, tossing some of them on the floor, and cramming leftover scraps into its mouth. It had to be the one. It matched perfectly with the manager’s description.
    “Ray. Where are you? Are you all right?” came Spengler’s voice over the radio.
    “Egon, you should see this thing. It’s so ugly.”
    The vapor raised a half-empty bottle of wine and chugged the remaining contents, the wine pouring through it and out onto the carpet. Satisfied with that trick, it tossed the bottle back over its head and began rooting around in the plates like a hog after truffles.
    “Where are you, Ray?”
    “Five south, I think. I’m moving in. I don’t think it’s seen me yet.”
    This time it downed a mass of half-eaten salad, which was obviously too spicy, for the thing sneezed, spattering the wall with greasy residue. It belched loudly and patted its rudimentary stomach. Stantz was disgusted.
    “Ugh, what a slob. I’m going to take him.” He snapped the visor down over his eyes and raised the induction rifle. “Freeze, Potatoface!”
    It turned toward him and let out a piercing scream as Stantz fired, tearing a flaming crater in the wallpaper. The vapor did a wingover and sped off down the hall, dragging the cart behind it. Stantz took off in pursuit, calling for Egon and Peter to watch for it, but when the ghost reached the end of the hallway, instead of turning, it passed right through the wall. The cart hit directly behind it and overturned, trashing the carpet as Stantz arrived. He peered at the wall, which had turned an ugly yellow. There were drops of ectoplasm oozing in thick, stringy trails from the spot. Well, at least I hit it. But where did it go?
    Venkman was steamed. He had wandered down to three and was leaning against a wall, pulling disconsolately on a cigarette and staring at the ceiling. This bites the big one, he thought. I actually work for a company called Ghostbusters. Not even I thought it would come to this. Beep, beep, beep. Beep?
    Venkman looked down at his PKE meter. The red light was burning and the thing was signaling wildly. Quickly Venkman keyed his headset. “Ray, something’s here.”
    “Where are you, Pete?”
    “Third floor. Get down here.” He unshipped the long induction rifle, and braced himself as the accelerator cut in with a whine.
    “Sit tight. I’m on my way.”
    “Well, hurry. It’s real close.”
    Suddenly, with a rattle of dishes, a room-service cart sailed past the end of the corridor, followed closely by a yellow-green floater trailing a haze of smog. Venkman goggled at it. The ghost stopped, turned, and goggled back. Venkman felt the blood drain out of his face.
    “It’s here, Ray,” he whispered. “It’s looking at me.”
    “Don’t move. It won’t hurt you.”
    “How do you know?” The vapor had begun to undulate from side to side, its attention still fixed on Venkman.
    “I don’t know. I’m just