Free Ghostbusters by Richard Mueller Page B

guessing.”
    With a bob the vapor started toward him.
    “Well, I think you guessed wrong. Here he comes!”
    “On my way.”
    “What do I do?”
    “Shoot it!”
    “Gaaaah!”
    Stantz came barreling out of the stairwell, checked his detector, and sprinted down the hallway, screaming, “Peter, hang on,” but when he got to the site Venkman was flat on his back, his arms and legs flailing frantically, his body covered from head to belt in thick yellow ectoplasm.
    “Gross.”
    “Aaaagh, aaagh!” Venkman cried, spitting a glob of the disgusting stuff from his mouth “It slimed me. The little mother slimed me!”
    “You all right?”
    Venkman spat again, his face screwed into an expression of extreme disgust. Stantz had never seen him look so angry. “I’m going to get that little grub if it’s the last thing I do. Nobody slimes Dr. Peter Venkman! Nobody!”
    “Where’d it go?”
    “That way.”
    They hurried back toward the elevators and found Spengler peering through the doorway of a banquet room. A sign announced: RECEPTION WELCOMIN THE TOKYO TRADE COUNCIL : 8:00 P.M. He slammed the door and put his back to it.
    “It’s in there. What happened to you?”
    “He got slimed. Did you bring the trap?”
    Spengler indicated a metal box the size of a toaster fixed to his belt and connected to a long coaxial cable. “We ready for this?”
    “I am,” Venkman growled. “Let’s get it.”
    “Right,” Ray agreed. “Visors down, full stream. Geronimo.”
    They tumbled into the room, closing the door behind them. It was an ornate formal banquet hall, high-ceilinged and ostentatious, hewn beams converging in the center at an immense crystal chandelier. A long line of buffet tables fronted one wall, piled high with food and a carved ice punch bowl. There was a fully stocked bar. Stantz looked at his watch. Seven forty-five. Only fifteen minutes to do the job before the room fills up with Japanese businessmen. “Do you see it?”
    “The food,” Venkman said grimly. “It’ll head for the food. Spread out.”
    The liquid in the punch bowl boiled and erupted a stream of yellow gas. The vapor surfaced, glaring at them.
    “Fire.”
    The searing energy bolts smashed the table, blowing food and broken bottles across the room, sending the vapor tumbling behind the bar. Stantz swung and fired.
    “No, not the mirror!” Spengler screamed, throwing himself flat as the energy stream diffracted into a thousand tiny fragments, speckling the walls like shrapnel. One of them tore away Venkman’s tool belt, making him dive under a table.
    “Ray!”
    “Sorry. Where’d it go?” They scanned the room, trying to ignore the burning buffet tables. In war there were casualties. Venkman heard a muffled pounding on the door.
    “Battle area, go away,” he shouted. Spengler touched his shoulder.
    “Peter, there’s something I—”
    “There, on the ceiling!” Stantz pointed toward the chandelier where the vapor was circling, using the glass and metal fixture for cover. He dropped to one knee and fired, tracking on the ghost, setting fire to the supporting beams. The sprinkler system kicked in. Venkman tried to cut off the thing’s escape but succeeded only in blowing half the chandelier to fragments. Stantz fired again and completed the job, the great lighting fixture plummeting down, breaking the back of a large dinner table. Silverware flew through the air.
    “My fault,” Stantz called. “I’ll pay for it.”
    “It’s probably insured. Where’d it go?”
    As if it had heard, the vapor peeked out from between the great support structure. Venkman raised his induction gun.
    “Wait, wait!” Spengler cried out urgently. “There’s something I forgot to tell you.”
    “What?”
    “ Don’t cross the streams!”
    “Why not?” Venkman asked suspiciously.
    “Trust me. It would be bad.”
    Venkman pushed back his visor and rubbed the ectoplasmic residue off his face. “Egon, I’m not your kind of scientist.