The next couple of days were quiet ones for the Ghostbusters. Egon and
Winston handled a few minor calls, but Peter categorically insisted that
all major assignments be deferred to a time when all four were back on
active duty status. This last strained Janine's limited powers of
diplomacy to their utmost when several prospective customers demanded
immediate service. Only Peter's timely intervention saved one caller a
lambasting guaranteed to reduce him to a whimpering puddle of ectoplasm had
it been delivered. "... and I'm telling you...."
Janine's drop dead tone had brought Peter out of his office at a run. Having worked with the sharp-tongued secretary nearly four years, he knew the signals of imminent explosion. He snatched the receiver from her fist before she could launch into what sounded like a promising monologue. Unfortunately, he'd used his burned arm for the task. Cursing, he switched hands, ignoring his secretary's offended "Hey!" with nary a glance. "Ghostbusters Central, Doctor Peter Venkman here. May I help you?"
"Cowabunga, dude," a voice replied in the accents of pure Muscle Beach. "I was just rappin' with this really hitching chick, man. You know, cool to the max, about a far out event what happened to my buddies and me."
"Yes, sir," Venkman replied, visions of Beverly Hills cash and paid California vacations dancing a pretty pas de deux through his mind. "Why don't you tell me about it, Mr....?"
"Wilder, man. My friends call me Pipeline."
"Of course they do," Peter acknowledged smoothly. "Why not tell me what happened ... urn ... 'Pipeline'?" He winked at Janine, who glared.
"Simone, man. It was like this: my mates and I were tooling down the highway, see, when we come on this really excellent beach. Well, these noises were coming from the surf, then this rude dude pops through the dune...."
"I see, I see." Peter cut him short, already sorry he'd stuck his nose into Janine's business. "And you want us to clear away any PKE anomalies so that you and your friends can access this stretch of beach for your own uses, right?"
"You got it, dude," Pipeline confirmed, obviously having understood Peter's question.
"I doubt that'll be much of a problem." The psychologist practically rubbed his hands together as they got down to his favorite subject. "Our standard fee is $1,500 for a single entrapment, multiple entities are extra, of course. And then there's airfare...."
"Airfare?" the caller interrupted puzzledly. "To New Jersey?"
"New Jersey!" Venkman's vacation plans whimpered and died. "You're not from California?"
"I could have told you that. Dr. Venkman," Janine sniffed. "He doesn't have any money, either."
"Oh." Pipeline made to continue, but Peter had already turned the phone over to the secretary, pretending not to notice her sneer. "You want to get Pipeline's number, Ms Melnitz? We'll get back to him... sometime." He snatched ECTO's keys from a hook and headed for the car. "I'm going to the hospital; Ray's getting discharged today."
"Already?" Janine dropped the receiver into its cradle, cutting Pipeline off at the dock. "I thought he was supposed to stay there until Friday."
"He was." Peter chuckled at the memory of his friend's overwhelming desire to come home. Ray had run the gamut from demanding to threatening to pleading, his persistence paying off when the physician had finally agreed to release him several days early, "... in order," the doctor had growled, "to prevent my letting a little blood myself!"
And so Ray Stantz was returned home and, by the end of the week, Ghostbusters Central had returned to its more or less natural state of ordered chaos. Today was no exception: Winston and Egon had gotten up early to answer a routine summons from a woman in Queens who suspected that her cat was possessed by the spirit of Elizabeth the First. Sensing little peril in return for a hefty consultation fee in the visit, Janine had accepted the call and the two able Ghostbusters prepared to go out.
"I don't really need backup on this one," Winston had protested, while the two prepared to leave. "Worst I'm likely to face today is some poor pussycat with a furball."
Peter had immediately overruled the objection with Ray's vocal support. "We work as a team," the occultist had asserted firmly, "or we don't work at all." Thus, the matter settled, Winston pulled Ecto-1 out of the garage and into the morning traffic, leaving the firehouse quiet and more than a bit empty.
Self-adhesed to the ceiling, Slimer dozed, occasionally snuffling to himself. Peter, on the other hand, seized the opportunity to work out. Choosing a light weight, he began one of the seemingly endless repetitions prescribed for his arm. The burn had been a painful one, but fortunately not deep enough to cause any serious tissue destruction. It did, however, still hurt, so he took his time, curling and uncurling muscles, tendons and skin with a fluid grace. He didn't mind the routine; slim but well-muscled, Peter was proud of his body and enjoyed any opportunity to make it work for him.
Stretched full-length on the sofa, Ray watched the half-stripped figure enviously. It was Peter who had introduced him to the joys and benefits of physical exertion, and Ray had embraced the philosophy avidly. Oftentimes, he would work out with Peter, other times he would exercise alone, reveling in the stretch and play of solid flesh. And Venkman hadn't told him the half about the benefits for, forty pounds lighter and feeling better than he ever had, he was still flabbergasted by the unmistakably lecherous looks and proposals women routinely threw his way when he jogged. Hooked on the entire package, Ray begrudged even one day when he had to forego the PT routine he followed.
Today, though, forbidden to do anything more strenuous than punch the button on the TV remote, Ray could only watch his friend as Peter put himself through a series of contortions which would have made any guru cringe. Depressed, headachy and bored, Ray turned on the set, resigned to yet another afternoon of mindless viewing.
"...and behind door number two...."
[Click]
"Da-da-da dat's all, folks!"
[Click]
"Oh, Dave...."
"Oh, Susan...."
"Oh, Will...."
[Click]
Peter's ears pricked up like a cat's at that last. "You want to back that channel up, Ray?" he requested, tossing the weight into a corner. "I'm not sure I heard what I thought I heard."
Stantz tossed him the selector, and Peter switched back to one of TV's newest "steamy" soaps. Right now, the screen showed a heap of half- clothed bodies writhing in the throes of what had to be either passion or acute indigestion. Seating himself on the floor in front of the sofa, Peter began doing sit-ups, his eyes never leaving the screen.
"You know," he panted when one particularly athletic young woman improbably named 'Chastity' announced to the group at large that she had an inoperable tumor, was seven months pregnant, and the father's name was 'Gloria,' "this reminds me of a frat party I went to in my sophomore year. There was this girl who...." He launched into an outrageous anecdote recounting the adventures of two women, a football player, and several helium balloons, rattling on for several minutes. It wasn't until the first commercial that he became aware of a conspicuous silence behind him. He ceased his sit-ups and dragged his attention away from the television to glance at his friend. "Ray?" No reply. Stantz was oblivious to either Chastity's capers or Peter's story. He sat, chin propped on fist, and the expression in his eyes was very far away indeed.
"Wakey, wakey, Raymond," Venkman called, slapping the other man on the leg. "Sleeping with your eyes open is a sign of acute dementia."
Stantz blinked twice, returning to the present with a start. "Huh?"
Peter sighed. "Did anyone ever tell you what a sparkling conversationalist you were?" he asked, rolling his eyes comically.
Ray offered him a sheepish grin. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"
"Obviously nothing you were interested in hearing," the psychologist replied huffily, but there was no heat in his words. Venkman stood and stretched, sucking huge gulps of air into his lungs, then expelling them slowly. "Well?"
"Well ... what?" the other replied guilelessly enough, but he shifted uncomfortably when Venkman shot him a piercing look.
"So why...?" Their private phone jangled and Peter stooped to pick it up. "Yaa-llo. Oh, hi, Buffy. No, just knocking around. You were thinking of doing ... what?" He listened intently, a slow flush working its way up his neck. "Didn't I just see that on a soap opera?" he asked, sticking his tongue out at Ray and panting heavily. His antics went unremarked by the other man; Ray had already returned to his intense scrutiny of the far wall, again walking paths far removed from the pleasant sitting room. Peter frowned.
"Yes, uh ... listen, baby, that all sounds great, but why don't you let me get back to you on it later. No ... yes ... later." He hung up, not without a pang of regret, then gave his oblivious friend a sharp rap on the leg. "You used to like my college stories," he said dryly. "Have I gotten really boring? Or was she really gorgeous -- and naked?"
Stantz blushed. "I wasn't thinking about a girl, Peter!"
Venkman settled himself at the opposite end of the sofa and draped one arm familiarly over his friend's stockinged feet. "Then what were you thinking about?" he asked gently.
Across the room Oprah Winfrey's warm contralto replaced the heavy breathing of the previous series. An off-stage announcer introduced today's guests, proponents of legalized clothing-optional establishments. Having seen the same topic discussed on Geraldo just the day before, Venkman clicked the set off.
The sudden silence was tense, a far cry from the comfortable warmth the four usually shared. Peter shook his friend's leg. "You were about to tell me what you were thinking?" he pursued.
A triangular paperweight secured a stack of unpaid bills to the coffee table. Carved from a single crystal, it caught the morning sun, throwing off a kaleidoscope of color onto the walls. Ray picked it up, turning it over and over in his hands, studying the fiery core as though it were the most important thing on the planet. Peter waited quietly, and finally Ray looked up, meeting the psychologist's encouraging green eyes with a hooded, almost defiant gaze. "I was thinking about the corruption of the soul," he said at last.
"Oh." Peter cocked his head, regarding the younger man with an enigmatic expression. "And what would you know about that?" he asked lightly. "Not that I haven't tried to steer you in the right direction...."
"Knock it off. Peter." A rare testy note crept into the occultist's voice. "I'm not stupid, you know." He dropped his eyes again, preferring to stare into the bottomless heart of the stone. "I ...I know what Lordaine was going to do to me," he admitted in a hushed voice. "And to you."
Silence. Then, "No, Ray, you're not stupid." This last was so unexpected that Stantz raised his head at once. "You're not stupid," Peter went on, "and it'd be pretty hard not to know what Lordaine had planned for you -- for us all." He shuddered. "But that's not what's bothering you, is it?"
Ray couldn't repress an admiring smile. "How did you know that?"
Peter rubbed at a nonexistent beard and settled invisible pince nez more firmly onto his nose Egon-style. "Because I," he announced in an atrocious German accent, "am ze dok-tor here." Ray laughed, which was exactly what the psychologist had intended. "That's better," he encouraged. "Now do you want to tell your dear old Uncle Peter what the problem is?"
Ray sighed and ran a hand through his auburn hair. "It wasn't Lordaine so much," he explained quietly. "It was all those other ghosts with him."
"Them?" Peter frowned. "They were minor class two's for the most part. What do they have to do with...?"
"They used to be people. Peter," Ray interrupted. "They watched what happened to us ... and they were enjoying it." He sagged, suddenly weary, but his eyes pleaded for understanding. "They watched you getting hurt, Winston almost fell to his death, and me...." He stopped. "Well, they were laughing, Peter -- cheering Lordaine on. I heard them," he added, as though he didn't expect to be believed.
"Okay." Venkman held up a conciliatory hand. "But that's par for the course, pal. You're going to find people -- alive or dead -- like that wherever you go."
"But so many...."
"Maybe," Pete interrupted curtly in a tone which brooked no argument, "that's what we're here for -- because four billion good guys in this world need our ..." He spread his hands wide, encompassing the entire firehall and, by association, Egon and Winston as well. "... protection."
Ray looked thoughtful. "That's what I've always believed, but...."
"Believe it." Peter clapped his friend on the leg again just as a clatter from the stairs announced the return of the prodigal members of the team. "Yo, bro," he called as Winston's curly head cleared the stairway. "How goes it with the puss from hell? Did you get 'littered'?" He chortled at his own joke.
"Very funny." Winston somehow managed to look amused, disgusted and smug all at once. "The call didn't go exactly the way we expected. I mean, we get there and...." He broke off to stick his head back down the stairway. "Oh, Eeee-gonnn. Can you come up here a minute?"
A heavy tread heralded the arrival of the tall blond. He ascended the steps slowly, cradling a cardboard box from which emitted a strange, high- pitched squalling. Slimer left his perch, looking curious.
"What do you have there?" Peter asked, gaining his feet. His smooth face puckered in alarm. "My god, that's not...?"
"Yep." Winston plucked the crate from Egon's arms and deposited the whole thing in an astonished Ray's lap. "Kittens."
"Kittens?" Peter echoed, horrified.
"Kittens!" Ray picked up one of the meowing balls of fluff and held it gently to his cheek. The mother cat watched him warily then, apparently deciding he was no threat to her baby, sat down and began to lick her ginger fur. "I used to have a cat," he said, crooning to the little animal softly. His expression again turned inward, but this time it was a pleasant experience rather than horror relived. Unseen by the occultist -- but not unnoticed by Egon -- Peter nodded, satisfied.
"This is your possessed cat?" Venkman asked, scratching the ginger cat under the chin. She hissed and took an annoyed swipe at him, claws extended. He jerked his hand back with a yelp. "Yikes! Are you sure she isn't possessed?"
"PKE readings show normal." A straying black-and-tan made a break for freedom; Egon scooped it back into the box. "Queen Elizabeth has not decided to invade the feline world. Unfortunately, Mrs. Harsworthy was very annoyed that her 'possessed' cat turned out to be nothing more trendy than pregnant."
"Yeah, but what are we going to do with them?" Winston interjected. "This ain't no city pound, you know."
"Can't we keep them?" Ray stared at each of his friends in turn, the longing apparent in his pleading expression. "Please? I'll take care of them -- I promise! Can we?"
Peter couldn't help it. This was such a typical Stantz-thing to say that he couldn't hold in his delight. The laugh started low in his belly, then worked its way past his teeth, emerging in a great, merry snort. Without a word, Peter Venkman threw back his head and roared.
The other three could only stare until the psychologist's mirth had run its course. Soon, Peter lay sprawled on the couch panting for breath. "What would ... what would we name them?" he gasped, when he could breathe again. "Manny, Moe and Jack?" He forced himself to his feet and lifted the black kitten from the box, ruffling Ray's hair in passing. He peered solemnly into gold eyes held level to his own. "What do you think about that, huh, cat? How about Seymour?"
"How about Moe, Larry and Curly?" Winston suggested.
"How about Athanasius...." Egon began.
"NO! " chorused from three throats, silencing the physicist at once.
"Oh." Egon subsided into offended silence and retreated to an easy chair in the corner, looking sulky.
Ray lifted the last miniature feline from its box and nestled it close. The tiny creature uttered a loud mewl, then curled up into a ball, purring contently. "It doesn't matter what we call them," Ray asserted, moving the box so that the ginger cat could join her offspring on his lap, "as long as they're here and safe. That's all that matters."
Peter regarded his youngest colleague with a warm twinkle, then met Egon's eyes and smiled. "It may not be the only thing that matters," he said, very, very softly, "but at least it's a start."
***
finish
Janine's drop dead tone had brought Peter out of his office at a run. Having worked with the sharp-tongued secretary nearly four years, he knew the signals of imminent explosion. He snatched the receiver from her fist before she could launch into what sounded like a promising monologue. Unfortunately, he'd used his burned arm for the task. Cursing, he switched hands, ignoring his secretary's offended "Hey!" with nary a glance. "Ghostbusters Central, Doctor Peter Venkman here. May I help you?"
"Cowabunga, dude," a voice replied in the accents of pure Muscle Beach. "I was just rappin' with this really hitching chick, man. You know, cool to the max, about a far out event what happened to my buddies and me."
"Yes, sir," Venkman replied, visions of Beverly Hills cash and paid California vacations dancing a pretty pas de deux through his mind. "Why don't you tell me about it, Mr....?"
"Wilder, man. My friends call me Pipeline."
"Of course they do," Peter acknowledged smoothly. "Why not tell me what happened ... urn ... 'Pipeline'?" He winked at Janine, who glared.
"Simone, man. It was like this: my mates and I were tooling down the highway, see, when we come on this really excellent beach. Well, these noises were coming from the surf, then this rude dude pops through the dune...."
"I see, I see." Peter cut him short, already sorry he'd stuck his nose into Janine's business. "And you want us to clear away any PKE anomalies so that you and your friends can access this stretch of beach for your own uses, right?"
"You got it, dude," Pipeline confirmed, obviously having understood Peter's question.
"I doubt that'll be much of a problem." The psychologist practically rubbed his hands together as they got down to his favorite subject. "Our standard fee is $1,500 for a single entrapment, multiple entities are extra, of course. And then there's airfare...."
"Airfare?" the caller interrupted puzzledly. "To New Jersey?"
"New Jersey!" Venkman's vacation plans whimpered and died. "You're not from California?"
"I could have told you that. Dr. Venkman," Janine sniffed. "He doesn't have any money, either."
"Oh." Pipeline made to continue, but Peter had already turned the phone over to the secretary, pretending not to notice her sneer. "You want to get Pipeline's number, Ms Melnitz? We'll get back to him... sometime." He snatched ECTO's keys from a hook and headed for the car. "I'm going to the hospital; Ray's getting discharged today."
"Already?" Janine dropped the receiver into its cradle, cutting Pipeline off at the dock. "I thought he was supposed to stay there until Friday."
"He was." Peter chuckled at the memory of his friend's overwhelming desire to come home. Ray had run the gamut from demanding to threatening to pleading, his persistence paying off when the physician had finally agreed to release him several days early, "... in order," the doctor had growled, "to prevent my letting a little blood myself!"
And so Ray Stantz was returned home and, by the end of the week, Ghostbusters Central had returned to its more or less natural state of ordered chaos. Today was no exception: Winston and Egon had gotten up early to answer a routine summons from a woman in Queens who suspected that her cat was possessed by the spirit of Elizabeth the First. Sensing little peril in return for a hefty consultation fee in the visit, Janine had accepted the call and the two able Ghostbusters prepared to go out.
"I don't really need backup on this one," Winston had protested, while the two prepared to leave. "Worst I'm likely to face today is some poor pussycat with a furball."
Peter had immediately overruled the objection with Ray's vocal support. "We work as a team," the occultist had asserted firmly, "or we don't work at all." Thus, the matter settled, Winston pulled Ecto-1 out of the garage and into the morning traffic, leaving the firehouse quiet and more than a bit empty.
Self-adhesed to the ceiling, Slimer dozed, occasionally snuffling to himself. Peter, on the other hand, seized the opportunity to work out. Choosing a light weight, he began one of the seemingly endless repetitions prescribed for his arm. The burn had been a painful one, but fortunately not deep enough to cause any serious tissue destruction. It did, however, still hurt, so he took his time, curling and uncurling muscles, tendons and skin with a fluid grace. He didn't mind the routine; slim but well-muscled, Peter was proud of his body and enjoyed any opportunity to make it work for him.
Stretched full-length on the sofa, Ray watched the half-stripped figure enviously. It was Peter who had introduced him to the joys and benefits of physical exertion, and Ray had embraced the philosophy avidly. Oftentimes, he would work out with Peter, other times he would exercise alone, reveling in the stretch and play of solid flesh. And Venkman hadn't told him the half about the benefits for, forty pounds lighter and feeling better than he ever had, he was still flabbergasted by the unmistakably lecherous looks and proposals women routinely threw his way when he jogged. Hooked on the entire package, Ray begrudged even one day when he had to forego the PT routine he followed.
Today, though, forbidden to do anything more strenuous than punch the button on the TV remote, Ray could only watch his friend as Peter put himself through a series of contortions which would have made any guru cringe. Depressed, headachy and bored, Ray turned on the set, resigned to yet another afternoon of mindless viewing.
"...and behind door number two...."
[Click]
"Da-da-da dat's all, folks!"
[Click]
"Oh, Dave...."
"Oh, Susan...."
"Oh, Will...."
[Click]
Peter's ears pricked up like a cat's at that last. "You want to back that channel up, Ray?" he requested, tossing the weight into a corner. "I'm not sure I heard what I thought I heard."
Stantz tossed him the selector, and Peter switched back to one of TV's newest "steamy" soaps. Right now, the screen showed a heap of half- clothed bodies writhing in the throes of what had to be either passion or acute indigestion. Seating himself on the floor in front of the sofa, Peter began doing sit-ups, his eyes never leaving the screen.
"You know," he panted when one particularly athletic young woman improbably named 'Chastity' announced to the group at large that she had an inoperable tumor, was seven months pregnant, and the father's name was 'Gloria,' "this reminds me of a frat party I went to in my sophomore year. There was this girl who...." He launched into an outrageous anecdote recounting the adventures of two women, a football player, and several helium balloons, rattling on for several minutes. It wasn't until the first commercial that he became aware of a conspicuous silence behind him. He ceased his sit-ups and dragged his attention away from the television to glance at his friend. "Ray?" No reply. Stantz was oblivious to either Chastity's capers or Peter's story. He sat, chin propped on fist, and the expression in his eyes was very far away indeed.
"Wakey, wakey, Raymond," Venkman called, slapping the other man on the leg. "Sleeping with your eyes open is a sign of acute dementia."
Stantz blinked twice, returning to the present with a start. "Huh?"
Peter sighed. "Did anyone ever tell you what a sparkling conversationalist you were?" he asked, rolling his eyes comically.
Ray offered him a sheepish grin. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"
"Obviously nothing you were interested in hearing," the psychologist replied huffily, but there was no heat in his words. Venkman stood and stretched, sucking huge gulps of air into his lungs, then expelling them slowly. "Well?"
"Well ... what?" the other replied guilelessly enough, but he shifted uncomfortably when Venkman shot him a piercing look.
"So why...?" Their private phone jangled and Peter stooped to pick it up. "Yaa-llo. Oh, hi, Buffy. No, just knocking around. You were thinking of doing ... what?" He listened intently, a slow flush working its way up his neck. "Didn't I just see that on a soap opera?" he asked, sticking his tongue out at Ray and panting heavily. His antics went unremarked by the other man; Ray had already returned to his intense scrutiny of the far wall, again walking paths far removed from the pleasant sitting room. Peter frowned.
"Yes, uh ... listen, baby, that all sounds great, but why don't you let me get back to you on it later. No ... yes ... later." He hung up, not without a pang of regret, then gave his oblivious friend a sharp rap on the leg. "You used to like my college stories," he said dryly. "Have I gotten really boring? Or was she really gorgeous -- and naked?"
Stantz blushed. "I wasn't thinking about a girl, Peter!"
Venkman settled himself at the opposite end of the sofa and draped one arm familiarly over his friend's stockinged feet. "Then what were you thinking about?" he asked gently.
Across the room Oprah Winfrey's warm contralto replaced the heavy breathing of the previous series. An off-stage announcer introduced today's guests, proponents of legalized clothing-optional establishments. Having seen the same topic discussed on Geraldo just the day before, Venkman clicked the set off.
The sudden silence was tense, a far cry from the comfortable warmth the four usually shared. Peter shook his friend's leg. "You were about to tell me what you were thinking?" he pursued.
A triangular paperweight secured a stack of unpaid bills to the coffee table. Carved from a single crystal, it caught the morning sun, throwing off a kaleidoscope of color onto the walls. Ray picked it up, turning it over and over in his hands, studying the fiery core as though it were the most important thing on the planet. Peter waited quietly, and finally Ray looked up, meeting the psychologist's encouraging green eyes with a hooded, almost defiant gaze. "I was thinking about the corruption of the soul," he said at last.
"Oh." Peter cocked his head, regarding the younger man with an enigmatic expression. "And what would you know about that?" he asked lightly. "Not that I haven't tried to steer you in the right direction...."
"Knock it off. Peter." A rare testy note crept into the occultist's voice. "I'm not stupid, you know." He dropped his eyes again, preferring to stare into the bottomless heart of the stone. "I ...I know what Lordaine was going to do to me," he admitted in a hushed voice. "And to you."
Silence. Then, "No, Ray, you're not stupid." This last was so unexpected that Stantz raised his head at once. "You're not stupid," Peter went on, "and it'd be pretty hard not to know what Lordaine had planned for you -- for us all." He shuddered. "But that's not what's bothering you, is it?"
Ray couldn't repress an admiring smile. "How did you know that?"
Peter rubbed at a nonexistent beard and settled invisible pince nez more firmly onto his nose Egon-style. "Because I," he announced in an atrocious German accent, "am ze dok-tor here." Ray laughed, which was exactly what the psychologist had intended. "That's better," he encouraged. "Now do you want to tell your dear old Uncle Peter what the problem is?"
Ray sighed and ran a hand through his auburn hair. "It wasn't Lordaine so much," he explained quietly. "It was all those other ghosts with him."
"Them?" Peter frowned. "They were minor class two's for the most part. What do they have to do with...?"
"They used to be people. Peter," Ray interrupted. "They watched what happened to us ... and they were enjoying it." He sagged, suddenly weary, but his eyes pleaded for understanding. "They watched you getting hurt, Winston almost fell to his death, and me...." He stopped. "Well, they were laughing, Peter -- cheering Lordaine on. I heard them," he added, as though he didn't expect to be believed.
"Okay." Venkman held up a conciliatory hand. "But that's par for the course, pal. You're going to find people -- alive or dead -- like that wherever you go."
"But so many...."
"Maybe," Pete interrupted curtly in a tone which brooked no argument, "that's what we're here for -- because four billion good guys in this world need our ..." He spread his hands wide, encompassing the entire firehall and, by association, Egon and Winston as well. "... protection."
Ray looked thoughtful. "That's what I've always believed, but...."
"Believe it." Peter clapped his friend on the leg again just as a clatter from the stairs announced the return of the prodigal members of the team. "Yo, bro," he called as Winston's curly head cleared the stairway. "How goes it with the puss from hell? Did you get 'littered'?" He chortled at his own joke.
"Very funny." Winston somehow managed to look amused, disgusted and smug all at once. "The call didn't go exactly the way we expected. I mean, we get there and...." He broke off to stick his head back down the stairway. "Oh, Eeee-gonnn. Can you come up here a minute?"
A heavy tread heralded the arrival of the tall blond. He ascended the steps slowly, cradling a cardboard box from which emitted a strange, high- pitched squalling. Slimer left his perch, looking curious.
"What do you have there?" Peter asked, gaining his feet. His smooth face puckered in alarm. "My god, that's not...?"
"Yep." Winston plucked the crate from Egon's arms and deposited the whole thing in an astonished Ray's lap. "Kittens."
"Kittens?" Peter echoed, horrified.
"Kittens!" Ray picked up one of the meowing balls of fluff and held it gently to his cheek. The mother cat watched him warily then, apparently deciding he was no threat to her baby, sat down and began to lick her ginger fur. "I used to have a cat," he said, crooning to the little animal softly. His expression again turned inward, but this time it was a pleasant experience rather than horror relived. Unseen by the occultist -- but not unnoticed by Egon -- Peter nodded, satisfied.
"This is your possessed cat?" Venkman asked, scratching the ginger cat under the chin. She hissed and took an annoyed swipe at him, claws extended. He jerked his hand back with a yelp. "Yikes! Are you sure she isn't possessed?"
"PKE readings show normal." A straying black-and-tan made a break for freedom; Egon scooped it back into the box. "Queen Elizabeth has not decided to invade the feline world. Unfortunately, Mrs. Harsworthy was very annoyed that her 'possessed' cat turned out to be nothing more trendy than pregnant."
"Yeah, but what are we going to do with them?" Winston interjected. "This ain't no city pound, you know."
"Can't we keep them?" Ray stared at each of his friends in turn, the longing apparent in his pleading expression. "Please? I'll take care of them -- I promise! Can we?"
Peter couldn't help it. This was such a typical Stantz-thing to say that he couldn't hold in his delight. The laugh started low in his belly, then worked its way past his teeth, emerging in a great, merry snort. Without a word, Peter Venkman threw back his head and roared.
The other three could only stare until the psychologist's mirth had run its course. Soon, Peter lay sprawled on the couch panting for breath. "What would ... what would we name them?" he gasped, when he could breathe again. "Manny, Moe and Jack?" He forced himself to his feet and lifted the black kitten from the box, ruffling Ray's hair in passing. He peered solemnly into gold eyes held level to his own. "What do you think about that, huh, cat? How about Seymour?"
"How about Moe, Larry and Curly?" Winston suggested.
"How about Athanasius...." Egon began.
"NO! " chorused from three throats, silencing the physicist at once.
"Oh." Egon subsided into offended silence and retreated to an easy chair in the corner, looking sulky.
Ray lifted the last miniature feline from its box and nestled it close. The tiny creature uttered a loud mewl, then curled up into a ball, purring contently. "It doesn't matter what we call them," Ray asserted, moving the box so that the ginger cat could join her offspring on his lap, "as long as they're here and safe. That's all that matters."
Peter regarded his youngest colleague with a warm twinkle, then met Egon's eyes and smiled. "It may not be the only thing that matters," he said, very, very softly, "but at least it's a start."
***
finish