It was something that had to be seen to believe. Even now, Ray was tempted to grab a camera and snap off a few blackmail pictures. Peter was sitting crosslegged on a pillow in the middle of the bunkroom floor meditating. Not at all what you'd expect of the action-oriented Dr. Venkman. Peter had studied meditative techniques as part of his parapsychology training, but it wasn't something that appealed to him.


"Life's too short to spend it contemplating your navel, Tex," he'd said once. "Even if it's as handsome a navel as mine."


But now Peter was practicing those techniques as regularly as any Zen monk in an attempt to keep sane, meditating on the image of a wall between himself and the rest of the world in order to build a "shield" to keep stray thoughts out. It worked in theory, but execution was another matter. Ray softly closed the door to the bunkroom and trudged over to the lab.


"Any luck, Egon?"


"I'm afraid not, Raymond," Egon said without looking up from the jumble of wires and circuits he was working on. "The power levels required to form an adequate shield are so high that they would cause serious injury if someone was to come in physical contact with the field."


Ray pulled over a couple of computer printouts and looked over the figures. This was his idea, which again, was sound in theory but execution was running into difficulties. Peter was able to shield...to a certain extent. It took half an hour to an hour's worth of meditation to build a shield, and they weren't by any means permanent. Over the course of the day, they faded to the point where Peter was scrambling for a quiet place to regroup and re-shield. After the third night of waking up to find Peter had gone down to sleep on the couch to be out of reach of his friends' dreams, Ray had begun to wonder if they could find a way to shield him from the outside using a variation on the fields they had developed to contain ghosts.


This should work, the engineer thought furiously. There's lots of telepathic entities in containment, and we don't get a peep out of them.


"But we don't need to completely recreate the containment field, Egon," Ray said as he looked over the data. "If we can somehow isolate the frequency human thought waves travel on..."


"If human thought is limited to a narrow band in the PKE spectrum, yes, we can construct a dampening field at a low enough power level to be feasible. However, we're talking about hundreds of thousands of frequencies, and I'm not sure how quickly we can narrow them down." Egon took his glasses off to rub his eyes. "Especially if Peter continues to be so reluctant to cooperate."


Ray sighed unhappily and slouched against the workbench. Several times over the last week they had tried to get Peter to participate in experiments to determine the extent of his gift only to be curtly (and sometimes loudly) rebuffed. The only thing he seemed to be interested in was shielding technique.


I get why he wants to keep it a secret. All he had to do was remind me of the Psi Corps on Babylon 5, and I got it. All kinds of people would want the world's only known telepath working only for them. But this...


"I don't get it, Egon," he finally said aloud. "Why doesn't he want to work with us? You'd think Peter'd be jumping at the chance to study this. But any suggestion that we try to study his ability, and he cuts us off."


Egon settled his glasses on his nose and looked thoughtfully toward the bunkroom. "I believe the joy of research would pall if you found yourself the subject," he observed. "Perhaps we shouldn't press him so hard. This has been an extremely traumatic experience for Peter. It may be advisable to hold off those investigations until he has better control."

"But that's just it," Ray protested. "I don't think he's trying to control it. Not really. It's more like he's trying to suppress it." He shook his head. "I'm worried, Egon. I really think it's going to get him into trouble. I wish he would let us tell Sara or Tabitha. They might have some ideas."


"Hmmmm...you may have a point," Egon said with a frown. "We should discuss this with him later."


"I think we should. Even if we have to hold him down to get him to listen to us," Ray agreed as he stood up. "Can you manage this solo for a while? I've got to go out this morning. I should be back before that bust we have scheduled at four."


The physicist looked up curiously. "Certainly, Ray. Where are you going?"


"To see Herman Schlitt."


Egon's eyes widened. "Are you sure that's wise? He isn't what you would call kindly disposed toward us."


"No, but he does owe us a favor," Ray answered, his hazel eyes darkening with determination. "And, frankly, we need to call it in. I've gotten next to nowhere with the Gaurnim aside from that one reference. Herman's the only source we haven't tried."


"We are in rather desperate need of information," Egon agreed, adjusting his glasses. "It's been a week, and there have been no further attacks on any of us. But we still have no idea of the Gaurnim's motivations." He frowned down at the workbench. "Get Winston to go with you. She may only be waiting for us to drop our guard."


Ray shrugged and headed for the door. "Okay, Egon. But I doubt she'll try to snatch me in the middle of a crowded subway."


"We can't take that chance. And be careful with Schlitt, Ray. Kobolds can be quite short tempered."


***


Beneath the streets of New York City, one hell of a party was going on. At least it sounded that way at a certain subway station. A local Irish folk band billed as "One Last Round" had set up by the north side entrance, and they were currently ripping the paint off the walls with a medley of reels and jigs. Brad Stubblefield, first fiddle and manager of the group, guided his crew to a rousing finale and sat back to bask in the glorious sound of applause and the even more glorious jingle of money as it rained into the open guitar case in front of them.


"Doesn't get any better than this," he murmured to his girlfriend as she carefully adjusted the fittings on her uillean pipes.


"Oh, I can think of some improvements," she said slyly. "Maybe a gig where there's some decent whiskey available?"


"Doin' my best, love. Let's start the next set with `The Clumsy Lover', then…"


"Hey, Stubbie!" the dulcimer player broke in, pointing with one of his hammers to the stairs from the street. "Lookie over there!"


The two men descending the stairs were in street clothes, but Brad recognized them. "Got ya, mate," he said, placing his instrument under his chin. "Change of plan, people. Two, three, four!"


And Ray and Winston were welcomed to the New York Transportation system by a Celtic rendition of the Ghostbusters Movie theme. The two paranormal investigators stopped cold in surprise, but quickly grinned and tossed a few bills into the case as they headed for the turnstiles.


"Now that is weird," Ray said. "Neat, but weird."


"Yeah, I don't think that song was written with pipes and hammer dulcimer in mind," Winston agreed, shaking his head in amusement. The two men ran their commuter cards through the machine and pushed their way through the gate. By the time they reached the stairs to the subway tracks, the song had segued into more traditional music.

"I wish we could have taken Ecto," Winston remarked as they walked over to the tracks. "I hate the subway."


Ray shook his head. "Herman's not going to be happy to see us at all," he said. "He owes us for getting his son out of that mess with the cave troll, but if we show up as the Ghostbusters, he'll feel threatened. You know how paranoid he is about anyone finding out he's not human. So, if we want his cooperation, we need to keep this as low key as possible."


"Yeah, I guess so," Winston agreed reluctantly. Further conversation was cut off by the roar of the arriving train. The wind of its passage whipped both hair and clothing around. The train slowed to a stop and opened its doors. Ray and Winston stood politely to one side to let an old lady in a yellow sari and a punk rocker with magenta hair spiked up like a demented porcupine exit before boarding. The two men quickly found seats and settled in as the doors slid shut and the train resumed its perpetual journey. Ray leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.


"If we come up empty here, I don't know where else we can check. And it doesn't make sense." Ray scowled at the grimy floor. "What little I did find on the Gaurnim said they are either neutral or benevolent. Nothing to indicate why one would do something like this."


"Maybe we got their version of a sociopath," Winston offered. "Most humans are fairly decent, but we've got our share of Charles Mansons and Ted Bundys."


"But that doesn't fit with Peter's description of the experience." Ray shook his head.


Winston sighed and leaned back against the window. This was territory they'd all been over ad infinitum. "We'll see what we can pry out of that rock rat. How about that shielding device you were talking about? Think it will work?"


"I hope so. The theory's sound. It's just a matter of fine-tuning it to the psycho-kinetic frequency of human thought waves…once we isolate those."


"Any idea how long that will take?"


Ray shrugged. "Not sure. Maybe Egon will have some news when we get back."


I damn well hope he does, Winston thought as he carefully kept his face neutral. It wasn't easy hiding his feelings from any of the guys. Probably the only thing that was keeping Ray from picking up on it was Ray's own preoccupation. I should have just rolled over and gone back to sleep, Winston thought bitterly. Pete doesn't need this from me.


Two nights ago, Winston's subconscious had taken him back to 'Nam via the Dreamtime Express. That wasn't anything new. He'd been having nightmares every few months for years now. He could deal with most of them easily, but this one had been a doozy. This particular recurring dream was taken from one of the most disturbing experiences in his tour of duty. One rainy morning, Winston's squad had been on patrol when they'd been driven to cover by sniper fire. He'd gotten separated in the confusion and was trying desperately to make his way back to the group. By some stroke of luck, he's stumbled across the sniper's position. In the dream he'd once again coolly lined up a shot on the gunman's back. He felt the "break" of the trigger as he fired, and the satisfaction as the sniper went down. He knew he'd probably saved several lives on his team.


Winston called out the "all clear" and crept up to make sure of his kill. When he turned pulled the jungle foliage away from the body, his shock washed through him like ice water injected into his veins. It was definitely the sniper; the gun was still locked in his fist, but he couldn't have been more than twelve years old.


As the dream ended, the young sniper's face sometimes morphed into the features of one of his younger brothers at that age. Which one varied each time Winston was cursed with this particular nightmare. This time it had been Charlie. Winston had jolted awake, drenched with sweat, telling himself over and over that Charlie was just fine and trying to reason away the guilt he still felt over shooting that kid. That night, however, he soon realized it wasn't just his own panicky breathing he heard in the bunkroom. He lifted himself up on one elbow to see who else had won the nightmare lottery…and met Peter's eyes. The psychologist was also sweat drenched, but he flinched away from the former soldier's gaze. Winston started to get out of bed.


"What is it, Pete?" he whispered, softly. "Bugs this time?"


Peter quickly but quietly got out of bed and pulled a blanket around his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Zed," he said in a voice loaded with shame and loathing. With that Peter left the bunkroom and hurried downstairs. Winston started to follow him but stopped cold as something clicked. Peter hadn't woken up from his own nightmare. He'd been awakened by Winston's dream. Peter's sleep had been disturbed by what he'd called "psychic backwash" from the guys' dreams several times before, but he'd never reacted with such self-contempt. He hadn't felt the need to apologize. Winston could only think of one thing that could cause that. Peter had somehow seen his dream. Egon and Ray had speculated that Peter's new ability might develop to the point where he did not need physical contact to pick up coherent thought-forms from others. Maybe the timetable as a little farther ahead than they'd thought.


Sudden, uncontrollable fear wrapped an icy hand around Winston's backbone. If this was true, then Peter knew what he'd never told anyone outside of his squad commander. He knew what Winston hadn't wanted anyone else to know, that he'd killed a little boy. Not that he had much choice at the time, but that didn't change facts. He'd killed a little kid who, if there were any justice in this world, would have been home playing ball with his friends. That bone-chilling fear kept him from following his telepathic friend downstairs. He felt like a heel for it, but somehow he couldn't make himself move. Fear of pain or death, he'd dealt with those long past, but this was different. The fact that he knew it was completely unintentional somehow made it even more frightening. Winston trusted Peter with his life and more. Peter would never do anything to hurt his friends or violate their privacy, but Peter wasn't in control of this.


For the last day and a half, Winston had avoided the psychologist. He felt ashamed for doing it, but somehow he couldn't risk the possibility that Peter would get another glimpse inside him. The last thing Peter needed to know was that Winston was afraid of him.


***


"Yummy! Pie!"


Slimer knew he shouldn't. The apple pie was in the refrigerator and everyone had told him not to take anything in the refrigerator without asking. But it smelled so good, and Slimer was so hungry. Maybe just one little piece. That wouldn't hurt anything.


Next thing Slimer knew, he was licking the pie tin clean.


"Uh-oh!" The little ghost looked around furtively. Seeing no one, he hid the ectoplasm-coated tin behind the milk. Maybe they wouldn't notice. His hunger briefly satisfied, Slimer looked around for something to do. Ray had just left with Winston, so he couldn't go play with him. Egon was working on something up in the lab, but Slimer didn't like the feel of whatever it was. Felt too much like a ghost trap. But Peter...


A big, dopy grin spread across the ghost's face, and he floated through the ceiling to the room above. Peter was still sitting on a pillow, his legs folded under him and his eyes closed. He'd been doing that a whole lot lately. Ray said he was medi-tay-ting. Slimer wasn't sure what that was, but it looked boring.


The little ghost gazed adoringly at the dark-haired man. He's always liked Peter. The guys and Janine were all shiny-pretty, but Peter had always been just a little bit shinier-prettier. And now he was like that prism Janine had hung in one of the downstairs windows when the sun caught it just right to send rainbows across the garage. He couldn't stand it anymore. Arms outstretched, he flew over to give Peter a big hug.


"SLIMER!! Get off'a me!"


Slimer could never understand why Peter didn't like being hugged.


***


Egon sighed wearily at the commotion and put down the connection he had been soldering. He glanced over his shoulder at the open doorway just in time to see Peter stomp out of the bunkroom, his chest and face liberally coated with slime. The psychologist headed down the hall to the bathroom no doubt to clean up. Egon turned off the soldering iron and followed. Peeking into the open doorway, he saw that Peter had already disposed of his ectoplasm-soaked sweatshirt and was vigorously washing his face.


"I sincerely hope Slimer did not intrude at a critical point."


Peter splashed water on his face to rinse away the soap. "I thought Ray told him to leave me alone when I'm doing the swami act," he groused as he snagged a washcloth to attack the slime that had soaked through the shirt to his chest.


"He did. However, given your increase in attractiveness as it were, it may take several lectures before it sinks in."


"Of all ways my attractiveness could have been increased, why did it have to be to ghosts?! I should start doing this with a trap in my lap. How's that for a mantra? Ohm-ma-me-pad-may-trap out!" Peter shot his friend an irritated grimace as he threw the washcloth into the hamper and reached for a towel. "The one advantage I've gotten out of this whole mess is that I can usually feel the Spud coming, so I can dodge."


"Which doesn't work very well when you are preoccupied with shielding," Egon finished. "That brings us back to my original question. I can't help but notice that you've not yet answered."


"Nah, I'd already gotten the wall up, Spengs," Peter replied with a negligent wave as he headed back to the bunkroom for a clean shirt. "I thought that maybe if I kept at it a while longer, I could give it more staying power." A shadow flickered through his green eyes, almost too quick for Egon to see. "My back isn't being too forgiving of my last few nights on the couch," he said as he looked through his closet. "If I can get a shield that will last for more than six hours, I can get back to my own bed."


"Ray had an idea about that last night. If you could join me in the lab this morning for a few tests…"


"Goddamnit, Egon!" Peter snapped. He spun on his heel to glare at the physicist. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not interested in seeing how far I can pick up psychic backwash or trying to mindmeld or something!"


"If you would kindly allow me to finish," Egon said coldly as he savagely suppressed his own anger and frustration. "Raymond had an idea that we may be able to modify our containment field design to provide you with an external source of shielding. Does that interest you, Dr. Venkman?"


Peter wilted before the hard look in those blue eyes. "Sorry, Spengs," he said wearily. He walked over to his bed and sank down on it with a heavy sigh. "Shouldn't have popped off at you like that. This is…" He wearily rubbed at his eyes. "I'm having real problems with this whole telepathy bit."


Egon nodded and pulled a chair around to sit across from his friend. "Quite understandable. You've just had your entire life turned on its figurative ear. I assure you, Peter. We will find a way for you to control your new ability. You don't have to be afraid of losing your mind to it. We will simply not let that happen." A faint twitch around Peter's eyes told Egon that he'd hit a little short of the mark. "Is that what's bothering you, or is it something else?"


The guarded look in those green eyes just before Peter turned away was a dead giveaway. Egon changed the course of his questioning as he remembered his earlier conversation with Ray. "It's been a source of great puzzlement to me why you are so reluctant to study the extent of your ability. It was human psychic ability that first caught your interest in parapsychology. Being concerned about gaining control over your telepathy, that's to be expected, but I would think you would also exhibit some measure of curiosity. Why aren't you, Peter? What's wrong?"


Peter looked at Egon levelly. He saw in the physicist's expression that he wasn't going to quit until he got his answer. Peter let his upper body fall backward and lay on the bed with his legs still hanging over the side. "I could have handled precognition," he said as he stared at the ceiling. "Telekinesis would have been fun. Think of the possibilities for practical jokes. Dowsing and clairvoyance, we could have used them on busts. But if God came down from heaven on a white cloud and said, `Okay, Petey. You get to choose from the Spoon Bender's Special List,' telepathy would have been my absolute last choice."


"I gathered that," Egon said dryly. "Do you mind telling me why?"


"Because it's wrong!" Peter answered, almost snarling. "This violates the most basic of privacies, privacy of thought." His hands clenched into fists, whether in anger or fear or a combination of both, Egon couldn't tell. "The idea that someone can just waltz into your brain and take what he wants…it doesn't get scarier than that."


"I can see why you would be uneasy if you were confronted by a telepath," Egon ventured, somewhat taken aback by his friend's vehemence. "But the situation is the reverse of that. Your mind isn't the one in risk of being violated." His eyes widened behind his glasses as another possibility occurred to him. "Are you afraid that we would feel violated? That we would be afraid of you? Peter, how could you think that? You know that Ray, Winston and I trust you implicitly."


Peter groaned in exasperation. "If you're not scared at least a little, then you're not half the genius you think you are. And trust? Hell, Egon! The only person on earth I might trust with something like this is Mother Teresa, and I'm sure as hell no Mother Teresa. No one should be able to go mucking around in other people's heads like this."


"The `should' of the matter is a moot point, Peter," Egon said firmly. "We are dealing with the situation that exists. Like it or not, you have this ability. While you are learning to control it…well, I for one trust you to never intentionally `violate' me as you so poetically put it. And if something slips, I also trust to the fact that you wouldn't divulge anything I wished to keep secret." The corner of the physicist's mouth lifted in a wry half-smile as several memories surfaced. "As a matter of fact, you have seemed perfectly capable of reading our minds on numerous occasions without the benefit of telepathy. In a way, this is nothing new."


Peter shot Egon a dirty look. "Nothing new my ass. That was fair play. This is cheating."


"Indeed," Egon said, raising an eyebrow. "Please enlighten me, Dr. Venkman. I was unaware that mind-reading was even a game, much less that there is a rulebook available."


"Oh, Jeeze!" Peter heaved himself back to a sitting position. "Okay, Dr. Spengler. You've got a point. There are plenty of times when I can tell exactly what you or Ray or Winston is thinking even when you try to hide it. I know this from body language, speech patterns or just being able to put myself in your shoes for a second and see the world through those runaway spectacles of yours." Peter reached out to push Egon's glasses back up in illustration. Egon favored him with a brief glare, but remained silent.


"You guys have pulled the same trick on me," Peter went on. "But the reason I can do this is that you've allowed me to get close enough to learn all those little things that betray what's really going on inside that overgrown brain of yours. Not only that, but you trusted me enough to let me stay that close when you realized how well I could read you." A bit of self-deprecating humor touched Peter's eyes. "I don't know about you, Spengs, but the first time I realized how well you could read me, it scared the shit out of me. If I hadn't trusted you so much by then, I probably would have run for the hills."


Peter fell silent. Egon firmly quashed the impulse to speak, knowing Peter would probably continue if he waited. It didn't take long.


"Anyway, I can usually tell when you're hiding something, but the only way I know is because you tell me through countless nonverbal cues that you're mostly unaware of, and could probably mute if you put enough effort into it. I can even make an educated guess as to what it may be most of the time, but even then it's only a guess. You still have the option of keeping me in the dark if you really want to."


A cold finger of visceral fear managed to slip past all of Egon's rational defenses. He was starting to see where Peter was coming from. "And telepathic ability…" he prompted when Peter fell silent once again.


"It cuts through every barrier you have to protect your self," Peter continued, grinding out the words as if they were shards of flint. "Trust isn't necessary. I can sidestep all that long process with one touch." Peter winced. "Even without a touch now. I wound up sitting in on Winston's nightmare a couple nights ago with digital color and surround sound. And he was across the damn room."


Egon's breath caught in his throat. "You're picking up full thought-forms without physical contact?"


"Yeah," Peter confirmed, a little chagrined that he'd let that slip.


"I suppose that's the real reason you've been spending extra time attempting to strengthen those shields." Egon said, frustration and irritation sharpening his voice. "Peter Venkman, you are the most exasperating person I have ever worked with." He left his chair, grabbed a t-shirt from Peter's closet and tossed it to his friend. "It would behoove us to adjourn to the lab and work on Ray's idea for an external shield. If your telepathy is strengthening as such a high rate, it may outstrip your ability to control it."


"Oh, just what I wanted to hear, Spengs," Peter groaned as he pulled the shirt on and stood up. "Lead on, O Wise One! Whip out the electrodes and see if you can build me a psychic jammer."


"Peter." The quiet question in Egon's voice made him pause on the way to the door. "I'll admit to being a little apprehensive, but I do trust you. Ray, Winston and Janine do, too. You must believe that."


Peter leaned against the doorframe looking very weary. "I know, Egon," he said. His voice was so low that Egon almost missed what he said next. "But maybe you shouldn't."


***


"`Schlitt's Rocks and Minerals,'" Winston read off the plain, black-and-white sign over the door of the Brooklyn shop. "Not much for marketing is he?"


"Well, if he wants a low profile, you can't get much lower than this," Ray said with a smirk. "Hope he's not busy. Dealing with us along with interfering with business will only tick him off more."


Ray pushed open the door and entered with Winston following close behind. No bell went off. Schlitt found them most annoying. Inside the shop was dim but almost obsessively clean. In neat rows on shelves and inside display cabinets stones and crystals of all shapes, sizes and clarities rested. Behind the counter sat a teenager who was so engrossed in his comic book that he didn't even look up at their entrance. Short, pudgy and surly looking with a large nose and stringy, sand-colored hair, he didn't present the most attractive of fronts. And that was all this appearance was, a front. Underneath an illusion spell, this `boy' was no boy at all, but an adolescent kobald. Without the spell, he was even shorter, pudgier and uglier. This family of originally mine-dwelling hobgoblins had moved from Germany to New York three decades ago and had been living quietly in Brooklyn ever since. A state of affairs that the head of the clan took great pains to perpetuate.


Ray walked around several cases and sauntered up to the counter with a bright smile. "Hi, Bobby! What 'ya reading there?"


Bobby Schlitt jumped like he'd been stung, causing him to lose his balance on his stool which he'd unwisely tipped back on two legs. After a moment of waving arms and legs in an attempt to regain his balance, he fell to the ground with a heavy thud. "I didn't do nothin'!" he blurted out.


Ray winced. "Didn't say you did. We're just here to talk to your dad. Is he in?"


The boy scowled up at the two Ghostbusters and clambered to his feet. "Gonna' call it in, huh? About time, dust-eaters. I'm sick of Pa holding that over me."


"And you have none to blame but yourself, sprat!" growled a voice from the dim back room, a voice so rough that it went beyond gravely to boulderly. A second short, pudgy figure came into the light. A family resemblance carried over in the illusion. Herman Schlitt appeared to be a middle-aged, balding man with a complexion like bread dough. He wore an old-fashioned suit and waistcoat whose buttons were straining against his belly. "Perhaps you'll be listening to your old man when he says not to get involved with cave trolls suffering from delusions of grandeur. Perhaps then I won't have to be going to a pack of techie humans with my hat in hand to save you from the trouble you bought yourself."


If looks could kill, Ray and Winston would have been cooling corpses on the floor from the resentful glare Bobby fired at them. He pointedly picked up his comic book and buried his nose in it. Herman sniffed disapprovingly and waved the Ghostbusters into the backroom. Winston and Ray exchanged a glance, then followed. As the door swung shut behind them, Ray turned to Herman, troubled.


"You don't have to be so hard on him, Mr. Schlitt. Good kids can fall in with a bad crowd..."


"And I'll be thanking you to mind your own damn business, Stantz!" the kobald snarled. "Bad enough he goes and risks exposing our family, but to force me to go to the likes of you surface crawlers then you caught him with the rest of that trouble-making crew." He spat in disgust. "I hope you're here to collect that debt. Any debt's an annoyance. A debt to a human is sand in your shorts."


Winston held up his hand placatingly. "Okay, okay. Believe me, we all know how kobalds view debt. Let's settle accounts."


"Fine by me," Schlitt said, folding his arms across his belly and glaring up at the two. "What do you want?"


"Information on the Gaurnim," Ray said. "All you have and from any source you have access to."


The change that came over the kobald was nothing short of remarkable. In a fraction of a second, he went from hostile to surprised to calculating. "The Gaurnim, eh? Now that is a very interesting vein you're sounding there." Schlitt waved the pair to a bookcase-lined corner where a small table stood surrounded by straight-backed chairs. When they were all seated, the kobald folded his hands and rested the elbows on the table in front of him. "The Gaurnim. That's one sinkhole many of us are keeping an eye on these days. How much to you know about them already?"


Ray looked at Winston who nodded. They had agreed beforehand to keep Peter's kidnapping a secret and behave as though they'd simply run across an odd reference or heard a rumor. "We know they're reptiloid entities who inhabit a plane of existence rather far removed from ours," the occultist said. "They're reputed to have considerable power, but don't seem to have dealings with our world at all. Rather stand-offish from what little we've found, but not overtly malevolent."


Schlitt nodded. "A good thumbnail sketch. I suppose you want details then."


"All you can give us," Winston agreed.


"One question first." Their reluctant host leaned forward, a dim fire smoldering in the depths of his coal-black eyes. "Have you seen one?"


Ray blinked in surprise. "Why?"


"Because I need to know if I need to pack up my family and head to the nearest gate," Schlitt said, growing quickly alarmed. "Great bones of the Earth! If one of them has set foot on this world..."


"Wait a second!" Winston interrupted, remembering Janine's story. "One of us saw one, but it was through a portal. The Gaurnim didn't come through to here."


The hobgoblin cut off his tirade and gave Winston a piercing look, then turned to Ray who nodded confirmation. "Thank the foundations for that small mercy, then. It skirts close to breaking the Pact, but close doesn't count with them."


"I think you'd better start explaining," Winston said with a hint of warning.


Schlitt curled his lip in disgust and, for a second, the Ghostbusters were able to see through his disguise. It wasn't pleasant, for Schlitt's true form - at least by human standards - was even uglier than his son's. "All right, Zeddemore. Better take notes, there'll be a quiz at the end."


He sat back in his chair and pursed his lips. "Like you said, the Gaurnim are powerful sons-of-lizards. They're also very rule and protocol bound. And I'd add to your little summary that they don't have dealings with this world any more. At one time, they were heavily involved in this world. Quite heavily. Some of your legends about serpent wisdom-keepers grew up from encounters with them in your pre-history." A cynical smile twisted his features. "But then, as it always does, the shit hit the fan. You see, the Gaurnim had some neighbors the next plane over. The Y'larat. Also powerful, but with much less finesse controlling power flows. They tend to try to bludgeon their way to what they want. Wait a minute."


The kobald hopped up and pulled a book off the shelf behind him. Flipping it open to a certain entry, he handed it to Ray. "There's what they look like. Have you seen one of those by any chance?"


Ray looked over the woodcut of a powerfully built humanoid. The head looked like a cross between a fox and a lion with large, slanted eyes in its pointed, mane-bordered face. He handed to book to Winston and said, "No, we haven't. What does that have to do with the Gaurnim?"


"I'll get to that. You came wanting information, and I'll be giving you your money's worth. The Y'larat started moving in on this world about the same time as the Gaurnim. Then they started taking pot-shots at each other." Schlitt shrugged. "No one knows exactly how it started. I'm not sure if the people involved really know how it started. But next thing anyone knows, there's a full-scale territorial war between them that raged over both their worlds and this one. Made Hiroshima look like a schoolyard brawl. By the time it was over, both their homeworlds were a wreck and this one..." He shook his head grimly. "Let's just say that if a certain drunkard by the name of Noah hadn't started shipbuilding, you wouldn't be here having this conversation with me."


Winston's eyes widened and he sat up straighter. Ray, of course, was fascinated. "Wow! You're saying Noah's flood was an environmental cataclysm brought on by interdimensional war?"


"I guess you could call it that," Schlitt confirmed, rolling his eyes. "I'd call it two groups of cosmic twits sending everything into a fine state of FUBAR."


"Who won?" Winston asked. "Though, if they wrecked three worlds between them, maybe it doesn't matter."


"Oh, it does matter some," Schlitt said with a shrewd look. "The Gaurnim won, just barely. But it was enough for them to dictate most of the terms of the Pact. A long, hopelessly dry treaty detailing who gets what and who can go where. Thing is, this little place we call `home' had a special clause all its own. It was the particular bone of contention that started the whole mess, and both sides wanted it. Probably mostly from pride, but it damn near brought the whole settlement down until somehow they agreed to a mutual `hands off' policy. Basically, this world is off-limits to both Gaurnim and Y'larat. If either of them makes a move on it, the Pact comes crashing down." A mirthless grin stretched across the kobald's face. "I'll tell you, there's no love lost between the two even with all the millennia between that war and now. All that's keeping them from each other's throats is the Pact. If one side breaks it, they'll be at it again. And this time they won't be alone. Both sides have been busy making alliances with other planes. Remember a certain Archduke by the name of Ferdinand?"


Winston felt the blood drain out of his face and the mention of the infamous assassination that plunged the world into war. "You're saying we've got a powderkeg situation on our hands here."


Schlitt nodded grimly. "Now you're getting the picture. A good many of the Small Folk have been keeping an eye on this lately. The situation's been heating up over there. The Y'larat have a firebrand, young buck by the name of Tirad, stirring up trouble. This fellow was on the ruling counsel for a time but got himself kicked off and exiled for an attempted coup. However, he's been showing up in places he shouldn't be, railing against the terms of the Pact and trying to get support among the mob. The Gaurnim have been making their displeasure known to the Y'larat counsel, and the Y'larat keep brushing it off saying he's a criminal and rabble-rouser with no real power."


"I think I smell a rat," Winston said.


"What do you mean?" Ray asked.


"Think about it, Ray," Winston said turning to his friend. "You've got a dangerous criminal who tried to overthrow the government. Somehow, he's not only creeping back into the country, but he's making a very visible and politically dangerous nuisance of himself. You'd think the government would make shutting him down their first priority."


Ray's eyes widened. "So you're saying the Y'larat counsel wants him to be stirring up trouble?"


"Either that or he has some very highly placed friends who are protecting him," Schlitt put in. "There's folk on both sides who don't like the Pact and would gladly kick each other's teeth in, but one thing they have in common. Neither of them wants to be the first to break the Pact. Like somehow that makes war more justifiable."


"So, if this Tirad does something that violates the Pact..." Ray said in dismay.


"The Gaurnim may feel justified in breaking their side," Winston finished. "And, in that case, so do the Y'larat. They just have to say that Tirad was a criminal and was no longer officially part of their society. Plausible deniability, Ray."


Ray shook his head in disbelief. Schlitt looked on with faintly concealed contempt. "Is there anything else you boys will be wanting to know?"


"Yes," Winston said, leaning forward. "Fighting capabilities. Know how we can take them down?"


"What?" the kobald snorted. "Do you plan to face both armies on your own if this mess comes crashing down around our ears?"


"If we have to," Winston said coldly. Schlitt tried to out-stare him, but something in the former soldier's eyes made him look away first.


"For the Gaurnim, they're not quite as strong as your average demon, but they've got very fine control over energy flows. They make up in skill for what they don't have in power. A few of them are telepathic, but that's rare." Schlitt frowned as Ray looked up suddenly, but ignored it when the engineer said nothing. "The Y'larat aren't so precise, but they've got plenty of power. And there's a rumor that some of them can turn people to stone with a glance. Kinda like a basilisk." He scratched behind one ear. "Never could get confirmation of that, though. And that is the sum total of what I know about the Gaurnim. Will that be all?"


Winston looked questioningly at Ray who nodded. "I believe that will do, Mr. Schlitt," Ray said. "Thanks."


"Save your thanks, surface-crawler. My family's debt to you is now discharged. Get the hell out of my shop."


***


"Can we call it quits for now, Egon? It's almost lunchtime, and most humans can't survive on science alone. I'm about ready to gnaw on my own arm."


"I'm sure you realize that self-cannibalism is ultimately self defeating," Egon said perfectly deadpan as he glanced up from the computer screen.


"Another crack like that, Spengs, and I'll carve a slice off your flank to tide me over," Peter shot back. "Even your mushroom collection is starting to look appetizing."


"Touch my fungi, and, if you are lucky enough to consume a non-toxic specimen, I will personally rewire your proton pack to detonate."


Peter relaxed in the familiar banter. "So the 'shrooms are off-limits, but I can help myself to a filet of physicist?"


The corner of Egon's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly as he raised an eloquent eyebrow. "I believe the saying is, `you'll have to catch me first.'" The physicist hit 'save' on the computer and started shutting down the imager. "However, since this entire hypothetical conflict can be averted by a quick trip to the kitchen, shall we adjourn for lunch, Dr. Venkman?"


"About time, Dr. Spengler," Peter said as he pulled off the imager's headset. He caught his reflection in one of the lab windows and irritably ran his fingers through his hair. "Great! I'm going to have colander hair for the rest of the day." Tossing the helmet on the workbench, Peter stood up and joined Egon.


"Well, Spengs, got enough to build me that jammer yet, or do I have another session with the Colander of Doom to look forward to?" he asked as they made their way down the spiral staircase.


"I've managed to narrow the possible frequencies down considerably," Egon answered. "Perhaps another session to narrow it further. That should give us a manageable number of frequencies to test."


"As long as you don't get used to me being your personal lab rat," Peter smirked as he opened the fridge and leaned over to peruse its contents. He picked out a package of deli-sliced roast beef and some Swiss cheese and tossed them on the table. "What happened to that pie Winston had in here?"


Egon shook his head disapprovingly as he pulled a loaf of bread out of the cupboard. "Might I suggest that you eat an actual meal before satisfying your sweet tooth?"


"Hey, like they say," Peter quipped as he looked over his shoulder. "`Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.'" Peter looked back into the fridge and moved a few cartons around. "I know that thing's in here some...Awww, crap!" Peter stood up and spun around, brandishing the empty pie tin which still had traces of green slime. "Slimer. I should have known. I'm gonna..."


"Egon! We've got trouble!"


Both men jumped as Janine came running into the kitchen. "What is it, Janine?" Egon asked. The secretary handed him a piece of paper.


"Just got an emergency call from the Head Start Pre-school across town. They've got what sounds like a Class 5 on a rampage along with two or three Class 2's. No one's been hurt, and most classes have been evacuated, but they've got one group pinned down in the craft room. They need us out there yesterday."


Egon nodded sharply. "Have you called Winston and Ray? Are they on their way?"


"Ray forgot his cellphone again," Janine said, frustrated. "When I called Schlitt's place, they'd already left, and I wound up getting cussed out for my trouble."


"Schlitt?!" Peter yelped. "Why'd they go see that pug-ugly bastard?" He shook his head. "No, tell me later. Any way we can get hold of them? There's no way you can bust those goopers as a twosome."


Janine shook her head. "They could be anywhere on the subway right now, and this can't wait. Maybe I should call Tully..."


"Tully?" Peter almost yelled. "We want to zap the ghosts, not the kids." He turned toward the window for a second and chewed his bottom lip, conflict playing in the depths of his eyes. Finally he turned back to his friends. The muscles in his neck were tense, betraying the apprehension he managed to keep out of his face an voice. "Okay, folks. We've got work to do. Let's suit up and get over there."


Janine and Egon stared at Peter as if he had suddenly grown another head. With the exception of a brief visit to reassure Mrs. Faversham, Peter had not set foot outside of the firehouse since he returned from the hospital.


"Are you sure, Peter?" Egon asked cautiously.


"What? A Five and a couple of Two's?" Peter said casually as he shoved the food back into the fridge. "The three of us should be able to handle that."


"Don't play coy, Dr. V." Janine scolded. "You know what he means. Are you up to this? Really?"


Peter's mouth pressed into a thin line. "I'd damn well better be. Those kids can't wait till we can get hold of Ray and Zed. We'll leave them a note to catch a cab over and meet us. Besides," he continued, pasting on a cocky grin. "If I don't get back in the game soon, my public will start thinking I've lost my edge."


"You have to have an edge to begin with to lose it, Venkman," Janine riposted as they all hurried downstairs to throw on their jumpsuits and gather equipment. It didn't take long before they were climbing into Ecto and pulling out of the garage. Egon turned in the driver's seat to shoot one more questioning glance at Peter. The psychologist flashed him one of his winning smiles, but a faint shadow lingered in the depths of his eyes. Egon sighed quietly and hoped they weren't making a huge mistake as he hit the siren and pulled out into traffic.