stream of phone calls only by dint of sheer perseverance. The lines were all lit, and each time she would clear one—case, crank, or curiosity—it would light again. She was, however, gaining an instinctive sense of what was profitable and what was not, what was dangerous and what was not, what could be contracted for and what not to touch with a ten-foot induction rifle. You would think that this would make me indispensable, she thought. You would think that this would make me a valuable asset. You would think I could at least get some help, but no . . .
“Ghostbusters—please hold . . . Good afternoon, Ghostbusters—please hold . . . Yes, may I help you?”
Winston Zeddemore looked up from the chair where he was filling out the Ghostbusters’ job application, wondering just what kind of lunacy these people were tapped into. The little red-haired chick hadn’t stopped answering calls since he’d walked in. The place was nothing but an old firehouse, but Zeddemore, with his electronics countermeasures training, could see that their equipment meant business. If it was a front, it was an awfully complex one. Surely these people couldn’t really be after ghosts.
“Yes,” Janine was saying. “Is it a mist, or does it have arms and legs . . .?” She checked the multicolored wall chart that Stantz had drawn up. “That sounds like a class-two anchored-proximity phantasm, serious, but not necessarily harmful . . . Would I kid you? . . . Well, the soonest we could possibly get back to you would be a week from Friday . . . I’m sorry, but we’re completely booked until then . . . Uh-huh . . . All I can suggest is that you stay out of your house until we can get to you . . . Well, in that case, I’d be careful not to provoke it . . . You’re welcome.”
She put down the phone wearily and eyed the blinking lights without enthusiasm. Just what I always wanted to be—Jewish mother to the spiritual population of New York. Zeddemore looked up at her. “You got a question, sir?”
“Well, yeah. The ad in the paper just said what they wanted. But what’s the job?”
“I don’t really know, Mr. Zeddemore. They just told me to take applications and to ask you these questions: Do you believe in UFOs, astral projection, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, full-trance mediums, psychokinetic or telekinetic movement, cartomancy, phrenology, black and/or white magic, divination, scrying, necromancy, the theory of Atlantis, the Loch Ness monster, Bigfoot, the Bermuda triangle, or in general in spooks, specters, wraiths, geists, and ghosts?”
“Not really. However, if there’s a semi-regular paycheck in it I’ll believe anything you say.”
Venkman wheeled the Ectomobile around a tight corner, waved wearily to the crowd of autograph hounds and tourists clustered around the front of the firehouse, and slid the old Cadillac into the garage bay. “Open your eyes, Ray. We’re home.”
Stantz sat up, mumbled to himself, and climbed out. The Ectomobile looked like it had been through the Battle of Stalingrad, streaked with smoke and slime. Not often we have to chase the rotten things down on the road and zap them from the car, Venkman thought. Hatari with ghosts. He helped Stantz to unload the smoking traps from the back, his hands sticky with ectoplasmic residue. That’s the only part of this job I really hate, he had decided. The slime. Why can’t ghosts be as clean as they look? No, they have to leave trails of this ecto-snot whenever they get excited. If that’s what being dead is like, I ain’t going.
Stantz shook the Mark II trap experimentally, watching the static charges play over its surface. “Boy, that was a rough one.”
“I can’t take much more of this. The pace is killing me.”
Janine looked up impatiently as they entered the reception area. Venkman threw a paid invoice down on her desk. “Here’s the paper on the Brooklyn job. She paid with a Visa card.”
“And here are
“Ghostbusters—please hold . . . Good afternoon, Ghostbusters—please hold . . . Yes, may I help you?”
Winston Zeddemore looked up from the chair where he was filling out the Ghostbusters’ job application, wondering just what kind of lunacy these people were tapped into. The little red-haired chick hadn’t stopped answering calls since he’d walked in. The place was nothing but an old firehouse, but Zeddemore, with his electronics countermeasures training, could see that their equipment meant business. If it was a front, it was an awfully complex one. Surely these people couldn’t really be after ghosts.
“Yes,” Janine was saying. “Is it a mist, or does it have arms and legs . . .?” She checked the multicolored wall chart that Stantz had drawn up. “That sounds like a class-two anchored-proximity phantasm, serious, but not necessarily harmful . . . Would I kid you? . . . Well, the soonest we could possibly get back to you would be a week from Friday . . . I’m sorry, but we’re completely booked until then . . . Uh-huh . . . All I can suggest is that you stay out of your house until we can get to you . . . Well, in that case, I’d be careful not to provoke it . . . You’re welcome.”
She put down the phone wearily and eyed the blinking lights without enthusiasm. Just what I always wanted to be—Jewish mother to the spiritual population of New York. Zeddemore looked up at her. “You got a question, sir?”
“Well, yeah. The ad in the paper just said what they wanted. But what’s the job?”
“I don’t really know, Mr. Zeddemore. They just told me to take applications and to ask you these questions: Do you believe in UFOs, astral projection, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, full-trance mediums, psychokinetic or telekinetic movement, cartomancy, phrenology, black and/or white magic, divination, scrying, necromancy, the theory of Atlantis, the Loch Ness monster, Bigfoot, the Bermuda triangle, or in general in spooks, specters, wraiths, geists, and ghosts?”
“Not really. However, if there’s a semi-regular paycheck in it I’ll believe anything you say.”
Venkman wheeled the Ectomobile around a tight corner, waved wearily to the crowd of autograph hounds and tourists clustered around the front of the firehouse, and slid the old Cadillac into the garage bay. “Open your eyes, Ray. We’re home.”
Stantz sat up, mumbled to himself, and climbed out. The Ectomobile looked like it had been through the Battle of Stalingrad, streaked with smoke and slime. Not often we have to chase the rotten things down on the road and zap them from the car, Venkman thought. Hatari with ghosts. He helped Stantz to unload the smoking traps from the back, his hands sticky with ectoplasmic residue. That’s the only part of this job I really hate, he had decided. The slime. Why can’t ghosts be as clean as they look? No, they have to leave trails of this ecto-snot whenever they get excited. If that’s what being dead is like, I ain’t going.
Stantz shook the Mark II trap experimentally, watching the static charges play over its surface. “Boy, that was a rough one.”
“I can’t take much more of this. The pace is killing me.”
Janine looked up impatiently as they entered the reception area. Venkman threw a paid invoice down on her desk. “Here’s the paper on the Brooklyn job. She paid with a Visa card.”
“And here are
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