see this storage facility?”
“No, you may not.”
Peck’s smile dissolved instantly. “And why not, Mr. Venkman?”
Venkman’s smile was all boyish innocence. “Because you didn’t say the magic word.”
“And what is the magic word, Mr. Venkman?”
“The magic word is please .” Venkman said softly.
Peck laughed nervously, totally at the end of his patience. “May I please see the storage facility?”
“ Why do you want to see it?” Venkman asked sweetly.
“Well, because I’m curious. I want to know more about what you do here. Frankly, there have been a lot of wild stories in the media, and we want to assess any possible environmental impact from your operation. For instance, the storage of noxious, possibly hazardous waste materials in your basement. We want to know exactly what sort of scam you people are running here, Mr. Venkman. Now, either you show me what’s down there, or I come back with a court order.”
Venkman felt his blood pressure boil over. That does it. After a day like I’ve had, I don’t have to come home and listen to this. He stood up and leaned across his desk, nose to nose with the skinny bureaucrat.
“Go ahead! Get a court order, and I’ll sue you for wrongful prosecution.”
Peck stood stiffly, his briefcase held in front of him like a shield. “Have it your way, Mr. Venkman.”
He turned and strode quickly out of the office. Venkman followed him to the doorway. “Hey! Make yourself useful. Go save a tree! And that’s Doctor Venkman!”
Winston Zeddemore was absolutely fascinated as he stood peering through the view slit. It’s a damned prison, he thought. A prison for ghosts. Inside, the various multicolored spirits, wisps of color and light, swirled about aimlessly or slouched in despair against the walls. Occasionally one would drift up to the viewport and stare back, like a grouper in an aquarium. It was depressing, but at the same time Winston couldn’t think of any other solution to letting them run loose. But this had never happened before. There had always been a few ghosts. Why so many now? Weird.
And these guys actually catch ghosts.
And I’m going to be a Ghostbuster.
Mama Zeddemore, I hope you’re satisfied.
Spengler worked at the bench, repairing a damaged proton pack, muttering to himself about “hyper-spatial toruses” and “magnetic monopoles,” stuff even Stantz didn’t understand; but at this point Stantz wasn’t interested. He was worried about the grid. “Winston.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll show you how to unload the traps.” He slid the smoking box into a slot on the wall of the storage facility. There were three, like airlocks of different sizes, for the custom traps Ray had put together. This one was a Mark II. “You set the entry grid, push this button, wait for it to cycle yellow.” The slot lit up. Stantz pulled down on a heavy knife switch, and the slot emitted a loud cycled humming, like the sound a Xerox machine makes, Winston realized, as the trap was cleaned. The sound ended with a loud snap, the humming stopped, the indicator flashed.
“The light is green, the trap is clean.” He tossed the little box into a bin marked FOR RECHARGE . “Got it?”
“Got it. Seems simple enough.”
Stantz smiled. “A lot simpler to run than to build, I can tell you.”
Spengler put his head down on the bench with a low moan. “I’ve got to get some sleep, I’m starting to make mistakes. You okay, Ray?”
Stantz shrugged. He didn’t seem to tire as fast as the others. And the job continued to be fascinating. He often came downstairs in the middle of the night to watch the ghosts through the viewing port, though lately he’d begun to have the same feelings that Zeddemore had experienced, that penning the spirits up like that was somehow wrong. But if there was an alternative to an endless matinee of Spooks Run Wild, he didn’t know what it was. The facility was too small—this was true—but even Egon had never planned
“No, you may not.”
Peck’s smile dissolved instantly. “And why not, Mr. Venkman?”
Venkman’s smile was all boyish innocence. “Because you didn’t say the magic word.”
“And what is the magic word, Mr. Venkman?”
“The magic word is please .” Venkman said softly.
Peck laughed nervously, totally at the end of his patience. “May I please see the storage facility?”
“ Why do you want to see it?” Venkman asked sweetly.
“Well, because I’m curious. I want to know more about what you do here. Frankly, there have been a lot of wild stories in the media, and we want to assess any possible environmental impact from your operation. For instance, the storage of noxious, possibly hazardous waste materials in your basement. We want to know exactly what sort of scam you people are running here, Mr. Venkman. Now, either you show me what’s down there, or I come back with a court order.”
Venkman felt his blood pressure boil over. That does it. After a day like I’ve had, I don’t have to come home and listen to this. He stood up and leaned across his desk, nose to nose with the skinny bureaucrat.
“Go ahead! Get a court order, and I’ll sue you for wrongful prosecution.”
Peck stood stiffly, his briefcase held in front of him like a shield. “Have it your way, Mr. Venkman.”
He turned and strode quickly out of the office. Venkman followed him to the doorway. “Hey! Make yourself useful. Go save a tree! And that’s Doctor Venkman!”
Winston Zeddemore was absolutely fascinated as he stood peering through the view slit. It’s a damned prison, he thought. A prison for ghosts. Inside, the various multicolored spirits, wisps of color and light, swirled about aimlessly or slouched in despair against the walls. Occasionally one would drift up to the viewport and stare back, like a grouper in an aquarium. It was depressing, but at the same time Winston couldn’t think of any other solution to letting them run loose. But this had never happened before. There had always been a few ghosts. Why so many now? Weird.
And these guys actually catch ghosts.
And I’m going to be a Ghostbuster.
Mama Zeddemore, I hope you’re satisfied.
Spengler worked at the bench, repairing a damaged proton pack, muttering to himself about “hyper-spatial toruses” and “magnetic monopoles,” stuff even Stantz didn’t understand; but at this point Stantz wasn’t interested. He was worried about the grid. “Winston.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll show you how to unload the traps.” He slid the smoking box into a slot on the wall of the storage facility. There were three, like airlocks of different sizes, for the custom traps Ray had put together. This one was a Mark II. “You set the entry grid, push this button, wait for it to cycle yellow.” The slot lit up. Stantz pulled down on a heavy knife switch, and the slot emitted a loud cycled humming, like the sound a Xerox machine makes, Winston realized, as the trap was cleaned. The sound ended with a loud snap, the humming stopped, the indicator flashed.
“The light is green, the trap is clean.” He tossed the little box into a bin marked FOR RECHARGE . “Got it?”
“Got it. Seems simple enough.”
Stantz smiled. “A lot simpler to run than to build, I can tell you.”
Spengler put his head down on the bench with a low moan. “I’ve got to get some sleep, I’m starting to make mistakes. You okay, Ray?”
Stantz shrugged. He didn’t seem to tire as fast as the others. And the job continued to be fascinating. He often came downstairs in the middle of the night to watch the ghosts through the viewing port, though lately he’d begun to have the same feelings that Zeddemore had experienced, that penning the spirits up like that was somehow wrong. But if there was an alternative to an endless matinee of Spooks Run Wild, he didn’t know what it was. The facility was too small—this was true—but even Egon had never planned
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