Archive of Our Own

View from the Tenth

by Mara

I have always believed that work is its own reward. Still, I will admit it is pleasant to receive recognition for what one does, especially if one has made considerable advances in certain areas of science. That our award this evening was coming from the most prestigious parapsychological organization in the country was indeed satisfactory. I only wished that we were all in somewhat better condition to accept the award.

As I straightened my tie in the mirror, I noted, behind me waiting on Ray's bed, Ray, Winston, and Peter in various stages of both injury and impatience. Ray leaned on his crutches, wiggling his bandaged ankle back and forth and whistling softly to himself.

Winston sat with his arms folded, gaze fixed on me as I finished combing my hair. Above the stern dark eyes was a swath of white bandage covering a stitched cut along his forehead.

Peter sat beside him, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, apparently oblivious to any wrinkles he might be putting in his tux. He jingled his keys absently in one hand in time with Ray's soft whistling. I knew that his thoughts were not on the award, nor the celebration we had planned for after the ceremony. He hadn't been injured in yesterday's bust, as Ray and Winston had; at least, not physically. But I knew he was suffering all the same over what had happened.

"Egon," Winston said evenly, "it's twenty minutes until eight. If you take any longer with that, you might be ready in time for next year's ceremony. Maybe."

I waited for Peter to second that, but he didn't. Ray met my eyes in the mirror and grinned. "You look fine, Egon. We'd really better go."

Peter's keys jingled. He hadn't heard anything we'd said. I set down the comb. "Very well. I do not want to make us late."

Ray broke into a beaming smile and hopped up nimbly, as if he hadn't sprained his ankle only the day before. Winston, rising to follow him, bestowed upon me a grin. "Don't worry, Egon. I'll drive." He bent and snatched the keys out of Peter's hand in mid-jingle.

Peter blinked and looked up at him. "Hey--"

"I'm driving," Winston said. "Let's go." He didn't wait to see if Peter would argue.

Peter looked up at me, a rueful twist to his mouth. "He's not possessive of that car at all, is he?"

I sat down on the bed beside him. "Well, Ray is in no shape to drive. And you are rather. . . distracted."

A smile barely lifted the corner of his mouth. "If that's supposed to be an opening for me to spill my guts, we don't have time for it right now." He made a visible effort to rouse himself from his somber mood. He slipped an arm around my shoulders and flashed me a grin. "Recognition for advancements in paranormal research and equipment development. Not bad, eh, Dr. Spengler?"

I eyed him for a moment before I spoke. "Hmmm. Perhaps you should win one for fastest and most skilled change in subject. Dr. Venkman." I kept my tone dry deliberately, knowing there wasn't much more I could do for him--much more he would allow me to do--at the moment except draw a laugh from him and thus encourage him to relax a little.

Peter snorted at my comment. "We're not rehashing yesterday right now, Egon."

"We will find the pack and the trap, Peter. We have the means to do so."

Peter broke from my gaze and ran a hand through his hair.

Tension radiated from him. "If I had just--"

"Don't," I said gently, clasping his shoulder. "Ray and Winston were both injured. I needed your help. We had no reason to suspect someone was waiting to break into Ecto."

"I know." Peter shoved his fingers through his hair again, thoroughly mussing it. "Damn it, Egon, if some kid took that pack. . . "

"We're going to find it," I said firmly. "We didn't today, but we will within a day or two."

Green eyes gleaming with anxiety met mine. He was very bothered by the situation. I felt some degree of apprehension myself. It had been a difficult afternoon bust, six mean-spirited and clearly intelligent poltergeists, and we had managed to trap only four of them before Ray was shoved down a flight of steps and glass from a shattered window cut Winston's head.

Fearful that those entities still at large would seek to free their companions, I had given the full traps to Peter to run them out to the car. In his haste, he had not locked the car, and when we returned to Ecto after capturing the remaining entities, we found a pack and one of the traps missing.

"Well, at least we're insured, right."

I heard the self-recrimination beyond Peter's usual sarcasm.

Before I could form a response, he pushed himself to his feet. "We have a ceremony to get to. Let's go. I don't want to miss dinner. I'm so hungry, even tomato surprise sounds good."

I rose to join him. "Tomato surprise?"

"You don't want to know."

As he steered me toward the doorway, I picked up the comb and slipped it into my pocket.

The awards supper was held in the ground floor banquet room of the American Society for Paranormal Research's uptown office building. When we arrived shortly after eight, the lobby and banquet room were crowded with guests.

I made a beeline for our reserved table, Winston behind me, Ray lagging as he stopped to greet people he recognized. I watched Peter, a few feet ahead, offer terse greetings as people, recognizing him, reached out to shake his hand and congratulate him. He was not his spirited self this evening, though it was an occasion he normally would have made the most of. Instead of heading for the circle of reporters buzzing around the dais, he joined me and Winston at the table.

We had no sooner sat than we were accosted by Lionel Andrews and his brother Charles, who called themselves ghosthunters and attempted to remove ghosts via the traditional method of exorcism, a method which I believe, and Raymond confirms, rarely if ever succeeds.

Lionel seized my hand as if he were greeting a long-lost friend and not a business competitor. He was as smooth as I remembered him, reminding me a little of Charlie Venkman's ingratiating manner.

"Spengler! Congratulations! We're all quite happy for you, everyone one of us at Andrews Spirit Location and Removal Services." Lionel produced a business card and handed it to me. Aren't we, Charles?"

"Of course." Charles, as I recalled, was less conversant than his brother, certainly less charming. He was the brother Peter disparagingly called the almost-intelligent one. Charles, I knew, had designed most of the tracking equipment they used to locate ghosts before exorcising them.

Charles did not appear remotely happy for us. "The ASPR does tend to coddle public interest," he noted with a shrug, as if it didn't matter in the least. "If it will gain them more favor to award researchers who can provide the most news coverage and perk public interest in the paranormal, who are we to protest."

A glance around the table showed me Winston, hands over his mouth as he tried to suppress an exasperated grin; Ray, with a wry, almost sympathetic smile belying the faint sparkle of satisfaction in his eyes; and Peter, oblivious to the conversation, eyes on the door, fingers absently strumming the white table cloth.

I realized it was up to me. I looked at the business card and noted the outdated depiction of traditional ghosts circling the company name. Evidently, losing the award had not harmed the Andrews brothers' ability to make money. I noted from the card that they had opened an office on the tenth floor of the very building in which we had gathered for the award ceremony.

I turned in my chair and looked Charles Andrews in the eye. "I have no doubt that the ASPR based their decision on their observations of our equipment in use and our success rate in removing the entities we are hired to remove. I do not believe that whatever fame we may enjoy had anything to do with it."

"Your success rate?" Charles Andrews' hazel eyes sparkled with an unfriendly light. "Our success rate equals yours, I'm sure, and without the need for such expensive and dangerous equipment."

"By what method do you determine your success rate?" I inquired.

"We do a thorough sweep of the area," Charles said, extracting a wallet-sized device from his pocket. "We make sure the entire residence is free of irregularities."

I cocked an eyebrow at him. "Irregularities?"

"In the magnetic field, of course," Charles replied stiffly. He extended a palm, holding the device out for my perusal.

"May I?" I started to reach for it.

Charles withdrew it. "I don't--"

"Now, Charles," Lionel interrupted. "He's hardly going to sabotage us, is he?" Lionel gave me a quick, apologetic smile. "Charles is quite protective of our equipment."

"Understandable." I took the device as Charles reluctantly held

it out. It appeared to be a standard detector for

electromagnetic fields. I turned on the small machine and a red

light almost instantly flashed, alerting the user to, evidently,

the irregularities Charles had mentioned. "You do not obtain

specific readings with this," I commented. "You would not be

able to determine the classification of entity you're dealing

with--"

"That's your system, Spengler," Charles retorted. "In my experience, there is only one type of ghost on this plane, and that is the type requiring our guidance in moving on to the next level of existence."

"Class Fours?" Ray had left his seat and was hovering over my shoulder, trying to get a look at the detector. "Wow, that's the smallest EMF detector I've seen yet. What's it use? A 9 volt?"

He took it out of my hands and, turning it over, opened the back.

I stole a peek up at Charles to see his face stricken with alarm.

Ray poked with oblivious joy into the innards of the detector. "You know something," he began excitedly, "with a little work, I could fix your detector so that it can at least zero in on Class Fours." He looked up at Charles with a bright smile. "I mean, since you primarily handle those, Mr. Andrews."

Charles made a small strangled noise in his throat and plucked the detector out of Ray's hand. "That's Doctor Andrews," he said, sweeping a cool gaze over Ray.

Ray's smile faded into an abashed look. "I'm sorry. I didn't

mean--"

"This is a delicate piece of equipment," Charles said, quickly checking over the device. The red light still shone a warning and Charles shut the machine off.

"I suspect you were registering magnetic fields generated by the stereo speakers near the dais," I said, as Charles returned the detector to his pocket. "If I had one of our meters with me, I could establish it with certainty."

"Your meter is too bulky for ease of use," Charles stated calmly, his eyes sweeping over the four of us with undisguised contempt. "And I dare say far less accurate than mine. I assure you my detector was not registering common EMF sources. It is quite likely that a place such as this could attract spirits of the deceased. Lionel, do you have a digital thermometer with you?"

Lionel slipped his arm under his brother's. "Charles, let's go to our table. They're about to serve supper."

Charles gazed at me for another moment as his brother tried to pull him away. I merely returned the hostile stare with a slight smile, refusing to be ruffled. Charles jerked out of Lionel's grasp and stalked away, leaving his brother to hurriedly follow. When they had gone, Winston lowered his hands to the table, his lips twitching. He looked at Ray. "Fix it so that it can zero in on Class Fours?"

Ray fidgeted in his chair. "Gosh, I figured he'd at least want it to be able to do that much. All he can get right now is a signal from every electromagnetic field he comes into contact with."

"They must find spirits everywhere they go," I remarked, causing Winston to burst out laughing.

"Aw come on, guys." Ray hesitated, eyes soft with concern going to Peter for a moment before returning to me. "Maybe we shouldn't have laughed at him. Remember how we struggled in the beginning to design our meter, Egon. Not even taking into account the work we put into the traps and packs--" He stopped abruptly and glanced at Peter again, a look of apology stealing over his face.

Peter seemed to wake from his reverie at that moment, perhaps aware of Ray's concern, and managed a smile. "You can talk about it, Tex. It isn't the first incredibly stupid thing Peter Venkman's ever done, and it isn't likely to be the last."

"Pete, man, you're coming down way too hard on yourself," Winston said in a quiet voice, leaning toward him. "We had poltergeists hammering us from all sides. We needed you back in there, fast."

A waiter pushed a cart up to our table and placed a plate of food at each setting. Winston sighed at the sight of it. "I really hate the food they serve at these things."

I inspected the unadorned breast of chicken. It appeared to have been removed from the spit before achieving the necessary internal temperature to destroy any bacteria present. A few wilted stalks of asparagus, a dry roll, and a stuffed tomato completed the course. I looked over at Ray, who was poking forlornly at the tomato.

"It is fortunate we all had a late lunch." I gave him a smile and he returned it with a small one of his own. I was, I sensed, doing a poor job of filling in for Peter. I noticed that Peter was gazing around the room now, watching the crowd as if he expected someone to show up with our missing pack. I sighed inwardly. Peter needed to be drawn away from his thoughts. "Peter?"

His eyes lit on me questioningly. I gestured at the tomato on his plate. "Tomato surprise?"

He seemed startled by the query. Then he glanced down at the plate as if just noticing it for the first time. He picked up his fork and stabbed at the tomato. He lifted it off the plate to inspect it. "Tomato surprise," he concluded with a sigh. "Bet you guys would give anything for a pineapple pizza right about now."

"Peter, there is nothing in the world more unpalatable than that pineapple pizza of which you are so fond." I sliced a small corner from my tomato and tasted it. Perhaps I was mistaken.

Peter grinned at the grimace I couldn't hide. "Don't think Mikey likes it." He exchanged a smirk with Ray. "Hey, Ray, you know what they stuff those with, don't you?"

Ray made a face at the tomato on his plate. "Do I want to?"

I was quite pleased to see Peter emerging from his bout of silent

worrying that had kept him apart from us most of the day. I did

not of course let on that I was pleased, favoring him with a look

of reproof. "Peter, I am trying to enjoy my meal--"

"Oh don't let me deprive you, Egon. Here, you can have my tomato, too." He jerked his fork toward me, the tomato impaled on the tines sliding free. But Peter's aim was slightly off. . . or perhaps it wasn't. The tomato landed directly in my lap.

Immediately following its landing, I heard three barely-stifled snorts of irrepressible laughter. I gave both Winston and Ray a glare, then focused the full power of my disapproval upon Peter, who was not in the least cowed.

I snatched up his napkin and plucked the offending fruit off my jacket and onto my plate. Peter, face reddening with the effort to hold back his laughter, which seemed now an unstoppable release of the tension which had sustained him all day long, leaned toward me and took note of the resulting stain on my tux.

"God, Spengs, I'm sorry." He did sound contrite, between the snorts of amusement he couldn't contain. "Come on, I'll help you clean it up while everyone's eating."

Holding the napkin over the stain, I rose and started toward the door at a swift pace. Peter caught up with me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Egon," he wheezed, still fighting down chuckles, "Really, I was aiming for the plate. Look, I'll trade jackets with you."

I threw him a dark look without slowing as I entered the corridor that led out to the lobby. "Peter, you know your jacket won't fit me, nor mine you. I will just have to clean this as best I can. Do you see a restroom?"

He hooked a hand around my arm. "This way." The corridor broke off in two directions, one leading to a row of elevators, the other to the restrooms. I spent some minutes scrubbing at the stain while Peter sat on the edge of the sink, watching me with a smile still playing on his lips. I removed the stain, but the wet material would be slow to dry.

"Give me your jacket," Peter said, hopping to his feet.

I reluctantly slipped it off and handed it to him. He hit the button on one of the hand dryers and waved my jacket beneath it. "Just give it a couple of minutes," he said, and flashed me a grin. "Talk about bad timing, eh? If the food had arrived a few minutes sooner, the Exorcist brothers could have been the lucky recipients of my tomato surprise. Imagine the commotion if I'd gotten tomato sauce in Chuckie's beloved tinker toy."

I folded my arms and leaned against the wall. "So you were listening at least."

Green eyes flashed impishly at me. "Not often that I get to see you fry the competition with a few scientific observations and a withering look, Spengs."

I smiled at that. "Indeed."

The dryer went off and Peter hit the button again. "I'd just like to know why we can't ever run into a pair of brothers who don't have it in for us."

"You can hardly compare Charles and Lionel Andrews with the Neesons, Peter."

"Mmm-hmm. Ulster didn't have a brother, did he?"

The comment, delivered with a fatalistic grin, made me shiver.

"I don't believe so."

Peter let that unpleasant subject drop. "Did you see the look on Chuckie's face when Ray was dissecting his toy?"

I had seen it. Charles looked quite ready to tackle Ray.

Peter's eyes grew suddenly dark, and I knew what he was thinking. Ray had offered to help the man out of the goodness of his heart, and Charles had responded less than kindly.

"Ray doesn't see this as a competition," I said, straightening to stand beside Peter as he hit the dryer button a third time. "And he's right. Not even the Andrews do what we do."

"They see it as a competition," Peter said. He shook out my jacket and handed it to me.

"Thank you, Peter." I slipped it back on. "They may indeed see

it as such, but we should not respond to their provocations. We

did not open this business to become wealthy--"

"You didn't."

At his interruption, I paused, giving him an exasperated look

before continuing. "Nor did we open it to become famous--"

"Well--"

I stopped him. "Peter, you may have seen it as a way to become well-known and make some money in the beginning, but don't try to persuade me that this business doesn't mean far more to you than that."

He raised both hands in concession and smiled at me. I brushed down my jacket and was relieved to see the material had dried and appeared, at least to the naked eye, free of any stain. "We should return to the supper before Ray or Winston come looking for us. I want Raymond to stay off that ankle as much as possible. . . "

I trailed off as I turned to see Peter standing in front of the mirror, trying his best to comb his tousled hair with his fingers. He cast a distressed look at me. "Why didn't you tell me I needed a comb, Spengs?"

I had been waiting for that. I pulled the comb out of my pocket and handed it to him. Glad to have you back, Peter.

Peter looked relieved. "Knew all those brains would come in handy some day." He combed his hair, straightened his tie, and pocketed the comb. "Finished. One damned good-looking Ghostbuster, ready to be awarded, applauded, and generally made much of."

I noted his cocky grin in the mirror and deliberately shifted my attention to my own reflection. "Thank you, Peter. I had no idea you thought so highly of me." I turned and marched out of the restroom, chuckling to myself.

Peter emerged a moment after I did and gave my bowtie a tweak. "Keep it up, Spengler, and in a week, you'll be finding out what week-old tomato surprise does to pillowcases. . . " His voice dwindled, then flared back to life in a choked gasp. "Egon!" he hissed, latching tightly onto my arm.

"What is it?" I turned swiftly to look at him. He was staring down the corridor, a dangerous fire kindling in his eyes. "Peter? What--" I followed his gaze in time to see Lionel Andrews enter an elevator, cradling in his arms one of our proton packs and a blinking trap.

"That son-of-a-bitch!" Peter let go of me and tore down the corridor toward the elevator.

"Peter!" I was right behind him, more alarmed at the idea of Peter being in possession of Lionel Andrews than at the idea of Lionel Andrews being in possession of our proton pack. The man was armed. Peter was not. "Peter, wait, slow down!"

He reached the elevator just as the doors closed. Peter took that moment to color the air around us with vocabulary such as I have not heard him use in ages. I stumbled to a stop beside him and glanced up at the glowing numbers which signalled the elevator's ascent.

"Damn him!" Peter kicked at the closed doors. He scanned the corridor, clearly determined to find a way to pursue Andrews. I grabbed his arm in a restraining grip.

"Peter, I know where he's going." I extracted Andrews' business

card from my pocket and passed it to him. "Tenth floor--" No

sooner had I spoken than Peter lurched to the elevator buttons

and summoned an empty car. I held him back. "Ray and Winston--"

Peter grabbed my arm and dragged me into the elevator car after

him. As the doors slid together, I pulled out of Peter's grasp

and looked at him in vexation. "Peter, Ray may not be up to

accompanying us, but Winston is--"

"That'll lose us time. He's not getting away from us, Egon."

Peter's mouth settled into a familiar stubborn line. "When I get

my hands on him--"

"He has a pack," I said sternly. "We will do nothing rash."

Peter paced the enclosed space like a caged tiger. "You can calmly discuss the theft of our equipment with Andrews while I take back our pack and separate his atoms for him."

"Peter--"

"You don't know what I've been imagining the past twenty-four hours, Egon," Peter interrupted, turning on me with green eyes sparkling.

I met his gaze calmly. "I know exactly what you've been imagining. What all of us have imagined. I am quite capable of also imagining what will happen if you go barrelling into Andrews' offices and Lionel Andrews decides to protect himself by using our pack against you."

Peter stopped pacing abruptly and stared at me. He knew that I was angry, too, but that my worry for him was equal to my anger. He clapped me on the shoulder. "Sorry, Spengs. I'm not going to do anything stupid, okay?" His shoulders sagged slightly, visible relief in his face. "At least we know where that pack is. No innocent people will get hurt."

I heard the quiet threat behind the relief in his voice but I decided not to press on the use of caution in approaching Andrews. I was satisfied with Peter's assurance that he would do nothing stupid. . . although our definition of stupid sometimes diverges rather widely. I intended to be close on his heels to make sure that his anger, as justified as I felt it was, did not get the better of him and cause him to forget his own safety.

The elevator doors opened on a quiet corridor. I stepped forward before Peter could, and peered in both directions, looking for any sign that Andrews knew we had followed him. Peter leaned over my shoulder, nearly causing me to pitch forward onto the carpet. "See anything, Spengs?"

I pushed my glasses into place and gave him an exasperated look.

"Do you mind?"

A faint grin lifted the corners of his mouth. "Sorry." He drew back and I straightened.

"I do not see him. Peter--" I snatched at his jacket as he brushed past me and entered the corridor. Catching him, I locked my hand around his arm. "Can we please remain together?"

"You bet. Safety in numbers." He was too distracted to notice the reproof in my voice. He started forward, forcing me to hurry along with him. The offices we passed had glass doors, most of them revealing dark and quiet interiors devoid of any furnishings. The office at the end of the hall was the only one which appeared currently occupied. Andrews Spirit Location and Removal Services had been painted on the glass. There were lights on within.

I held on securely to Peter. "Remember, we are unarmed."

"Spengs," he whispered, as we slowly approached the door. "Did anyone ever tell you that you have a real talent for driving a point into the ground?"

"Oddly enough, no," I said in a dry voice. "It was not a talent I possessed before my association with you."

Green eyes flashed around at me, a quick smile, but he did not say anything, instead reaching for the door. "Damn," he whispered.

"Locked?" I was rather relieved by that. I felt more than ever that this was a matter best handled by the police. It had been foolish to follow Andrews, unarmed as we were.

I straightened enough to look past Peter's shoulder and into the office. A desk lamp revealed a large oak desk and a leather chair. There was no other furniture, plants, or paintings. Evidently, the Andrews were still in the process of moving in.

"As we cannot pick the lock, I suggest we return downstairs and telephone the police."

"You're absolutely right, Egon," Peter said, backing up a step to lean one hand against the doorframe. "We don't have time to waste picking the lock."

He was yielding far too agreeably. "Peter, what are you planning to . . . " I trailed off, noticing that he had removed his shoe. I reached for his arm without thinking twice. "Peter Venkman--" He was prepared for my attempt to stop him, because he instantly switched the shoe to his right hand and used the heel against the glass. It splintered, falling into the office and leaving a gaping jagged hole near the doorknob. Peter shook the glass fragments off of his shoe and slipped the shoe back on.

I drew a deep, steadying breath. Rarely, but upon occasion, Peter will do something which provokes me to a level of exasperation and anger that I have never reached with any other living soul, and on those occasions, I find myself wishing that I were his father instead of his friend, and could stand him in the corner for an hour so that he might contemplate fully the consequences of such unconsidered action.

"I believe that eliminates any advantage we may have had in observing Andrews unannounced."

Peter grinned at my withering tone. As I watched, attempting not to wince, he slipped his hand through the jagged hole and unlocked the door. But he did not open it. Instead, he hooked his hand around my arm and dragged me to one side of the door, so that neither of us were visible to anyone within the office. When I started to speak, he put a finger to his lips and then gestured at the door. I made an attempt to peer around the frame, and Peter pulled me abruptly back. I heard movement in the office, followed by a familiar voice, once smooth, now quivering with uneasiness.

"Who's there?"

Lionel Andrews. Peter, beside me, tensed. Instantly I caught his wrist in an unyielding grip. He looked at me and I shook my head. His eyes sparkled with silent frustration and I made a motion of unsheathing a thrower, an act he did not fail to recognize. The look in his eyes calmed to unwilling acquiescence. "Let me take care of this," I whispered close to his ear. "You do have a reputation, Dr. Venkman."

I did not need to delineate exactly which of Peter's reputations I referred to. He knew what I meant. Andrews would be less likely react with panic were I to confront him instead of Peter. Peter's stance would shout threat, and Andrews would react accordingly. I, on the other hand, might stand a chance of reasoning with the man.

Retrieving my handkerchief from my coat pocket, I extended it until it was visible to anyone on the other side of what remained of the glass door. An audible, choked gasp was the immediate response.

"Mr. Andrews." I pocketed my handkerchief and leaned forward enough to peer around the edge of the wooden doorframe. I felt Peter's hands latch onto me, ostensibly to drag me backward at the first crackle of a proton beam. I saw Andrews, within, staring back at me with a wild-eyed look on his features. He had the pack dangling over one arm, the trap hanging from his other hand. I must admit, the sight of our equipment in his hands did stir an involuntary burst of anger within me, but I endeavored to keep that emotion hidden from Lionel Andrews.

"Please put down the pack, Mr. Andrews, so that we may converse." As I spoke, I heard Peter swear softly at the revelation that Andrews had the pack in hand. The two hands clasped around my right arm suddenly tightened their grip. I lifted my right hand and set it against Peter's chest, giving him a slight push backward to warn him to remain hidden. We were at an advantage still as long as Andrews believed I was the only one on the tenth floor with him.

Lionel Andrews did not panic, but, as I hoped, watched me for a moment with an increasingly appraising look in his shifting eyes. He was sizing up his situation, and I gave him a long moment in which to do so before I spoke again.

"Mr. Andrews, I believe we can resolve this situation without summoning the police. . . " I was slowed for an instant by Peter's sharp intake of breath, but I did not take my eyes off Andrews. "Whatever reason you and your brother may have had for taking our equipment, I am willing to give you the opportunity to right this wrong before anyone is hurt. This equipment is unsafe in inexperienced hands, Mr. Andrews. If you will return the pack and the trap to me, I will go, and no more will be said of the matter."

"Like hell," Peter whispered, only loudly enough for my ears.

I ignored him and concentrated on Andrews. The man was perspiring freely, his jaw working back and forth as he weighed his situation. I saw his grip on the pack tighten. Aware of Peter hovering close, I wished he would step back a pace; if Andrews threw a beam at me, my attempt to avoid it would send me right into Peter, resulting in both of us being thrown off-balance while Andrews advanced on us with the weapon.

But Peter would not back off. He could not see Andrews, but the listening look on Peter's face told me that he was attuned for the slightest murmur that meant Andrews would not agree to my terms.

Andrews lowered the pack to the ground and released it. His eyes gleamed at me through the dimly lit office foyer.

"Listen, Spengler," he said, his voice breathless, close to panic. "You don't understand. My brother. . . my brother, Charles. . . it wasn't enough for him. Sure, the money came in, like I promised it would. . . but it wasn't enough. Didn't know what more he wanted." Andrews gestured at the office around him. "But the science. . . you know. I mean, you would know, Spengler. That's important to him. He wanted the best. He needed the right tools for this, he said."

A nervous sputter of laughter escaped Andrews' trembling lips. He tugged at his bowtie, then smoothed his hand down the front of his tux. "Charlie, he wanted it to all be so sophisticated, you know? He just couldn't quite get the details down. The science. Don't get me wrong. Charlie's a whiz. He's got the brains to rig some impressive fireworks for clients. . . but he wanted it to work like. . . like. . . " Andrews stabbed a finger at the pack, then lifted the dangling trap for me to see. "Like this stuff." He pulled out a kerchief and mopped at his brow. "Jesus, like we could actually capture ghosts or something."

"And what about you, Mr. Andrews?" I asked calmly. "What did you want?"

Lionel Andrews' gaze jerked around the quiet, dim office as if looking for an escape route. Finally he looked back at me. "I just wanted to make a buck, you know? That's all. And keep my brother happy. Come on, Spengler, a guy like you, you can understand that, right? I saw you with your pals there, downstairs at the banquet. You guys would do anything for each other. Right?"

About to respond that brotherhood, in my estimation, did not include creating a situation likely to result in arrest and conviction for theft, I hesitated, aware now of the condition of the trap in Andrews' left hand. It was vibrating visibly, toothpick-thin streams of light seeping through the edges of the trap doors while the light indicating the presence of the two poltergeists trapped within blinked steadily.

Andrews had somehow damaged the trap. Before I could question him, Peter neatly stepped around me and swung wide the office door. Andrews went white and backed a step away. His wide eyes took in the sight of a furious Peter Venkman and then shot to me with a look of betrayal.

"You said. . . " he began.

"Hate to break it to you, bunky," Peter cut in, his clipped, cold tenor startling me with its intensity, and turning Andrews into a shrinking ball of fright. "Brothers don't get each other into trouble. . . " He hesitated for a heartbeat, then, as if he knew my thoughts, added, "not this kind of trouble, anyway. You and Chuckie, you're messing with something way out of your league. You didn't try to use that equipment on any Class Fours?"

Andrews swallowed visibly. "I tested it. . . a little." His mouth twisted in a weak smile. "Tough to get the hang of."

"Holy shit," Peter whispered. "Egon. . . "

"Peter, listen--"

Peter didn't hear me. He turned on Andrews, his entire body taut, his green eyes glittering. "You tested it? Did you ever think you could have hurt someone with that thing? Innocent men, women, and children?"

Peter's fear that someone might have gotten hurt because he hadn't locked the pack safely in the car had metamorphosed into anger and he was spending it on Andrews. I needed to disengage him from further confrontation with the man before either of them were hurt.

"Peter," I said, in a tone that I fully expected would draw his attention away from Andrews.

Peter did turn to me, but only long enough to flash a glare of

protest that I would attempt to quash his justified tirade

against Andrews. I tried to explain. "Peter, listen to me. I

am concerned--"

"Egon, the son-of-a-bitch could have fried some little old lady with that thing, and--" He stopped abruptly before the words it would have been my fault could escape. His jaw tightened and he swung back toward Andrews. "Give me that equipment," he commanded, moving swiftly to take it even as he spoke.

Andrews instinctively staggered back, leaving the pack but still clutching the trap. He shook his head. "Venkman, calm down. Just let me--" He stopped with a panicky cry as Peter reached out to grab the trap.

In trying to avoid Peter, Andrews tripped backward over a pile of directories the phone company had left on the carpet. He landed flat on his back, the trap squarely on his chest. Peter grabbed for it, fingers closing around the handle just as Andrews clutched at the other end of the trap.

"Peter, be careful! The trap is--" My warning was lost as the trap's failure made itself known in an ear-splitting emission of sound. The doors popped open and Peter was enveloped in an outburst of light far more dense than usual, saturated with the intensive release of the trap's remaining power.

He cried out, a sound of such distress that I gasped in involuntary response. I blinked against the light and shielded my eyes with one hand while I lunged forward to Peter's aid. He was curled up on the carpet, both hands covering his face. I seized his wrists.

"Peter! Peter, let me. . . " I could hardly keep a grip on him, he was writhing so desperately. His muffled gasps of pain came one after another. "Peter, for God's sake, let me see!"

"Can't," came the choked, barely audible response. "Burning. .

.Spengs. . . God. . . I can't. . . goddamnit. . . it hurts."

I looked around wildly for some means to provide him relief from the pain. A water cooler, newly installed, stood near the window surrounded by still-sealed bottles. "Peter, I'm going to get you some water. I'll be right back."

"Egon!" he rasped, reaching out for me. As he removed one hand from his face, I caught a glimpse of reddened skin on his cheeks and his eyelashes plastered to his cheeks as moisture seeped from under the lids. "Don't," he continued, his voice stricken now with as much fear as pain. "Don't leave me here."

"I'll be six feet away. You need water, Peter." Disentangling myself from his grasp, I ran unsteadily over to the cooler and, lifting one of the bottles, inserted it into the stand. I pushed the buttons and air bubbles burbled in the tank, cold water shooting over my fingers. Yanking out my handkerchief, I soaked it in the cold water and ran back to Peter's side.

He had his face pressed against his shirt sleeve in an effort to ease his discomfort. I set my hand over his hand and he jerked, then relaxed slightly as he realized it was me. "Peter, move your hand away." I touched the wet handkerchief to his cheek. He grimaced, then with obvious reluctance lowered his hand. His face was burned--not badly, something like a minor sunburn. But his eyes. . . he had them shut tightly.

I very gently patted his face with the cold, damp cloth. "Peter, can you open your eyes?"

His hand wandered over my sleeve until he found my wrist. Curling his fingers, he held on with a painful tightness. I set my free hand on his forehead. "I'm right here, Peter. Open your eyes."

He kept his grip on my wrist and with what seemed a huge effort, lifted his eyelids enough to expose a moist sliver of green. He blinked once, then a few times rapidly in succession, the smallest frown turning down the corners of his mouth. "Spengs," he whispered.

I leaned over him, waiting for his gaze to shift to my face,

willing it to. "Peter--"

"You'd think an organization like the ASPR could keep up with its electric bills," he said, denial vying with ill-suppressed fear in his tone. "Or did you cut the lights when I wasn't looking?"

I drew my hand away from his brow and held it in front of his eyes. "Peter. . . "

"If you're going to ask me how many fingers you're holding up, Spengs, don't." There was anger in his voice, but it wasn't directed at me, nor anyone other than himself.

I realized he had sensed my hand near his face, and wondered if he could discern shadows. "Can you see any light at all?" At the strain in my own voice, Peter's face turned toward me and his grip on me tightened. He shook his head. His attempt to remain calm was, I knew, for my sake as well as his.

"Egon, I can't--" He swallowed and his jaw set. "I can't see."

His voice was utterly quiet. True quiet is not a normal state for Peter Venkman. Even when he is in one of his more relaxed, almost indolent phases, he never seems in complete repose. There is always some aspect of him that is yet either animated or tense, depending on the situation.

Thus, when Peter is truly quiet, there is invariably cause for concern on my part, for it is either the quiet of a man plotting to fish me out of my peaceful existence and drag me around town for what passes as his idea of entertainment. . . or it is the quiet of a man fighting with his last shred of strength to deal with a situation that threatens to break him to pieces.

"Peter," I said, before he could draw any further conclusions,

"it is a temporary effect from the exposure to the trap's power

surge. Your eyesight will return--"

"Can I get that in writing?" Peter took hold of my arm and struggled to sit up. His other hand fumbled from my wrist to my shoulder, clutching in a grip tight enough to make me wince internally. "Spengs," he whispered harshly. "Andrews?"

I had forgotten the man. I glanced over my shoulder. Lionel Andrews lay on his side, semi-conscious, a dazed look on his face. I surmised the knock on the head he had taken had left him stunned. He was only just now regaining awareness of his surroundings.

"He's not entirely conscious. Do you think you can stand, Peter? I will not leave you here with him, but I must go downstairs for assistance." As he groaned softly and rubbed a hand across his forehead, I slipped my arm around him. "Lean on me," I said. I continued to speak in a soft voice. Judging from Peter's expression, he was enduring a potent headache, and I did not want to add to his distress.

Peter slid his arm around my shoulders. "I know what you're thinking, Egon," he said in a weary exhalation of breath. "If I'd listened to you instead of running up here half-cocked, I wouldn't be a candidate for a cane and a tin cup."

"You know I'm thinking no such thing, Peter Venkman." I injected a stern note into my tone, even though my heart's current residence in my throat barely let me get the words out. "Rather, I am musing on my own folly in permitting you to come charging up here. After all these years, I should certainly know better. If I'd shown the least sense, I would have simply pinned you to the floor of the elevator and used the phone to call for assistance."

The faintest smile touched his lips. "Well, at least you're not mad at me, then."

"To the contrary, I am quite upset with you, but we will discuss that later. My only concern at the moment is getting you to the hospital as quickly as possible." Supporting Peter with an arm around his waist, I headed toward the door. We were within three feet of the door when it suddenly slammed shut, and the remainder of the glass shattered, raining to the carpet in front of us. Peter gasped, his grip on me tightening, and I staggered a step back in surprise myself.

"The air," Peter choked out, tugging hard at my sleeve. "It's cold. Feel it? Just a moment ago and now again. Egon, the poltergeists. Where's the pack?"

"By the door," I said, releasing my hold on Peter. "Stay here--" My command was choked off as Peter grabbed onto the back of my jacket to keep me from walking forward.

"Egon!" he hissed, and I heard the quiver in his voice. My turn in his direction pulled my jacket out of his grasp. He stood there, both hands lifted as he reached out in search of me, his green eyes gleaming with near panic.

I grabbed his hand. "Peter, I'm here. It's all right. I need you to stay right where you are. The floor is littered with glass shards. If you fall, you'll be cut."

Peter made an obvious and determined effort to regain his composure. "Keep talking, all right?" His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. "We've got a pair of nasty polters loose, Egon. If they jumped you, I wouldn't be able to. . . " He trailed off, paling a shade.

He wouldn't be able to help me. I knew just the thought of it frightened him.

"Peter, forgive me. I did not mean to alarm you. I'm moving approximately two feet to your right and will remain there while I check on the condition of the pack."

Reaching the pack, I bent over to examine it. "It appears undamaged--" I broke off in dismay. The pack's power was so low as to make it essentially useless to us at the moment. I bit back an urge to express my annoyance with inappropriate language and instead breathed a heartfelt sigh.

Two feet away from me, I heard Peter's breathing quicken. "Egon?

Damn it, Egon--"

"I'm sorry, Peter," I said hastily. "I'm all right. It appears

that Andrews has been using the pack. Even if we had a working

trap, we could not--"

"Egon, I get the message." He shook his head, a signal to me, and I remembered that we were dealing with intelligent entities who probably understood the gist of what I had been saying. Our wisest course now was to get downstairs as swiftly as possible.

I moved to Peter's side and took his arm. He grabbed onto me with both hands and, leaning close, whispered in my ear, "Stairs."

He was quite correct. I dreaded the thought of what two malevolent poltergeists could do to elevator cables. "Excellent idea," I whispered. "Hold onto me, Peter."

"Blind only five minutes and I already have my own seeing-eye scientist," he said, following as I turned back toward the doorway. "How lucky can a guy get?"

I decided to ignore that. "We're going to walk over a good bit of glass, Peter," I warned him. "Step carefully."

"You just point out the glass and I'll do my best to avoid it," he responded, his face turning in my direction, though his eyes gazed past me.

"Peter, I didn't mean--"

"Forget it. I'm sorry, Spengs. I just--" He stopped, a myriad of emotions playing across his face so swiftly, I barely registered them all. He was in shock to some degree, but fear was rapidly gaining a stronger grip on him, and I sensed that once we were safely downstairs and the matter was turned over to the police, Peter would be hit all at once by the reaction he was momentarily keeping at bay.

"I know," I said. "But you will be all right." I would not believe otherwise.

"Yeah." He was not remotely convinced but he did not argue. "Let's get out of here." No sooner had the words left his lips than the air around us grew cold again. "Egon!"

"I feel it." The poltergeists were so ethereal, they were all but transparent. Without a meter, we could not sense their approach beyond the brief sensation of cold and, occasionally, the sounds they made. Sometimes there had not been even that much warning, as I recalled from the nightmarish bust; but we had a meter to guide us then. Now we were essentially at their mercy.

"They're gonna start throwing things," Peter whispered. "Come on, Spengs, move it. We--" He fell silent and a look of frustration crossed his face. He closed his eyes and swore softly. "Andrews."

"He's not fully conscious," I reminded Peter. "And I am not certain I can carry him and get you out of here, too."

His eyes flew open. "Spengs, did you hear that?" he whispered.

I listened, and heard it; a low creak, quiet but ominous. It came from behind me, and I knew it wasn't Andrews. I looked around, just in time to see the ornate oak desk across the room rise several inches off the carpet and head with alarming speed in our direction.

I dove for the floor, pulling Peter along with me, moments before the desk could slam us through the doorway. The desk hit the doorframe with a resounding crack but did not break through. I lifted my head from Peter's shoulder and saw that the desk was aligned neatly with the rectangular opening the shattered glass had left behind.

The entities apparently wished us to remain in the office.

I started to sit up and became aware of Peter's grip on both my arms. I looked down into his wild-eyed expression. "It's all right, Peter. It was Andrews' desk. The poltergeists moved it to the doorway. I'm not sure we can get out of here unless we can push it out of the way."

"If they think they're trapping us in here, they can think again," Peter said, with an expression that made me suspect he could pry that desk away himself, even without the advantage of sight. He nudged me away so that he could sit up. "We're getting out of here, Egon, if I have to use Andrews' head as a battering ram to do it."

We climbed to our feet and cautiously approached the door. The moment we were within reach, the desk, its height extending above the top frame of the door, began to rock back and forth. The movement brought it in contact with Peter's outstretched hands and he flinched and stepped backward, glass shards snapping into smaller pieces beneath his shoes. Alarmed, he stumbled back further and tried to find a level surface on which to stand. I reached out and steadied him before he could lose his balance.

The moment I touched his arm, he grabbed a handful of my sleeve and again endeavored to suppress the apprehension that showed in his face. "Okay," he said, with a nearly convincing surface calm. "No need to panic. See a phone anywhere, Egon?"

"The phones are not installed," Lionel Andrews said from behind us. His voice had altogether lost that smooth quality. He had been hurt and, more than that, frightened by the discovery that locating and capturing noncorporeal beings was something more than a con game. "I had planned to purchase two multi-line phones tomorrow, along with our other office equipment. We're-- we're trapped," he concluded, lifting his frightened gaze to mine as I turned to him. "And no one knows we're up here. Not even my brother."

"There's always Plan B," Peter began conversationally. "We could toss Andrews here out the window. That's sure to draw some notice."

The sharp edge of sarcasm made Andrews flinch, but Peter didn't see it. If he had, perhaps it would have been enough to calm him down. He was tensed, waiting for Andrews to reply, waiting for the opportunity to lash out, at least verbally, at the man.

I thought it would be best if I prevented this conversation from progressing. I held on to Peter's arm and said quietly, "Continuing along that line will not help us, Peter."

I thought for a moment he was going to pull away from me. His hands clenched, the muscles in his arm like steel beneath my fingers. Then he exhaled almost soundlessly, eyes closing for an instant, before he answered. "Let's get out of here, Spengs. Before I kill the son-of-a-bitch."

"You were going to leave me here!" Andrews blurted out, struggling to his feet. "You were going to leave me with the ghosts that did that!" He pointed a trembling finger at the remains of his office door, and the oak table that now blocked it.

Peter swore, but I had my arms around him before he could take a step in Andrews' direction. All at once, in the air around us, voices jabbered, startling all three of us. The chatter was recognizable as human, but completely unintelligible.

It was a disturbing sound, to say the least. "Peter--"

"What are they trying to say?" he whispered, brows knit as he concentrated on the sounds. The voices were close, yet seemed distant, interlaced with other, fainter sounds. . . movement, laughter. What reached our ears was too discordant to permit us to decipher any individual words.

"I don't think we have to understand it." I released Peter but kept one arm around his back in case we needed to dive for cover again. "We know what they are capable of." I turned to Andrews. "I require your assistance, Mr. Andrews. Together, we may be able to push that desk away from the door."

Peter immediately jumped in. "We can do it, Egon. We don't

need--"

"Peter, it will be dangerous enough. . . " I stopped, choking back the rest of what I meant to say. The expression on Peter's face would not allow me to continue. He looked devastated, and I knew he was already imagining a lifetime of being shuffled out of the way of danger by the rest of us. I could not let him believe that would happen to him. I could not let myself believe it, either.

I had no choice but to let him assist us. "All right. But you must stay by me and you must listen to me, Peter."

He understood what I meant. He was usually good about listening to the rest of us in the midst of a dangerous situation; but he was also quite capable of improvising without giving us adequate warning that he was going to try something different.

Andrews gave Peter a wide berth as the three of us moved in unison toward the door. We were within a foot of the desk when I felt a breath of cold air touch my face. Peter must have felt it at the same instant. "I'm listening, Egon," he said in a tense whisper. "Start talking."

Expecting the desk to come falling toward us, I extended both arms to push Peter and Andrews backward. But the desk did not move a millimeter. Instead, the sea of glass at our feet rose into the air and swirled around us like a swarm of hornets. I raised my arm to cover my face and reached out with my other hand to find Peter. I heard his shocked yell and turned to see him fending off the flying glass with both arms as he stumbled backward. Trying to ignore the sting of glass shards against my face and neck, I went after him.

"Peter!" Out of slitted eyes, I could see him swinging his arms wildly. He lurched half-way across the room, trying to get away from the incessant assault, no doubt made all the more frightening by the fact that he couldn't see what was happening.

"Peter, get down on the floor and cover your head!" I commanded, moving after him as swiftly as I could.

He crashed against the wall situated between two windows and fell to his knees. I reached him and dropped down beside him, shielding him as thoroughly as possible. He was gasping for breath and trembling. Breathless and shaken myself, I lowered my head against his shoulder to shield my own face, and kept my hand cupped at the back of his head so that he would not inadvertently raise his head and be struck in the face by glass.

"Egon," he gasped. "The carpet. Can we pull up a corner of the carpet and crawl under it?"

I tried to look around in order to make that judgment. Andrews was lying curled up in the far corner, arms wrapped over his head. Hundreds of slivers of glass circled the room as if caught in a whirlpool. I realized that the attack was less intense now. The entities were drawing the pieces of glass to the center of the room in a glittering concentration. When the glass no longer posed an immediate threat, I sank down beside Peter and rested my back against the wall as I tried to catch my breath.

Peter cautiously raised his head and reached out his left hand, planting it squarely on my chest. "Egon? Are you all right?"

"I am uninjured." I studied his features for a moment to make sure he was not cut. I suspected the poltergeists had used the glass merely to move us away from the door, and said as much to Peter. "I don't believe they mean to kill us. They appear to be capable of killing us, but I theorize they prefer to torment us. It entertains them. If you'll recall, they did harm us during the bust, but never with clearly lethal intent until we began firing upon them."

"I remember," Peter said, his mouth a grim line. "I'm not in the mood for a game of cat and mouse right now, Egon. Is there another way out of here?"

"Only the windows. . . " I leaned my head back to look up at them. As if on cue, the panes of glass began to vibrate. The poltergeists were clearly watching our every move and listening to every word we said.

"Egon, what is it?"

I didn't have time to tell him. I barely had time to push him face down on the floor. I threw myself over him just as the panes exploded inward, showering us with glass.

"Holy shit," Peter gasped, voice muffled.

A sensation of cold swept over me from hip to shoulder and I thought at first it was the wintry air pouring into the room. An instant later, I knew it was something else entirely. The icy feeling was intense and localized, along with a sensation of pressure. . .

The entities had hold of me. "Peter--" I stopped with a choked cry as I was lifted off Peter and yanked backward so that I hung upright in the grasp of the two unseen entities. I heard Peter yell my name and caught a glimpse of him struggling to his feet, pebbles of glass raining from his clothing and hair. The entities surged backward, toward the jagged hole they'd left in the window pane.

"Peter, here!" I cried, as he swung around, arms extended, in a desperate attempt to find me. "Here!" It was the last word I got out before I was pulled hard against the window pane. My head struck the sash, dazing me, but I was conscious enough to throw both arms out and find a weak grip on the rough edges of glass that remained in the frame.

The poltergeists pulled, trying to drag me through the small opening. I felt glass scraping against my shirt, tearing it, and I clutched harder at the pane, ignoring the wounds that opened in my palms. It appeared that the entities were not averse to killing at least one of us.

I caught a glimpse of the deep night behind me, and the ten-story drop I would experience, should they succeed in dragging me through. I felt a rather more intense measure of fear swamp my body, and my muscles seemed to weaken, my grip, already fragile, slipping alarmingly.

Then I realized Peter had found me. His hands groped at my pantleg, working upward to find my shirtfront. Grabbing two handfuls of it, he tried to pull me toward him. The material, already torn, began to give.

I released my left hand and clutched at Peter's shoulder. He instantly seized my arm and tried again to drag me out of the window. The poltergeists were reluctant to let go. They pulled, taking me another few inches through the broken pane, and I could not stifle a gasp as the glass made deeper incisions in my skin.

"Let go of him, goddamnit!" Peter yelled, and pulled me with what I felt was every last bit of strength in his body. The poltergeists released me at that moment, and I shot forward from the sill, hitting the ground hard.

I heard soft laughter in the air, as faraway seeming as the voices we had heard earlier. I lay for a moment, trying to gather myself together and assess my condition. Chilled from the cold night air, bruised and cut, I couldn't seem to muster the energy to sit up. I reached a hand out and felt around.

"Peter?" I knew he had fallen with me. "Peter. Where are you?"

I heard him groan and, a moment later, he was hovering over me. "Egon?" His hand found my cheek and he brushed his fingers over my face, trying to determine by touch what he could not at the moment do by sight.

"I'm all right," I said, catching his wrist. "I'm--I'm all right."

"Like hell you are." He was frowning. Pulling his wrist out of my grasp, he once again moved his fingers over my face, then down my neck, his own face taut with concentration. "Are you cut?" he demanded.

"Only a little," I said, making what I felt was a futile attempt

to sound reassuring. "I was more frightened than anything--"

"I know," he interrupted quietly. "You gotta be getting real tired of being thrown off buildings, eh, Spengs?" His other hand rested on my head and he mussed my hair gently. "Come on, show Uncle Peter where you're hurt. If I have to find it myself, this could take all night."

His effort to ease both our fears did more for me, I think, than for him. His voice shook a little and he was breathing harder than he should be, even after the exertion of rescuing me.

"Peter, there are only a few small--"

"Show me."

I could not bring myself to argue that he would not be able to do anything for my injuries at the moment. Unwillingly I sat up and shrugged off my jacket, managing to stifle a wince of pain in the process. Peter's hands dropped lightly on my shoulders, then tightened for an instant. I was fully aware of his frustration. I wanted to reassure him again that I was all right, that he didn't need to try to take care of my injuries, but he spoke before I could.

"Andrews!" Peter's voice shook slightly, but I doubt Andrews noticed that. "Is he conscious, Egon?" Peter whispered close to my ear.

"He is." I met Andrews' wary gaze. "I think we require your assistance." It was difficult to keep the anger out of my own voice. Andrews glanced at Peter, a worried frown on his round face, then slowly came toward us. Peter evidently heard him. "Get over here, Andrews. Egon's hurt and you're going to patch him up, since I can't."

"I do not believe I am badly injured," I began. "A few cuts from the glass. I don't suppose you have any kind of first aid kit here in the office?"

"No," Andrews began hoarsely, then cleared his throat. "No,

nothing like that." He knelt down behind me and drew my shirt

up. "Jesus," he murmured. "You're cut up, but nothing really

deep. Don't think you'll need stitches for any of this--"

"Clean him up," Peter directed. "There's a water cooler here, isn't there? Here," he continued, holding my handkerchief out, "take this. I don't have a kerchief with me, but you can use my shirt." He tugged off his jacket and reached for his collar to remove his tie.

"Don't think I'll need it," Andrews said. He got up and soaked my handkerchief at the cooler. Returning, he proceeded to clean my wounds, doing a rather more careful job than I would have expected. Though Peter was not a witness to the process, I suspected his presence was enough to encourage Andrews to do his best. When he finished, I tucked my shirt back in and pulled my jacket on. The room was rapidly growing colder as the night air came in through the broken windows.

"Peter, your jacket," I said, handing it to him. His face was too pale, too quiet, and it was difficult for me to see him so pensive. He has always been strong in the face of adversity, and I have drawn from that strength often in the past, taking refuge in it when certain situations overwhelm me.

If I have grown better equipped to deal with fear and trauma, it is because of Peter's ability to induce me to talk about my feelings instead of trying to pretend, even in the worst situations, that I am untouched by any of the dangers that have become a common part of our existence. I have only to think of all the times he has put himself instantly in the path of those dangers in order to keep me safe, or Ray, or Winston, and I feel pride such as I have felt for no other individual I've ever known.

I wanted to give back a little of the strength he so constantly and unhesitatingly lent to me. . . I sensed he needed it very badly at the moment.

"Peter. Come with me." Standing, I slipped my arm under his and drew him gently to his feet. He caught a handful of my sleeve and turned his face in my direction, about, I knew, to voice a question. "I'm just taking you to a warmer part of the room," I explained before he could ask. "Then I will attempt to cover those windows."

My arm around his back, I moved toward the far corner of the room Andrews had occupied moments ago. It would be the warmest spot until I found some way to block the cold air coming in. Andrews followed behind me.

"Spengler, we can throw something out the window. Something besides me," he added petulantly, with an annoyed look at Peter.

"A phone book, maybe, with a message written on it. It'll draw a

crowd--"

"Especially if you kill someone with it," Peter concluded.

I bit back the reproachful "Peter" that came instinctively to my lips. I could hardly chastise him when I agreed with him.

Andrews scowled. "Why don't you use your equipment to capture those things, then? Before they kill us?"

Though Andrews directed the question at me, I never had a chance

to reply. Peter jerked out of my hold and whirled on Andrews as

if he knew exactly where the man was standing. "We can't use our

equipment, thanks to you, pal! What were you doing with it,

anyway? Shooting tin cans off a fence? You drained nearly all

the power out of the pack and trashed a perfectly good trap, to

boot--"

"Peter--"

"Give it up, Egon," he snapped, turning back in my direction,

face tight with anger and pain. "The polters know we're

practically defenseless. We're not keeping them in the dark

here, you know. We haven't--"

My gasp silenced him. The room's already dim lighting flickered and then died, plunging us into darkness. I felt Peter's hand grasp clumsily at my arm and, finding it, seize it tightly.

"Egon? What's wrong?"

"The lights. The power went out." I slipped my hand over his and squeezed it reassuringly.

"Oh." He released my arm. "Didn't notice." Faint moonlight revealed his face half-turned in my direction. I do not think I have ever seen such a lost look in his expression before. Words failed me. I knew he did not want more empty reassurances, and until a doctor had examined him, we could neither of us know if his vision had been permanently damaged. There was nothing I could say to make him feel any better.

But I could not leave him standing there like that, looking so alone. I moved closer to his side and curled my fingers gently around his wrist. "Peter."

"You got a flashlight by any chance, Spengs?" His voice was low and brusque with the effort he was making to hold himself together. "One of us should be able to see."

"I've got one," Andrews said, and looked over toward the desk that blocked the doorway. "I--I don't know how I can get it, though."

"Which drawer?" I asked him.

Peter suddenly had a tight grip on me. "Egon, don't. They could topple that desk over on top of you."

I turned to Andrews. "Do you have any paper? We could throw paper out the window without risking harm to anyone in the street."

Andrews shook his head. "Our stationery hasn't come in yet. All I have is our business cards..."

"Where are they?" I asked him.

Andrews stared at me in dismay. "You're going to throw our business cards out the window? Do you know how much those cost?

I--"

"Egon, give me the pack," Peter said, in a tranquil, decided tone that made even Andrews look at him askance.

"Peter, calm down." I moved between him and Andrews. "How much are those cards worth to you, Mr. Andrews? More than your life?"

Andrews swallowed, and breathed a resigned sigh. He gestured toward a stack of boxes. "The little box on top. Those are all our business cards."

Peter clung to my jacket and followed me across the room as I retrieved the box and moved to the window. Andrews joined us there. He grimaced as I handed a stack of the cards to him. "Go ahead," I said. "Hopefully, someone will suspect a burglary taking place and send security up to search your office."

"Can't we just throw out one or two?" Andrews asked plaintively.

"We could, but they would probably go unnoticed."

"In this city, a whole boxful could go unnoticed," Peter commented, a wicked grin on his lips that he succeeded in hiding only from Andrews.

"You have brought this situation on through your theft of our equipment," I reminded Andrews sternly.

Andrews looked disgusted, but stretched his arm through the jagged hole in the window pane and flung out the handful of business cards. The cards blossomed outward and fluttered gently down toward the ground. Peter, leaning against the window frame, snorted in amusement. "There's a sight I'm sorry to be missing," he said.

Andrews' face darkened, but he did not respond to Peter's jab,

instead turning back to me. "What if this doesn't work? How are

we going to get out of here? If the power's out, they'll end the

banquet. Everyone will leave. We'll be trapped here until

Monday morning--"

"The power isn't necessarily down throughout the building," I said. "It may just be another prank on the part of the poltergeists. They may have taken Peter's comment about being left in the dark rather literally."

Peter's head lifted, revealing his wry look. "Poltergeists with a sense of humor? Pay attention, Egon. You might pick up some pointers."

I knew he was feeling vulnerable at the moment, and that there was nothing he hated more than feeling vulnerable. As it always did when he or any of us needed assistance in regaining a measure of equilibrium, Peter's own sense of humor had come to the fore.

I could, of course, not permit that to go unanswered. "I concede that my sense of humor may benefit from close observation of the entities' techniques. It is most unfortunate that the same cannot be said of yours."

"Are you saying I have a lousy sense of humor, Spengler?"

"Not at all. Such a statement would assume you possessed one to begin with."

A smile crept across his features, the first genuine one I had seen since we had come upstairs. Andrews was staring at us in disbelief.

"This is no time to be arguing," he sputtered. "We're in danger. Can't you use that equipment to blast the desk apart? We could make a run for the elevator."

"Stairs," Peter corrected, his face still turned toward me. "I'd rather not be in the elevator if the poltergeists decide to turn it into their own personal yo-yo."

Andrews paled. "So what then?" he demanded, looking at me. "We can't just wait here. What if they attack?"

Peter folded his arms and leaned against the frame again. "Maybe we could zap and trap them with your equipment, Andrews. Got any of it in the office? Or is this just where you store ours?"

I cannot recall the last time I saw a man's face go from near-white to beet-red in the time it takes to draw a breath.

"I don't have to take that from you, Venkman--"

"Think again, pal," Peter cut in, still leaning casually against the window frame. "And that's Doctor Venkman to you."

Andrews backed down. Even a sightless Peter possessed the power to intimidate, I observed. I did not intervene, and Andrews muttered in frustration and began to back away. "You two can stick it out up here all weekend if you want, but I'm getting out." He swung around and strode to the door.

I started after him. "I would not advise that, Mr. Andrews. The poltergeists are quiet now, but if we attempt a run down the stairs, they will no doubt pursue us merely for the sport of it. And if the stairwell is dark, too, we could fall."

"So we just sit here?" Andrews burst out in frustration.

"Hey, let's let him go, Spengs," Peter said airily, from where he still stood beside the window. "The polters will pursue him, and you and I can stay here, nice and cozy, til rescue comes."

"You're a really funny guy, Venkman," Andrews retorted in a low,

angry voice. "You seem pretty sure that rescue's coming--"

"Your brother will miss you," I explained patiently. "Ray and Winston will miss us. They will figure it out and they will find us. Even now, I would suspect that Winston is conducting a search for us, and Raymond is probably questioning the other guests. When your brother mentions your disappearance, Raymond will figure it out."

"You sound so confident," Andrews said, his voice still strained with worry. "You didn't think this out, though. They can't reach us with the elevators without being in danger themselves.

Maybe the elevators aren't even working! They'd have to come up

ten flights, and if they don't bring more of your equipment, the

ghosts will attack them, too--"

"I think you should attempt to calm down, Mr. Andrews." I knew him to be excitable, but now he was bordering on panic, and I did not want him to take any ill-considered action. "Poltergeists do sometimes tend to respond to high emotions in the living, and nothing will spur them to play more pranks than one of us giving in to our fears in this situation. We must remain calm and give the guests a chance to rescue us. If we do not see signs of rescue within the hour, then we will come up with an alternate plan."

Andrews stared at me for a long moment, and finally acknowledge the wisdom of my suggestion with a brief nod and a shrug of his shoulders. He sank into the corner and drew up his knees, wrapping his arms around them and keeping a sharp eye on every shadow that flickered in the quiet office.

I moved back to Peter's side. He sensed my approach and extended a hand, closing it over my shoulder with remarkable aim. "Egon, that was good. You got him to calm down. I was ready to deck him."

I smiled. "I think perhaps we should sit down ourselves, Peter."

I saw the pensive look that came over him, but before I could ask, he pulled me close enough to push up my shirt and trail light fingertips over my back. "You aren't still bleeding, are you?" he asked, clearly frustrated that he could not ascertain that, himself.

"I don't believe so. But I am tired and you look exhausted." I took his arm and directed him to a spot on the carpet not littered with glass fragments. Sitting beside him, I stretched my legs out and rested my head back against the wall. Peter reached out again, his hand finding my shoulder. Once he had located me to his satisfaction, he dropped his hand and leaned his shoulder against mine.

"Egon, maybe Andrews is right. Maybe you should make a break for

it. Chances are, the polters will stay up here with me and

Andrews--"

"I'm not leaving you."

"I'll be all right--"

"There is a meter in the car. Ray will use it to find us," I said.

"I'm not completely helpless, Egon."

Quite aware of the simmering anger in his voice, I held back a sigh. He wanted to prove it to me, and to himself. But I could not sanction the idea of leaving him at the mercy of two poltergeists with only a nearly useless proton pack to keep him safe. Andrews would be more hindrance than help; the man looked ready to bolt at the first reappearance of the entities.

"Peter, you've been injured. You would not leave me under similar circumstances. I am not leaving you."

I felt him tense, preparing to argue; then abruptly he turned away, his sightless eyes gazing across the office. He drew his arms tight against his stomach and lowered his chin to his chest. I watched him withdraw in alarm, knowing what was going through his mind at that instant.

"Peter, you should not--"

"Should not what, Egon?" he interrupted without turning to me. "Accept that I'm never going to see again? Reconcile myself to the fact that my life has changed for good because I couldn't control my temper long enough to think clearly or listen to you? From where I'm sitting, pal, those seem to be the top priorities on my to-do list right now."

The self-directed rancor in his voice was palpable. I let him

finish before I spoke. "Peter, you should not assume that this

condition is permanent. And you did not know that Andrews

damaged that trap. I only noticed it moments before you tried to

take it away from him. If I had noticed it sooner--"

"No," Peter said flatly. "You're not taking any of the blame for this. You wanted to go back down for Ray and Winston. I was the one who refused. I put both our lives in danger and pretty much put an end to my career because I couldn't deal with the fact that it was my fault the pack was stolen to begin with."

My throat tightened and I was forced to swallow hard before I

could attempt to refute his statements. "Peter--"

"What am I going to do, Egon?" His voice had dropped to an

unsteady whisper. His fingers tugged at his tie, dragging it

off, and he looped it around his fingers. "God, how do I get by,

just day to day? How do I do this without--"

He broke off there, shoving the tie into his pocket, his face still turned away from me. But I didn't need to see his expression to finish that statement for him. How do I do this without becoming a burden on you, Ray, and Winston?

The protest that came to my lips died there. I did not know how to convince him that there was no conceivable circumstance, at least in my mind, in which he would be a burden to any of us. I could tell him so, but he would not believe it, much less even listen to it. Time would prove it to him, but for the moment, I had only faltering reassurances at my disposal, and that seemed woefully inadequate.

"You will do this as you do everything," I found myself saying. "You will do your best. If medical tests confirm that. . . that your vision will not return, Winston, Ray, and I will be your eyes, in as much as we're able, and you will learn to deal with it."

He turned his head slightly, his grim, quiet profile coming into my line of sight. He withdrew something from his pocket and tossed it toward me. It was the comb I had given him earlier.

"I can't ask you guys to do that," he murmured, then continued

before I could protest, "you have a job to do. You don't have

time to play nursemaid to a virtual invalid--"

"You won't be an invalid, Peter."

"Spengs, I can't even comb my damned hair," he whispered harshly, then stopped and turned away again.

I knew that was only part of it; the part he could talk about. The part that was the least painful to verbalize. I knew he was thinking of the myriad of things he believed he would no longer be able to do. . . ghostbusting chief among them.

I leaned closer to him, until my shoulder rested against his. "Peter, I promise you, I won't permit you to leave the house until you are presentable."

Peter was silent for a moment, then he snorted softly. "This from a man who goes out with his hair looking like that." He lifted a hand to take a swipe at my hair. His aim was improving by the moment. I smoothed my mussed hair off my forehead.

"You have a job to do, too, Peter--"

"That statement's a first in the Spengler annals," he cut in, a humorless smile on his lips, "You've always been a realist, Spengs. Don't fail me now. You have to admit, it'd be kind of tough throwing a stream at a ghost I can't see. The odds are unacceptably high that I'd hit you or Ray or Winston, instead."

"Then we'll figure out a way to modify our methods--"

"Come on, Egon." He drew in a shuddering breath and exhaled before continuing. "This was inevitable, you know. Sooner or later, one of us was bound to get taken out in a way that would reduce the team to three. I've considered that it might be me. . . but not in such a stupid way. Such a damned stupid way."

His fists clenched momentarily, then he drew his arms back tight against his stomach, his head still tilted back, his eyes closed. "One of us should be logical here, and it looks like you're leaving that to me. That bust yesterday was my last. We both know it. From this point on, I'm no longer a functioning member of the team."

"Whether you can yet function as a ghostbuster has yet to be concluded," I said firmly. "But one thing has not changed. You are still a member of this family. You will stay with us, and you will permit us to help you, Peter. And if you even attempt to argue that point, I will be most annoyed."

His lips twitched but the smile that resulted was tinged with such despair, my heart ached. Such an attitude was so alien coming from Peter Venkman. Though Peter did not approach life with the boundless enthusiasm Ray did, nor with the sound and steady common sense second nature to Winston, he had a uniquely unsinkable spirit of his own, built partly on strength of character, partly on pure pig-headedness, that had sustained him through past difficulties.

But this. . . nightmare--there was no better word for it--had delivered a devastating blow to his spirit. And I was afraid for him as I had never been before.

After a moment, Peter opened his eyes, his head turning toward me. "A member of the family? You won't know what to do with me, Egon. I can't bust. I can't do maintenance on the equipment. You'll have to hire a new team member or take Janine on the difficult busts. I could switch places with her. I'll take the calls. Do the typing. Do the laundry. Sew on your buttons. Hell, maybe I'll even learn to cook."

"As much as that prospect alarms me, Peter, I would not discourage you. . . but I would also remind you that regular household chores were not what I was referring to when I meant that you were still a member of this family. The ways in which we still need you go beyond taking phone calls and folding towels."

His lips parted, eyes brightening. Those green eyes in which I'd seen every emotion from glittering fury to limitless compassion, those eyes, through which he conveyed so much of what he couldn't always convey with words. . . primarily the pride he felt in his work and in us, his friends, and the love that went so deep, words were never sufficient to fully express it. Those eyes shone now with tears, and Peter's jaw clenched, with obvious anger at himself for allowing what no doubt seemed to him at the moment utter weakness.

"Damn it," he whispered, and rubbed his sleeve hard across his face.

"Peter!" I caught his arm. "Don't--"

"Don't what? Make it worse? I don't think it could be."

"You don't know that." I kept a firm grip on his arm. "You don't have a handkerchief?"

The humorless laugh returned. "Sorry, Spengs. Wasn't planning on getting that emotional over this award. A gracious wave to the crowd, a few well-thought-out sentences for the press, and my most humble smile for the photographers. Nothing fancy."

"Humble smile? You?"

He heard the skeptical note in my voice, I knew; he dug an elbow into my side. "Pay attention, Spengler. You've seen my humble smile before."

"I can't recall, off-hand. But I will concede that you do have a way with the press."

No sooner had I spoken, than the strangest expression crossed his face. He looked positively stricken. I considered my words, at a loss to understand what had caused such a reaction. "Peter?"

He turned his head, avoiding my gaze as if he feared what else his face might reveal. Concerned, I set my hand firmly on his arm. "Peter, what is it?"

"My head," he whispered. "Aches. You know, Spengs, I think I'll just lie down for a bit." As he started to shift himself into a horizontal position on the carpet, I quickly folded my jacket into a makeshift pillow and placed it beneath his head. He lay on his back and closed his eyes, but he seemed in no frame of mind for sleep.

I lowered my hand to his forehead. It was a little warm to the touch. He sighed. "Your fingers are like ice, Spengs." As I started to draw back, he put his hand over mine. "Not a complaint, Egon. It helps, actually. I could rent you out to headache sufferers. Just think. With the extra money, you could buy all sorts of new toys for your lab."

I pressed my fingers gently to his forehead, and he lowered his hand. Though I put up no resistance to his change in subject, I did not support it with a reply to his jest. I just waited, sensing that he would either fall asleep, which might be the second-best thing for him at the moment. . . or he would confide in me further, which, in my estimation, he needed more than anything else right now.

It took him approximately three minutes to give up on sleep and resume the conversation, but what he finally said took me entirely aback.

"Andrews is something else, isn't he, Egon?"

"That depends. To which Andrews are you referring?"

His mouth quirked in a faintly exasperated look. "C'mon, Spengs, they're both something else. But I'm talking about our little Raffles over there in the corner. The con man who found out that there's more to chasing spooks than impressive looking equipment and favorable press releases. My alter ego," he finished, almost too low for me to catch.

"I beg your pardon?" I had heard him, but I wanted him to repeat it.

"I may be blind but I'm not stupid," he said, voice still low and leaden with mingled self-recrimination and despair. "It was like looking at myself. . . no mirror necessary. The guy didn't even believe in ghosts. He sees this whole business as one big money-making scam." Peter paused, his face a grimace of anguish as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. "I don't have to explain the guy to you, though. You've lived with him for fifteen years."

As I realized what he meant, I was appalled. . . and then, I must admit, angry, that he would even compare himself to Andrews. But I restrained the instant contradiction that came to my lips. That was not the way to reach him.

"Peter, may I ask you a question?"

He opened his eyes, took hold of my wrist to lift my hand from his forehead, and tilted his head back so that I could see his face. "Sure, if you can accept that I may not feel like answering it right now."

Though his tone was relatively amused, I knew he was quite serious. I was unperturbed by the stipulation. "I understand."

"Then shoot."

"What do you think of me?"

Peter did not immediately react and I knew I had caught him off-guard with the question. "Wanna run that by me again, Spengs?"

My hand back on his brow, I smoothed back his hair and looked down at him, to see the nonplussed expression he now wore. I was pleased to have momentarily derailed the train of thought that seemed to be taking him down an ever darker tunnel. I patiently repeated the question.

"What do I--" he paused, blinking, "think of you?"

"Yes. Is that a question you feel like answering right now?"

"I--" He paused again. "Seriously?"

"I am always serious, Peter."

I deliberately gave him an opening to zing me, as he likes to

say, but he just shook his head absently as he frowned over the

question. "Egon, I. . . well, you've got to know what I think of

you. Jeez, Spengs. You've saved my ass a million times over,

and that's not including what you did for me in college just by

putting up with me until I learned how to trust you. . . I--"

"That's not quite what I meant. I meant, as a person, what do you think of me? Am I a worthy friend? Someone whose opinion you value, someone you are not ashamed to be associated with?"

He looked astonished. "You've got to be kidding, Spengs. You're

the greatest pal a guy could have. You're so much more than I

could have ever hoped--" He broke off, his eyes sparkling with

sudden realization at the point I was about to make, and then

vexation that he hadn't caught on sooner. "Egon--"

"If that is the case," I continued quickly, "then how can you imagine for a moment that I could happily be friends with a shallow, self-serving, single-minded con artist? Andrews may have a redeeming quality in his love for his brother, but he and I would have little to say to each other, and even less to find in each other that would satisfy us. You are not Lionel Andrews, Peter Venkman. Do you think I could have been friends for over fifteen years with a man like that? Do you even comprehend the vast difference between you and he?"

He could not see my face, but my tone was more than enough to reveal how passionately I felt on the subject. "Shall I tell you what I think of you, Peter?"

"I think I get your point, Spengs," he gasped, shaking his head.

"Good." I removed my hand from his forehead and clasped his shoulder. "It would be superfluous, then, for me to tell you that I think you are one of the kindest, most compassionate, and most decent men I have ever known. . . and at the risk of making you positively unbearable to live with, certainly one of the brightest."

It takes quite a bit to make Peter blush; therefore, I always derive a particular satisfaction when I am able to do so. More than that, the look in his eyes, relief mixed with embarrassed pleasure, made me confident that I had more than accomplished what I had set out to.

He closed his eyes with a soft sigh. "Egon," he said after a minute. I bent to catch his words, hardly more than an exhalation of air. "I'm scared."

"We will be with you every step of the way no matter what happens, Peter." It was all the comfort I could offer. All that I knew how to offer.

He smiled slightly. "Yeah, I know. Thanks, Spengs. Glad you're here right now. Just don't know how I'm going to get used to it. How can I lay the Venkman charm on any attractive women after a bust if I can't see 'em? It's not fair."

I smiled at the plaintive tone. He'd fallen back into his role of tension-breaker, trying to dispel the worries that haunted us both. I patted his shoulder. "You have us, remember. If I see any attractive females, I will point them out to you."

"You will?"

At the incredulous note, I raised an eyebrow. "Is that a comment on my ability to discern physical attractiveness in the female form?"

Peter snorted. "You know Sara Monroe, the new teller down at the bank? Describe her."

"Certainly. She is approximately twenty-four years of age, and I would estimate five foot six inches tall and one-hundred-twenty pounds. Her hair is shoulder length, a shade somewhere between brown and auburn, and not, I believe, an entirely natural tint.

I did not take note of her eye color, but I would suspect either

blue or green--"

"Spengs."

"Yes, Peter?"

"Nothing personal, but I think we'll leave this job to Winston."

"Ah. I take it your preference is due to my omission of a description of certain physical attributes?"

"Egon, you're hopeless. Truly hopeless."

"Since you are injured, I will try not to take that comment personally. . . " I trailed off as he lifted his arm and set a hand gingerly against my cheek. His fingers read the curve of my lips and he nodded.

"I knew that expression was there," he said softly. "Just wanted to see it for myself." His fingers found my glasses, perched at the tip of my nose, and he very carefully pushed them back up.

"I don't like this darkness, Egon," he said in the same soft voice. "It feels like a wall, separating me from the rest of the world. The rest of you. So many things I won't be able to see. Ray, when he gets excited over a bust, and his face gets all pink and his eyes get big and he's all over the place. . . Winston's look when he comes home with first prize from a car show, or when he beats you at chess. . . the way his face lights up, and that grin he gets. And you."

He paused, his fingers slipping to my forearm. "I won't see that look you give me when I've pushed you to the point where you're ready to tackle me to the ground so the spud can slime me. And I won't know it when those baby blues fix on me after I've done something good, with that look that makes me feel like Mama Venkman must have done all right after all, raising me on her own like she did."

His voice faltered and he blinked quickly. He lifted his arm to swipe a sleeve over his eyes, then remembering, I suspect, my earlier admonition, he let his arm fall back. "The worst of it is. . . I won't know it when you're not looking at me at all because you're wrapped up in some private worry and you need me to wheedle it out of you. . . but I can't because I won't even know. . . " He stopped, eyes shut tight, lashes damp against his cheeks.

"You'll know," I said quietly. "You always know when I need you, Peter. You'd know it in your sleep. . . and in fact, I suspect you have wakened at times in the night specifically because you know I'm awake and in need of someone to talk to. And a moment ago, you knew the look on my face without having seen it. I believe we have reached that point in friendship where the truest sight comes from the heart."

His features relaxed, and then he nodded once in confirmation. "I guess you're right. I know you're right. . . because I know the look in your eyes right now. I don't even need to see it." He sighed, seeming comforted, and closed his eyes again. "Think Ray and Winston are searching the building yet?"

I glanced at my watch. "Hmmm."

Peter's eyelids fluttered at the sound and he yawned. "S'matter, Spengs?"

"My watch reads 3 o'clock. Yours. . . " I turned his wrist to check his watch, "reads 1:30. I believe our poltergeists are amusing themselves thoroughly at our expense."

"Ray and Winston'll blast 'em. You'll wake me if you need me, right, Egon?" He was drifting off.

"I will wake you, Peter." I was feeling rather sleepy, myself. I looked over at Andrews, who was still seated with his arms wrapped tight around his body, his knees drawn up. He was dozing off now, though he jerked awake for a few seconds when I looked in his direction.

I leaned my head against the wall. Moonlight flooded the room now, leaving blue shadows mingling with black in the quiet office. A cold wind blew just above my head, but there was nothing in the room I could use to cover the windows. Peter, asleep beside me, shivered. I was too chilled to rest, so I drew the proton pack closer and examined it to determine approximately how long I could use it against the poltergeists, should they decide to assault one of us again.

I was making calculations in my head when I heard the soft distant sound of voices. I set the pack aside and looked toward the door, wondering if rescue was imminent. Suddenly, the oak desk shifted. Were the poltergeists back to toy with us further? I picked up the pack and slipped it on. Thrower at the ready, I moved toward the doorway. The desk shifted again, a few inches, revealing a pitch-dark corridor beyond. The voices were clearer, but not defined enough to be recognizable.

I moved nearer, keeping my finger close to the activating button on the thrower. Again, the desk shuddered and moved inward, leaving an opening wide enough for a man to slip through. When no one appeared, I surmised that the poltergeists were at work again, and I very much doubted they had decided to let us go.

I moved closer to the door and peered through the opening, trying to see the elevators. There were no lights at all, and I suspected the entities had stalled both elevators in order to slow the rescue party. I waited for some sign that the voices were something other than the poltergeists, but I held out little hope. So intent was I on the dark space leading out into the corridor that I did not hear movement behind me. Andrews latched onto my arm and dragged me sideways.

"Out of my way, Spengler!" he gasped, and darted for the opening.

"Andrews, I would not advise--" I broke off as he vanished into the corridor, and indulged myself with a few choice words borrowed from Peter. I squeezed through the opening, hoping to catch Andrews before he reached the stairs. I could see him moving toward the elevator and I was thankful that the power failure would keep him from summoning a car.

I moved swiftly down the corridor, the thrower firmly in hand. "Andrews!" I hissed into the darkness. I heard distant footsteps on metal stairs and I knew he was beyond reach now. Even if I caught up with him, I doubted I could force him back into the office. He was on his own.

I turned back to the office door in time to see the oak desk slide neatly back in to place, effectively trapping me in the corridor. The poltergeists had separated me from Peter, something they could not have done so easily if I had paid better attention to the situation.

I gripped the thrower tightly. I had had quite enough of this. Taking careful aim, I unleashed a stream along the edge of the desk. The wood blackened and buckled under the heat of the stream and what remained of the desk toppled sideways against the doorframe and dropped forward into the corridor.

No sooner had I taken my finger off the activation button than I heard Peter's voice, stricken with panic, shouting my name. I shoved my way past what remained of the desk. A few feet away, Peter was sprawled over the scattered stack of phone books and struggling to rise. As I ran to him, I shrugged out of the pack and let it slide from my grasp to the carpet. I reached down and took hold of Peter's arms. Instantly he jerked back, fighting my hold.

"Peter, it's me! It's me," I told him, hanging on while he fought wildly to get away from me. The sound of my voice was enough to reach him and he ceased struggling and hung in my grasp, now fighting only for breath as he tried to calm himself. His hands climbed to my shoulders and he grabbed onto me tightly and buried his head against my shoulder. I realized fully how terrified he was. I could feel him shaking. I put my arms around him, drawing him close. I felt absolutely wretched for scaring him so badly. "Peter, I'm sorry," I began, my own voice quavering in reaction. "I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

Suddenly he twisted out of my arms and pushed me back. "Why didn't you wake me," he burst out. "You said--damn it, Egon, you said you'd wake me!"

It hadn't occurred to me to wake him. I had not imagined I would

be leaving the room. "Peter, please, I am so sorry. The

poltergeists moved the desk and Andrews got past me and into the

corridor. I couldn't stop him. And then they blocked me from

returning and I had to blast the desk to get back to you. I know

I frightened you--"

"I'm all right."

Before my eyes, he withdrew further, not outwardly, but I saw his expression. . . and it filled me with concern. I've seen that look many times over the years, through all our early Christmases, when he refused to accept my invitation or Ray's to celebrate with our families. I've seen that look less often of late, but every once in a while, it returns, the Venkman pride, making him an island unto himself, a man who doesn't need help. . . or pity. . . from anyone.

But I did not pity him. I simply hurt for him. And I think he knew the difference, though pride was making it difficult for him to comprehend that at the moment.

"Peter, the desk is out of our way. I think we should go into the corridor and await rescue. We will be marginally safer there."

He started to climb to his feet and I reached out to assist him. The moment my hands touched his arms, he evaded my grip and backed away from me, even as he stood on unsteady legs. "I'm all right," he repeated.

I drew a deep breath, calling upon every reserve of patience I possessed. The well was nearly dry. "Peter Venkman. . . " I forced myself to stop. Would I not be as stubborn in his place? I didn't believe so. I liked to think I would permit my friends to help me. He was in unfamiliar territory and he could not see; it only made sense. He did need my help.

But evidently I had said enough by merely uttering his name in that particular tone, for Peter took a step toward me and moved his uplifted hand to my face, a touch that lasted only a moment before he broke into a sudden grin. "That's the expression that goes with that tone," he confirmed, letting his arm fall to his side. "Thanks, Spengs."

"Any time, Peter." I retrieved the pack and, with Peter's hand on my shoulder, led the way to the door. The corridor, untouched by moonlight, stood like a dark cave before us. "Careful of the glass," I warned.

"Egon, maybe we should risk the stairs. The polters have probably taken off. They might even be disrupting the banquet, for all we know."

"Yes." I frowned in frustration and heard Peter laugh softly close to my ear.

"You don't need the meter, Egon. Trust your senses--" He stopped with a small gasp.

I felt it too, the brush of cold air as it moved past us. The poltergeists had not followed Andrews downstairs. They were still with us and letting us know they preferred we remain in the office. "Hold onto me, Peter," I whispered, and started for the opening.

An unseen force abruptly pushed me backward and I fell against Peter, who stumbled. His arms came around me and, as he regained his footing, he kept me standing. The pack slipped out of my fingers and dropped to the floor beside us. I leaned over to retrieve it and a bitterly cold grip encircled my arm. With brutal strength, the grip dragged my arm upward and twisted it back, forcing me upright. I gasped in pain and squirmed around in Peter's grasp to relieve the pressure building in my shoulder.

"Egon," Peter began, instinctively clutching me in a tighter

hold. "What--"

"The entity--" My ability to explain ended as the second poltergeist seized my other arm and both of them yanked at once, snatching me out of Peter's grasp.

"Egon!"

I heard his yell but I was in no position to reassure him. I could not free myself of the hold the poltergeists had, and they flung me forward, hard against the wall. The impact of my body against the wall was painful; but the impact of my head was worse.

Dazed, I could not do more for the moment than hang in the grasp of the entities and breathe rapidly in an effort to clear my head. The poltergeists did not allow me the opportunity to recover. The next moment, I was airborne, and before I knew what was happening, my back came up hard against the ceiling, my head snapping back with such force that I felt consciousness slipping away in a blaze of pain.

Beyond the pain that reverberated ceaselessly in my skull, I heard Peter calling me, pleading with me to speak so that he would know where I was. I fought to stay conscious, forcing my eyes open. My vision blurred and I blinked repeatedly. Disoriented, I closed my eyes and forced myself to inhale deeply. My head pounded so relentlessly, I could not think, and a wave of nausea threatened to make my current predicament even more unpleasant.

"Peter," I tried, but my voice sounded small to my ears, and I was certain he hadn't heard me. I opened my eyes with a monumental effort. Below me, Peter circled the room desperately, trying to find me. "Peter," I said, with all the volume I could manage.

He jerked and whirled. "Egon! Where are you?"

"Up!" I gasped. The moment I spoke, the entities released me and I fell like a stone. It was a painful landing, to say the least. But I was in such discomfort already, any injuries I might have gained in the fall seemed minor, at least for the moment.

But I could not move, and I lay still, my eyes closed, hoping that if I remained motionless, the room around me would cease its movement, as well. Not the most logical supposition, but I had no doubt that attempting to arise would result in an immediate cessation of consciousness.

A pair of hands moved over me, then latched onto my arms. As Peter rolled me onto my back, I realized I hadn't even heard his approach, and I knew I must have been unconscious for a moment or two. I could see him above me, his eyes unfixed, his mouth drawn tight with fear. His hands moved over my face and down my arms and legs in search of injury.

"Egon? Come on. Talk to me. You know when I said I was all right? I was just kidding. I'm not so all right after all. And if you've lost consciousness, I'll be a whole lot less than all right. Egon, goddamnit, say something." His hands found my face again and his fingers probed anxiously over my scalp.

"That hurts," I said as distinctly as possible, and made a futile attempt to take hold of his wrist.

His panic dissolved into a look of stark relief. "Egon! Egon, what'd they do to you?"

"My head," I managed to say, as his hand continued to probe, more gently now, for signs that I was bleeding. "They won't let us leave, Peter. I think they are aware of the fact that you are momentarily. . . incapacitated. . . and they want to injure me similarly so that we can neither of us get to the stairs."

Cold air swept over us both and Peter immediately covered me with his body, shielding my head by tucking his arms around it. "Egon, where's the pack?"

"Not enough power," I said. My voice was weak, but he was near enough to catch it.

"We've got to use what there is," he said, the familiar determination back in his voice. "I was never a big fan of blind man's bluff, and I'm sure not up for a game of it now. They aren't touching you again if I can help it. Don't move, Spengs. I heard it when you dropped the pack. I think I know where it is."

"Peter, don't--" His weight vanished from atop me, but he was gone only for a moment. I heard the clatter of the pack's straps and realized he'd found it. Opening my eyes, I saw him kneeling beside me, his hands moving with surety over the equipment. He had the thrower unsheathed and I could hear the soft whine of the pack charging up for use.

"Egon?" His free hand found my shoulder. "You still with me?"

I struggled to sit up but another wave of nausea prevented it. "I may be sick in a moment or two," I said, a little breathlessly.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a faint grin, but his eyes shone with sympathy. "Thanks for the warning," he said. "You lie low. They come at us again and they're gonna be charbroiled."

"There's not enough power," I said, sinking back to the floor.

"Enough to scare them," he murmured, bending a little to partially shield me with the upper portion of his body. "Keep them at bay."

"We're not going anywhere at the moment," I reasoned. "Perhaps they will calm down when they realize that."

Chilling cold swept over me and I reached for Peter at the same moment he reached for me. Even as his arm looped around my chest, I felt icy noncorporeal hands take hold of my legs. I slid along the carpet and Peter swore angrily, locking his arm around me with a grip of steel to keep from losing me.

"They've really got it in for you, Spengs," he sputtered in frustration. "Must have been that bossy tone you were using during the bust the other day."

"It wasn't directed at them," I said as I was drawn another two inches out of Peter's grasp.

His grip on me did not loosen for an instant. I lifted my head as high as I dared, to see minute fluctuations of light, more visible now due to the dimness of the office. The entities were within range of the thrower.

"I see them," I breathed, letting go of Peter so that he could sit up.

"Where?" he demanded, and without waiting for my answer, whirled around and aimed the thrower toward my feet.

"They're approximately a yard away from you, Peter," I gasped, "and a little over two feet above the level of the floor." I lurched to a sitting position and jerked my legs free as he aimed the thrower. My head spun and I lost my balance. I landed in Peter's lap and lay there, too light-headed to risk moving. My presence did not throw off his aim and I heard the crackle of the stream, felt the heat of it somewhere above me.

"Egon!" Peter's voice was urgent. Curling my legs under me, I struggled to rise. "Egon, stay down! Can you see them? Did I snare them? I did, didn't I?"

His tone was confident. I forced open my eyes, praying that he had, for his own sake if for nothing else. Their shimmering projections trapped in the beam, the two poltergeists writhed to escape. I could hear the indistinct babble of voices again, this time raised in anger as they tried to break out of the ion stream.

"You've got them," I exclaimed.

"Told you I'd charbroil 'em," Peter said, holding the thrower steady. I don't recall ever hearing as much pleasure in his voice over a successful capture before. I did not remind him that in moments he would be holding a dead thrower and the entities would be free again. "Spengs, you okay? Maybe we can make a break for the stairs."

"Peter, the odds of successfully reaching the stairs without

being attacked by the entities are--"

"What have I told you about telling me the odds?"

"We have a possibility of success, provided you can get me to my

feet. . . and provided I do not pass out in the process. . . and

provided I can direct your movement from here to the stairwell,

and provided--"

"Whoa, hey, I get the idea. I'm gonna cut the stream off and get you up. When they follow us, I'll blast them again to slow them down. You damn well better stay with me, because I need your eyes, Spengler."

"I shall endeavor to remain conscious," I said, although I did not feel confident in the possibility. "And that's Dr. Spengler to you."

The noise Peter made following my remark was not a polite one. He cut off the stream and the entities broke free. He was on his feet an instant later, and hauling me to mine. Dizziness and nausea hit simultaneously. "Peter," I gasped, trying to hold onto him.

"You throw up on my tux, Spengs, and you're paying the dry cleaning bill." He dragged my arm around his shoulders and demanded, "Which way to the door? C'mon, Egon."

My legs buckled and he kept me upright. I blinked and looked blearily around the room. Before I could guide him, he started forward in the correct direction.

"How. . . " I murmured.

"The windows are on our right," he said tersely, pulling me along, "so the door's gotta be this way."

He had judged as much from the night air coming in through the windows. I felt another, more insidious sensation of cold breathe along my neck. Peter must have felt it as well, for he picked up the pace, nearly stumbling again over those damned phone books. Agile determination carried him forward and he moved both of us to the door with all the confidence of a man who can see every step lying before him. "Stay with me, Spengs," I heard him plead.

The crunch of glass beneath our shoes told me we were at the door. "Be careful," I muttered. I reached out, near-blind myself with weakness, trying to judge if the desk lay in my path. Peter bumped against it before I did, and swore in annoyance, but kept moving.

"Where are the stairs? Come on, Egon, rise and shine."

I raised my head with an effort. The darkness in the corridor was pervasive. "I can't see very well," I began, making an effort to stand straight and look around.

Peter groaned deeply. "Talk about the blind leading the blind."

"I believe the stairs are just on the other side of the elevator bank." I put a hand to my head, half-expecting it to shatter at my touch, so badly did it ache.

Peter shifted, taking more of my weight as if he sensed I needed that support. "I've got you, Egon. Hang on." We started forward again. I wondered if we had frightened the poltergeists thoroughly enough to prevent another attack.

We made it past the elevators before our intention to reach the stairs spurred the entities to action. The elevator doors to my left shot open and I could see there was no car within, only a drop of ten floors straight down. My shocked gasp startled Peter.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"The elevator," I told him. "They've opened it. No car inside."

"Holy shit," Peter whispered. He kept a tight grip on my arm and started down the corridor at a run, forcing me to keep up. "Egon, you've got to tell me when we're there. Egon, stay awake.

Are you awake? You've got to tell me when to stop running. Egon!" He kept up a steady stream of commands designed to keep me conscious.

"Almost there," I sputtered. My head pounded with every step I took and my legs seemed to have lost all sensation. The only thing keeping me on my feet and moving was Peter.

Then not even he was able to keep me standing. The poltergeists struck us from behind, knocking us forward. I lay where I landed, face down, thankful for a moment that I was no longer moving, but quite aware of the fact that I was in imminent danger of being thrown down an elevator shaft. The prospect appeared inevitable as the poltergeists again locked their bitter cold grip around my legs and began to drag me toward the open doors.

I tried to get a purchase on the carpet, but there was none to be had, and nothing else within reach to grab on to. I tried next to sit up and twist myself out of their grasp; but that, too, proved useless.

My only hope was Peter. I tilted my head back, trying to find him in the darkness. I heard him calling my name, but it took me a moment to catch my breath and answer.

He could not use the thrower without the risk of hitting me. The pack still on his back, he crawled rapidly after me. I extended my arms above my head. "Peter!"

He plunged forward and his hands dropped onto my arms, sliding to my wrists as the poltergeists dragged me away from him. He seized my wrists in a painful grip and pulled. The poltergeists pulled back. I imagined for a moment that the resulting sensation must be similar to what medieval prisoners endured on the rack. Straining to draw air into my lungs, I tilted my head back. "Don't. . . let go. . . "

He was unable to answer, all his strength and concentration invested into keeping me in one spot. I could hear his harsh breathing. The entities, I suspected, were aware of the fact that Peter could not use the equipment against them. They pulled again, dragging us both along. Peter hauled me back with such determination that he reclaimed the inches they had gained. But the cost was almost more than I could take.

And Peter knew it. "Egon, hang onto me. I'm gonna free one hand, and blast them into the shaft. Don't let go of me."

The emphasis on that last sentence jarred me from semi-consciousness into full consciousness. "Won't let go," I managed to get out.

His right arm reached for the thrower, unsheathed it and aimed it in one fluid motion. I clung tightly to Peter's left arm as he hit the activation button.

Nothing happened.

"One stream, damn it," Peter hissed. "Two seconds. C'mon. One good blast." He hit the button again. Nothing.

The entities pulled, taking us several inches over the carpet.

Grabbing onto Peter's shoulder, I dragged him down toward me. "Spengs?" he whispered. Without answering, I pushed myself up into a reclining position and reached backward as far as I could, stretching my arm over the proton pack.

"What on earth are you doing?" he whispered, but leaned further over me to assist me in doing it. My fingers moved downward until I came into contact with the control for the power level. I turned it all the way down to the lowest setting.

The poltergeists pulled at me, but Peter was prepared for that. He held onto me tightly, keeping the two of us together as the entities slid us closer to the shaft. Peter was nearly bent in two over my shoulder as I reached back up again to curl my fingers around the control dial.

"Peter," I whispered, my lips less than an inch from his ear, "the moment I tell you, hit the button and hold it down until I tell you to release it. All right?"

He hesitated, and I knew he wanted to protest that the pack was dead and we needed an alternate plan; but instead he simply nodded.

"And hold onto me," I added. "I need to keep a grip on the dial."

His arms tightened automatically around my waist. Assuring myself that the dial was set low, I took it in a firm grip. "Now!"

He hit the button. A weak stream at the lowest setting flamed out, crackling, not strong enough to do any damage to the entities. I turned the dial steadily as Peter kept the thrower aimed at the poltergeists. I swung the dial around to the highest setting and the stream strengthened into one pulsating burst of energy directly at the poltergeists. Light streaked away from us and lit the elevator shaft. The two unearthly shrieks that followed startled Peter.

"You hit them," I explained, rather unnecessarily.

He sank against me, laughing. "And you say I have a good grasp of the obvious." The remaining dregs of power spent, the stream failed abruptly, plunging the corridor back into darkness. The pack was truly useless now. I knew the poltergeists were still nearby but if we could make it to the stairs, we had an opportunity to escape them.

Peter did not ask me if I could stand. He merely climbed to his feet, removed the pack and set it on the floor, then bent and lifted me to my feet. The light-headedness returned so rapidly that I swayed in Peter's grasp.

"I'm. . . not sure I can walk."

"You can't walk," Peter said, efficiently pulling my arm around his shoulders and shifting so that he could support most of my weight. "And I can't see. Between the two of us, this should be a breeze."

I breathed a weak laugh. "You not only have an exemplary grasp of the obvious, you have a stranglehold on sheer obstinacy. I think that must be how you've survived this long, Venkman."

"That's Dr. Venkman to you," he said without an instant's hesitation. He took more of my weight and kept me on my feet. "Spengs?"

"I'm sorry, Peter." With an effort, I focused on my surroundings. "Proceed straight ahead approximately forty paces and veer to your left."

Peter snorted, sounding exasperated. "I was just gonna ask you if you're all right."

"Oh. No, I don't believe I am. I think I may have sustained concussion. I'm afraid I will. . . I will not be conscious for much longer." Even as I spoke, the corridor spun in a circle around me.

"In that case, I'll just roll you down the stairs." Beneath his joking tone, I heard the worry.

"You can't carry me," I said, closing my eyes against the ever-shifting corridor.

I appeared to have unwittingly given him the desire to prove me wrong. He did half-carry me to the door that led to the stairs. Finding the handle, he pulled the door wide with one hand, keeping me up with the other. At least, I believe I was standing. It was becoming increasingly difficult to determine anything beyond the immediate throbbing in my head and the dance of light in front of my eyes.

"Egon!" Peter's voice, frightened and demanding, roused me. I vaguely comprehended that I must have collapsed. He was on the ground beside me, holding me against his shoulder.

I became aware of other voices in the background and for one alarming instant was certain the poltergeists had returned. A familiar face swam into view, and round brown eyes gazed at me worriedly. "Egon?"

Raymond. I fought to stay conscious. I needed to tell him what had happened, so that he could take care of Peter. "Can't. . . see. . . " I whispered.

Ray's brows knit. "You can't see?"

"I think he's referring to me, Ray," Peter said quietly.

My inability to concentrate made it difficult to catch everything they said, but I heard Ray's soft, "oh, gosh" and I can only assume Peter provided the explanation I could not. Someone, Ray, I believe, mentioned an ambulance, and I was relieved to hear it. Peter had gone too long without medical attention; and I had a vague idea that I required emergency care, myself.

I heard Ray's voice again, low but verging on distraught, "the poltergeists, Winston." Winston's response was quiet but reassuring, "Let's go. Pete, hang onto him."

As he spoke, the arms around me tightened and a hand cupped the back of my head, supporting me securely.

"But let the paramedics have him when they get here," Winston amended, no doubt taking note of Peter's tenacious hold on me.

"You guys be careful," Peter said, then in a softer voice, "Egon?"

Not only had I lost the ability to concentrate, I seemed unable to respond with even the most basic motor functions. The simple act of opening my eyes took an expenditure of effort that was nearly beyond me.

"Come on, Spengler. You gotta stay awake for me. You in there?"

I saw his green eyes gazing past me, the worry that haunted them.

I summoned my own remaining strength, wanting to reassure him.

"That's. . . Dr. Spengler. . . to you."

Catching my faint retort, he blinked, then his lips twitched. "I don't believe it," he said, making a futile effort to subdue a grin, "showered with glass, nearly thrown through a window, tossed around, slammed against walls, almost pitched down an elevator shaft. . . and you're still as bossy as hell."

I noted that a little of the worry had melted from his expression, and I allowed myself to close my eyes and rest. I don't recall losing consciousness at that point; but I remember no further conversation between us, nor the ambulance ride to the hospital.

When I woke, it was in a quiet, darkened room, to a feeling of utter disorientation.

"You're awake."

I turned my head and winced. "Unfortunately," I responded, my voice little more than a whisper.

I saw Peter sitting on the bed next to mine, dressed in jeans and a hospital gown. His eyes had been bandaged. He sat for a moment, face turned in my direction, before he spoke. "I knew you were awake," he continued in a conversational tone. "Was listening to you breathe. Amazing what you notice when you can't do anything else but listen."

"Peter," I began, and coughed, my throat and mouth too dry to allow me to speak.

Peter slid off his bed and came toward me, one hand slightly lifted to prevent him from bumping into anything. "The doc said it wasn't a coma, that you just needed to rest. I didn't quite believe him." Peter reached out and found the pitcher of water on the small table beside the bed. "So I kept talking to you. It's been about sixteen hours."

I struggled to remember, but my head ached and I couldn't recall anything. "What did you talk about?"

Peter made a face. "You don't remember any of it? Figures--even your subconscious ignores me, Spengs."

I smiled at the aggrieved tone. "I'm sorry, Peter. Perhaps I will recall later."

He frowned. "I hope you don't feel as terrible as you sound, Egon." Pouring a cup of water, he sat down carefully on the edge of my bed. He found my shoulder and from there moved with assurance, sliding an arm under my head to lift me just enough so that I could drink. "Sip," he instructed.

I did so, though I was thirsty enough to down the contents of the cup in a single breath. I did not, however, wish to feel any worse than I already did. As Peter eased me back down to the pillow, I watched his face, worried by the quiet line of his mouth and the tension in his jaw.

"Peter--"

"A week," he said. He breathed a deep sigh and slumped down

beside me, his head claiming a corner of my pillow, his hands

folded over his stomach. "Good practice, right? In a week, I'll

be so used to not seeing that I'll be prepared for a lifetime of-

-"

"Don't," I whispered. "What did the doctor say?"

Peter sighed consideringly. "Well, let's see. First there was, 'how did this happen?', followed by my explanation of the malfunctioning trap. The doc didn't understand, so Ray tried to explain my explanation, going into all the details about how the traps work. You should have seen him, Egon. Within five minutes, the doc and I were both completely lost."

"Perhaps I could--"

"I don't think an explanation in Egonese is going to make things any clearer for him, Spengs. He ran some tests and finally got around to telling us they were pretty inconclusive. So I've got to basically go about with this charming fashion statement," he indicated the bandaged that circled his head, a thick padding of gauze beneath the bandage covering each eye, "for seven days, at which time he'll remove it and I'll either see again. . .or I won't."

"Surely there are more tests that can be done--"

"The doc didn't seem to think so. He compared it to staring at the sun. He wouldn't say whether he really believed it was permanent damage, but he sure didn't give me any reason to hope it wasn't."

I closed my eyes. My head was pounding now in a most unpleasant fashion. But I could not go back to sleep. If the doctor could not give Peter a reason to hope, then it was up to me to do so.

"Peter, the doctor does not fully understand the--"

"Forget it, Egon," he said, abruptly sitting up. "I can't pretend everything's going to be just fine, okay? Hell, from day one, you and Ray warned us about looking into the traps when they're activated. And I got a full dose of it at close range. I can't hang on to hope, Egon. If I do, it'll kill me. All I can do is wait."

"I shall hang on to it for you, then."

I heard him laugh, soft and humorless. "Flying in the face of logic just for me, Spengs? I can't ask that much of you."

"I don't believe you've given up hope entirely, Peter Venkman," I said, vexed that I could not seem to reach him. I tried to sit up and instantly both head and stomach reminded me that I was in no condition to do so. I sagged against Peter and closed my eyes, fighting to hold back the nausea.

"Egon, you idiot." His arms encircled me and lowered me back to the pillow. "I told Ray and Winston I'd look after you. They'll clobber me if I have to tell them you fainted right after waking up. Lie still."

As I lay breathing deeply in an apparently useless attempt to reduce the intensity of my headache and the churning in my stomach, I felt the blanket drawn up to my chest and a warm hand settled on my forehead. "Head bad?" he whispered. Before I could answer, he went on, "I'll call the nurse. They'll give you something."

It was not the nurse who appeared moments later, but Ray and Winston. Peter poked my shoulder gently. "Our resident spirit locators and removal experts are here, Spengs. A little warning. Winston just let me know that Ray bought you something."

I groaned softly, more due to my head than anticipation over one of Ray's infamous get-well gifts. The enormous armadillo Ray gave Peter two years ago still startles me when I come into the bunkroom in the middle of the night; its head protruding from underneath the foot of Peter's bed looks rather too much like some of the entities we currently have in containment. It seems to have become more Slimer's possession than Peter's, and is consequently coated with ectoplasm and most unattractive.

"Hey, Egon," Ray whispered. "How do you feel? Winston, give him his glasses. Wait'll you see what I brought you, Egon."

Winston picked up my glasses and then hesitated, his attention on Peter, who sat listening, his face giving nothing away. Winston's smile was wry. He grabbed Peter's hand and gave him my glasses. "Pass those to Egon, will you, Pete."

Peter shrugged. "Sure." He did not hand them to me, but settled them on my nose, a ritual I had never had much patience for, but one now I was glad to see he would not willingly give up.

"Thank you, Peter." I reluctantly turned to see what Ray had bought for me, only to find a sea of leafy green foliage bouncing inches from my face.

My expression must have revealed my alarm, for Winston broke out into a wide grin. "Sorry, Egon," he said. "I tried to stop him."

"Isn't it great?" Ray enthused, hefting the enormous plant up higher in his arms. Leaves fluttered around him, almost obscuring him from sight. "I can't believe no one else bought it. The gift shop said it was delivered to them by mistake."

"What is it?" Peter asked curiously.

"The biggest damned potted plant I've ever seen," Winston reported, giving me a sympathetic look. "What a redwood wants to be when it grows up."

Ray laughed. "Come on, Winston, it's not that big."

"Ray, it's bigger than you. We couldn't get it into the elevator." Winston turned back to me. "Good thing they put you guys on the second floor."

"You carried it up the stairs?" I looked from Winston to Ray in astonishment.

"Didn't seem so bad after yesterday," Ray said with a shrug.

"Yesterday?" Remembering that I had slept sixteen hours, I wondered how much I had missed.

"We chased those two polters all over the building," Winston explained. "I must've been up and down every flight of stairs at least twice. But we got 'em," he finished, in a tone of immense satisfaction.

"And Andrews?" I asked.

Peter, beside me, shifted back into his previously reclining position, his arm looped comfortably on the rise of pillow above my head. "Chuckie was taken in for questioning by the cops. Our buddy Lionel broke his leg trying to outrace pissed off polters down the stairs in the dark." There was no satisfaction in Peter's voice, though he was clearly annoyed at both men. Still, I suspected his annoyance with them was hardly greater than his annoyance with himself. I decided to change the subject.

"You retrieved the trap and pack?" I asked Winston.

"We got it all," Winston said. "And one more thing." He set a small shopping bag he'd been carrying down on the bed and opened it.

"Our award," Ray said eagerly. "Show them, Winston."

Winston held it up, grinning broadly. Our names had been engraved in the gold plate attached to the polished oak. "It will look quite attractive over your desk, Peter." I glanced up at him, to see a faint smile on his lips.

"So what does it say, anyway?" he asked, lifting his hand from the pillow long enough to muss my already unkempt hair.

I caught his wrist and pulled his hand down to the surface of the gold plate. He hesitated for a moment; then his fingers ran over the engraved letters. "My name second to last, huh?"

"Alphabetically, Peter," I said, unable to hold back a note of amusement in spite of my headache.

He laughed, not his usual light, sardonic laugh, but a quieter one. He clasped my shoulder. "Good. You should be listed first."

"We should be listed just as we are," I said. "Together."

Peter's hand tightened briefly on my shoulder. Ray, shifting the plant higher, tried to peer around it at us. "Egon, where do you want me to put this?"

"Ray," Peter began.

"Just put it down anywhere, Ray," I interjected quickly, nudging Peter with my elbow. I realized I would have to become reliant on a more tactile method of reproaching Peter, if I could no longer make him behave with a glance.

"Ow," Peter said plaintively. "You're awfully strong for a sick man, Spengs."

"Simply rising to the occasion," I responded, closing my eyes again.

Ray, having deposited the plant in the corner, leaned over me and clasped my hand. "Egon, we're going to go and let you rest. Peter's gonna watch out for you."

"More listening than watching," Peter murmured.

"Thank you, Ray," I said. "And thank you for the. . . ah. . . plant."

"Winston, can you sneak us in some real food?" Peter asked.

"Something that hasn't been pureed beyond recognition?"

"You're trying to get me into trouble," Winston said. "You should've seen the look the nurse gave us when we walked by with that plant. We come in here with food and she's gonna have me and Ray arrested."

"Hey, Peter, I'll take you down to the cafeteria," Ray said, bouncing over to Peter's side. "We can bring something up for Egon."

"That's a good idea," Winston said, meeting my eyes with a clear purpose in mind. I wondered if he and Ray had planned this beforehand. "I'll stay with Egon. Go ahead, Pete. You've gotta be getting on Egon's nerves by now, anyway."

Peter looked mildly indignant. "I never get on Egon's nerves.

Do I, Egon?"

Upon occasion, the ability to feign sleep is quite a useful skill. I indulged in it now, much to Winston and Ray's amusement.

Peter snorted. "Funny, Spengs." But he permitted Ray to lead him out. I could hear Peter as they went through the doorway. "Think they'll have any blueberry pancakes?"

"Not like Winston's," came Ray's wistful reply.

The moment the door fell shut, I gestured to Winston to come closer, knowing my voice wouldn't travel far. "What is it?" I asked.

Winston took a seat in the chair beside the bed and leaned toward

me, his forearm resting on the mattress. "Egon, I hate to lay

this on you right now--"

"Please, Winston, go ahead," I said, feeling an increasing sense of worry at the unusually grave expression in his eyes.

"Well," Winston said, in a tone that matched his expression, "Ray and I talked it over and we pretty much decided that we can't let you and Peter out of our sight ever again."

Ignoring what must have been a startled expression on my face, he continued, "First Kenneth Ulster, then the Neesons, now Charles and Lionel. Seems every time we leave you and Pete alone, you two manage to get into trouble. This isn't a trend, is it, Egon? Because if it is, Ray and I are gonna have to lock the two of you up for your own good."

His gentle teasing belied the look in his eyes, which told me how worried he and Ray had been when Peter and I had disappeared.

"Winston, I am truly sorry that we--"

"I'm sorry, Egon," he interrupted in a more serious tone. "I wasn't fishing for an apology. I just. . . you scared us, man. We waited and waited. . . we kept coming up with reasons why you guys hadn't come back to the table. We. . . " He seemed suddenly chagrined, though faint amusement sparkled in his eyes. "People'd come by, ask us where you were, and for about twenty minutes, we turned it into a game to see who could come up with the most believable and at the same time ridiculous excuse for your absence."

After a moment, Winston's smile faded. "Then we began to get the idea that you guys weren't just off taking a tour of the ASPR offices or having a water fight in the restroom. I made Ray stay put--which sure as hell wasn't easy--while I went to look for you. I searched the whole first floor before I started thinking the worst."

I believed him. Winston can be remarkably level-headed, more so than the rest of us, I fear. He would not have so quickly assumed we were in trouble--despite Peter's propensity for it.

"You retrieved the meter at that point and tracked us?" I asked. "Well, no. . . I went back to the table. Good thing, too, because Ray was about to explode with worry. He insisted on helping me, so I let him. We did another search on the off-chance I'd just missed you guys. When we didn't find you, I could tell Ray was really fighting to stay calm about it. I guess I was, too, at that point."

"And then you retrieved the meter."

Winston made an exasperated sound. "No, Egon. We talked to the banquet officials after that, and they called in some security guys to escort us around the upper floors." A faint smile pulled at his mouth. "Then Ray thought of the meter out in the car. I got it, and a pack, just in case. We started on the first floor and worked our way up. Ray was pretty wiped out after about six or seven floors going office to office, but he wouldn't quit and let me and one of the security guys take over. He said he was sure you were in trouble and that you'd need him."

I felt regret that we had put Ray and Winston through so much worry. "You did not talk to Charles Andrews? He did not mention that his brother was missing?"

"I didn't see Andrews after he went to his table," Winston said, eyes dark with annoyance. "I guess he wasn't as alarmed by Lionel's disappearance as we were by yours. Maybe he figured Lionel wasn't interested in hanging around since the two of them weren't up for any recognition. They were just there to get the word out about their new office space, from what I could tell. No. . . Ray and I went upstairs without the slightest idea of where you could be--though maybe we should have thought of that."

"No, Winston, do not shoulder the blame for any of this. It was irresponsible of us to go after Andrews without informing you and Ray of our intentions. We would not go out on a bust without telling you."

"Don't sweat it," Winston said with a smile. "I'd give Pete a hard time about it. . . if he weren't already giving himself more hell than anyone else possibly could. . . but not you, Egon. I know what went down. Pete explained this morning what happened. And that's about all he's said since we found you."

"You do understand why?" I asked softly.

"Ray and I figured it out, as much from what he didn't say as what he did say. Peter doesn't do guilt real well. . . and I know he was pretty angry with himself over the pack. Bet he rode that anger all the way up to Andrews' office. Pete said he got zapped by the damaged trap when he was trying to take our equipment back from Andrews." Winston paused, his gaze knowing. "He was all over the man, wasn't he? Were they fighting for it?"

I remembered the moment all too vividly. "Peter did attempt to retrieve the trap. Andrews fell, and. . . "

And the nightmare began. I closed my eyes, trying futilely to block out the image of Peter writhing on the floor in pain.

"I'm sorry." Winston's voice was low. His hand cupped warmly

over mine. "Egon, I shouldn't have started this right now. You

look wiped out. You need to rest--"

"I'm well enough to discuss this." I opened my eyes. "Peter did attempt to retrieve the equipment by force. He was quite upset. I should not have allowed him to go up to the office. . . " I breathed a sigh. "It all happened rather quickly. And I must confess the sight of Andrews with our equipment spurred me to think a little less sensibly than I should have. It did occur to me to go back for you, but I was not firm on that point with Peter. . . and he had me on the elevator before I fully grasped that we were pursuing a foolish course."

I paused to catch my breath. Though my head ached, I wanted to remain awake long enough to explain the matter to Winston. "I believed that we might be able to talk to Andrews. Lionel is less volatile than his brother. Unfortunately, between Peter's anger and Lionel's panic, circumstances got out of hand. I waited too long to act logically instead of emotionally and Peter was hurt." Hearing that statement aloud from my own lips was quite painful. I could not help thinking that if I had reacted only a moment sooner. . .

Winston gripped my hand with sudden strength. "Don't do this to yourself, Egon. I know you were up there trying to get Pete to calm down and act rationally--" A grin tugged at his mouth. "And I know that's about as easy as teaching Slimer to play checkers."

"To say the least," I returned, with a reluctant smile.

His grip loosened but he kept his hand over mine. "I'm just worried about Pete. Ray's worried, too. . . we were talking about it when we dumped the poltergeists into containment last night. . . or rather, early this morning. If his sight doesn't come back, Egon. . . " Winston's pain at that thought was written on his face.

I nodded slowly. "Yes, I'm aware of what that would mean for him

and for all of us. I assured him that we were prepared to help

him through any consequent difficulties--"

"Damn straight we will," Winston murmured, and his grip on me tightened again, not consciously this time. "But--he won't be able to bust ghosts, Egon."

He stopped there, but with that single statement, he had said everything. We were both aware of how deeply it would hurt Peter to accept that, without his vision, he could not accompany us on busts. Though his instincts had been remarkable, his aim unerring with the two poltergeists, we would be reluctant to let him risk other busts, and he would, I knew, refuse to go with us, for fear of harming one of us.

"It'll mean some changes," Winston said after a long moment's silence. "Ray knows it, too. He was just thankful last night that you guys were both alive. He said to me, 'we still have Peter', and hell, I was glad, too, but then I wondered if we would still have Peter. He's not going to come through this unchanged. I'm. . . " The gleam in his eyes brightened perceptibly. "I'm scared for him, Egon."

Exhaling a weary breath, Winston sank back into his chair. "Man, this would be tough on any one of us, but for Pete. . . he's not the meditative type. He's tuned into the world and that's where he lives. That talent of his, to look a man up and down, and judge accurately what he's all about--Pete's honed it to perfection. Now he'll have to learn to do that without his sight. He'll have to learn new ways of doing a lot of things, and you know Pete. If there's a million ways to do something and only one of them's the hard way, he'll find it and stick to it no matter what we tell him."

"Indeed he will," I concurred, unable to hide a fond smile at the thought. "But keep in mind, Winston, that even when he chooses the hardest path, he invariably succeeds. I think we tend to forget how strong Peter is. He downplays those qualities that would remind us. He may joke and complain, but he nonetheless always rises to the occasion and fights for all he's worth."

I sank my head back into the pillow, seeking respite from the discomfort, and let my gaze wander the room. I thought of what might lie ahead for Peter, and my heart ached with more intensity than my head. . . and yet I felt a sense of hope, born of long friendship, that he was capable of overcoming even this.

"I accused him of having a stranglehold on obstinacy," I said softly, and Winston leaned forward again, this time to catch my words. "Truth be told, it's that obstinacy, that unflagging refusal to let anything defeat him, that I am most proud of in him."

My voice failed me at the last, a combination of exhaustion and emotion, which I believe Winston noticed; but he suddenly grinned at me, his own eyes unabashedly dampened, and I knew that he shared a similar measure of both exasperation and love for Peter.

"Will you talk to Raymond?" I asked, aware that I was too weary to keep my eyes open for more than another minute or two. As much as I wanted a few moments to speak with Ray, I knew my body would not allow me to resist rest any longer.

"I will." Winston coughed, clearing his throat, but didn't speak further. I realized vaguely that he had risen and was standing near. A warm hand lit briefly on my forehead, then ruffled my hair with a touch so light, I was hardly aware of it. With a decided appreciation of Winston's reliability, I let myself drift off, knowing that Ray would be properly reassured and Peter watched over until I was feeling well enough to assist in the process once again.

We were released from the hospital a day later. My recovery progressed at an expected pace. I did not know if I could say the same for Peter's recovery. The next week was difficult for all of us. Peter left the firehall only reluctantly, and then just to dine. Ray took him to a movie, but upon their return, I could see that Peter had not found the experience of simply listening to a movie particularly enjoyable. No one brought up the subject of what might lie in the future, nor did we discuss the possible necessity of obtaining reading materials in Braille.

Peter spent most of the time with one of us, puttering about restlessly while we worked in the lab or performed maintenance on the equipment. His first day at home he had endured what was essentially a surprise sliming, and his resulting explosion frightened Slimer into hiding for the next several days.

Even Janine tip-toed around Peter, until he lost his temper with her, and she in turn lost hers, resulting in a long stretch of silence that finally ended in two apologies after Ray, Winston, and I dragged the two of them into the same room and refused to let them leave until they were speaking again.

As the week dragged on, we watched worriedly as Peter fell into a routine of wandering the firehall in the mornings, as if reacquainting himself with his own home; and, the moment breakfast was done, attaching himself to one or the other of us, to follow us about the rest of the day. He did not know what to do with himself, and his frustration mounted with every hour that passed.

When I had recovered, I began to join Ray and Winston on busts.

Leaving Peter behind hurt all three of us, and it devastated him. Each time we drove out, leaving him standing at Janine's desk, I felt as if I were somehow betraying him. But he had been correct in his assessment that he would only be a danger to himself and to us if he accompanied us.

I had asked Dr. Labraccio to come by on Sunday, the day Peter's bandages were to be removed. I knew he would need Greg's professional, reassuring presence during the removal. We had asked Janine to come by as well and she promised to do so. Saturday night, I found myself unable to sleep. Peter had fallen asleep quickly, but not quietly. I had hoped he would get a good night of sleep. I knew he hadn't slept well since returning from the hospital.

Sitting up in my own bed, I watched him for a few moments, my heart aching for him as I intuited what dreams must haunt his sleep. I cast aside my quilt and went to his bedside. "Peter?" I whispered.

He had turned onto his back. When I spoke, his brows drew together as if he'd heard me and was wondering where I was. I knew that waking to darkness had held a special terror for him this past week, and I had endeavored to rise before him every day, and to be present when he woke, so he would not be alone. Now I sat beside him and put my hand firmly on his shoulder.

"I'm here, Peter."

"You woke me." His voice was low, but I heard the unsteady quality to it.

"Yes, I did. You were very restless. I was afraid you were in the middle of a nightmare."

"I don't think I was," Peter murmured, swallowing. "But I am now."

I felt guilty for waking him. "I'm sorry, Peter. I'll stay here

until you fall asleep--"

"Don't be sorry," he said, and lifted his hand to set it over mine. "Glad you're here. As much as the past week has sucked, Spengs, I'm not looking forward to tomorrow at all."

"I know." I studied the bandages on his face. Ray, Winston, and I had taken turns changing the bandages for him, and never once had he opened his eyes during the procedure. I knew he was afraid to.

"Egon. . . " His fingers pulled restlessly at my sleeve. "What do you say to some cocoa? I could use a distraction."

We went downstairs to the kitchen, Peter following me without my assistance. He had learned to maneuver from room to room without incident, although he had not been down to the basement since coming home. He did not sit, but hovered beside me as I prepared the cocoa. When it was ready, I set both cups at the table. Peter had hardly spoken two words in that time, but now he turned in my direction and held out a hand.

"Egon?"

I caught his hand and he instantly latched onto my shoulder with his other hand, pulling me forward so that we stood face to face. I sensed the tension radiating through every inch of his body.

"Peter, what is it?" I asked urgently.

"Egon, I don't want an audience for this," he said, in a rush of words, as if unbottling all the thoughts he had not verbalized in the last week. "I don't want everyone to be standing there, watching me, waiting to see, ready to do and say anything they can think of to console me when--" He stopped and his grip on me seemed desperate. "Egon, I want you to take the bandages off for me. Now."

Although I had half-expected this, I could not help but feel some degree of shock that it was being asked of me. I imagined he would broach it within the first few days of coming home; but not now, at two in the morning, when he was just hours away from putting himself in Greg's hands.

"Peter, are you--"

"I wouldn't ask you if I weren't sure," he said. "I won't be able to handle this in front of everyone. I'll need to. . . to think, Spengs. To adjust. I want you to do it now. I want it over with, one way or another." He drew a long, deep breath and let it out. He was pale but resolute. "Please, Egon."

I did not say it would be better if the doctor were present. I did not say he should wait for Ray and Winston, or that perhaps we should wake them now. I did not say that I was as frightened as he was, and that I knew any consolation I might have to offer would be little comfort if we were faced with the worst.

I just said, "All right, Peter. Sit down."

I assisted him to a chair and drew another chair up so that I sat directly in front of him. The only light came from over the stove, so I felt we could simply remove the bandages right here.

Peter sat very straight and very still, hands gripping the edges of his seat. I wanted to inquire if he was quite certain he didn't want to wait for the doctor; instead, I just began to unwind the bandage. When it was removed, I carefully drew away the two thick pads covering his eyes.

His eyes were closed, as they had been during every dressing change. He shook his head faintly. "I can't," he whispered. "I can't."

I scooted my chair a few inches closer to his and grasped both his hands in mine. "Peter," I said, in the most demanding voice I could manage at that moment, "look at me."

He hesitated and I could feel the tremors running through the hands in mine. "If I can't see. . . " he whispered.

"I'm here, Peter. And I will always be here."

After a moment, he nodded. He swallowed and took a gasping breath. His lashes fluttered and a frown twisted his mouth. I could do nothing more than simply hold onto him and wait. He lifted his eyelids completely, his gaze downcast, seeming focused in the vicinity of my chin. He blinked once and his gaze lifted, his eyes to mine.

"You see me," I whispered.

His tremors had become outright shaking. He lurched out of his chair and threw his arms around my shoulders, dropping his head against my neck. I rose, pulling him up with me. "Peter? Peter, for God's sake. . . "

He drew back, taking two tight handfuls of the front of my nightshirt. "Egon," he gasped, and I realized his eyes were gleaming with tears. He raised one hand to my face. "Why didn't you tell me you had all those bruises?"

He could see. I pulled him close and clung to him out of sheer thankfulness. I could hear him whispering against my neck, over and over, "I'm okay," and I knew he was. I surmised we were both near the point of collapse from the intensity of our joy.

"I knew you would be all right," I whispered, and he laughed, grabbing the tail of hair against my neck and giving it a tug.

"You're full of it. . . " he drew back, his face damp and stretched with a broad grin, "Doctor Spengler."

Still clinging to his wrist, I turned and headed for the stairs. Peter broke free and raced ahead of me, taking the steps two at a time, he was up the spiral like a rocket. I heard him at the top. "Ray! Winston! Guys!"

By the time I reached the third floor, Ray and Winston were struggling sleepily out of bed.

"What is it?" Ray asked, alarm taking the place of confusion. "Peter? Egon?" He saw me race in behind Peter, and his gaze lit on me all of two seconds before his mind registered the fact that Peter's bandages were removed. He jerked his attention back to Peter and just stared. "Peter?" It was a faint whisper, taut with hope.

Peter let out a whoop of delight and pounced on Ray, enveloping him in a hug. "I can see, Ray! And, pal, you are a beautiful sight!" He messed Ray's already rumpled hair and then let go of him to grab Winston. "I'm back in the game, Zed!"

"You sure are, man," Winston said, a grin lighting up his face.

He embraced Peter, pulling the brown head down on his shoulder. I was at a vantage point to see the look on Winston's face, a momentary struggle with emotion which he lost when two tears rolled down his cheeks. He clapped Peter on the back. "You sure are," he repeated, voice suffused with the same gratitude I felt, myself.

Ray was looking at me as if he could hardly dare to believe it. I gave him a serene nod and his smile blossomed, brown eyes shining with happiness. One hug was not sufficient for Ray. "Oh, Peter," he said, taking Winston's place the moment Winston had let go, "I'm so glad!"

"Yeah, me too." Peter's gaze lifted over Ray's head to meet mine. He didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. I could read it in his eyes. Pulling Ray to his side, he slung his other arm over Winston's shoulders. "Guys, we have to celebrate. I feel like doing something. . . something big. Got any busts scheduled, Ray? A nasty Class Seven maybe? How about it, guys?"

He looked from me, to Ray, to Winston, drinking in the looks of almost identical astonishment we wore, and he burst out laughing. "Now there are three expressions I wouldn't have missed for the world."

"Gee, Peter," Ray began, "I've never scheduled a two a.m. bust

before. It's tough enough to get you up at eight. But I could

start scheduling--"

"Don't you dare," Winston and I said as one.

Peter looked gleeful. "Go ahead, Tex. I can handle a two a.m. bust better than an eight a.m. Chances are I'd still be up."

I exhaled patiently and pushed my glasses up my nose. "Since we do not at present. . . nor hopefully in the future. . . have any busts scheduled at this hour, would you settle for a cup or two of cocoa and an hour of television?"

"Are you kidding, Egon? I want to go out. I want to look at everything I missed the past week."

"Peter, it's dark outside," Ray said, grinning.

"There is that all-night cafe a few blocks down the street," Winston ventured, turning to me. "I don't think any of us are going to get back to sleep right now, anyway."

"We do have a bust scheduled for nine tomorrow," I reminded them. Three pairs of eyes turned beseechingly to me; one pair in particular sparkled with such a knowing look that I decided it would be wisest to take the path of least resistance. "Very well."

Peter sprang out from between Winston and Ray and bestowed upon me another hug, to whisper in my ear, "Thanks, Spengs."

"Pete, you want to drive?" Winston asked, as we began to dress.

"Drive? Not a chance, Zeddemore. We're walking."

I raised an eyebrow. "Walking? At 2 a.m. in this neighborhood?" I paused and Peter just grinned at me from where he sat on his bed pulling on his socks. "Should we take a pack with us?"

"Come on, Egon, where's your sense of adventure?"

"Peter, I have not had a moment free of 'adventure' since the day we met," I said sternly. "Your vision has returned, but I suspect the recovery of what common sense you once possessed is not to be hoped for."

Winston, passing on his way to the bathroom, patted my shoulder.

"Now, Egon, the boy's still flying, and he's got a right to.

Don't bring him down too fast."

"I am merely attempting to prevent him from floating away altogether," I said. "It appears he has reached an altitude which is affecting his ability for rational thought."

Ray, already dressed, bounced down onto the mattress beside Peter. "I don't mind walking, Egon," he said cheerfully.

I gave him an exasperated look. "That isn't the point, Ray--"

"I don't mind either," Winston put in deliberately, from the bathroom doorway.

Peter's grin, directed at me, was impish. "Don't worry, Spengs. I'll protect you. I'll outwit any muggers. You did say I was the brightest guy you'd ever known."

I knew that had been a mistake. "I believe my phrasing was 'one of the brightest', Peter." I rose to my feet. "Oh, and I believe I also promised you that I would not permit you to leave the house until you were presentable." I looked at him pointedly.

Peter looked indignant. "I'm always presentable."

Without deigning to reply, I turned to Ray. "Ready to go?" Ray's face was red from laughing. He hopped up and hurried after me as I strode to the door.

As Winston joined us, Peter snared his arm. "I'm presentable, aren't I, Zed?"

"Sure, Pete. Well, relatively."

"Relatively?"

"Well. . . come on, man. . . you are with me." Winston sounded convincingly smug; he had learned from the best, I reflected.

"And me," Ray threw over his shoulder, his teasing grin quite ruining the effect.

"How about you, Spengler?" Peter demanded, when I didn't join in. "You wanna throw in your two cents about how devastatingly handsome you are, compared to yours truly?"

"With your superb grasp of the obvious, Peter, I hardly deem it necessary."

After such statement, I was, of course, forced to move rather rapidly down the stairs and out of the firehall, Peter in hot pursuit with clearly less than benevolent intent. Winston passed me easily, and Ray might have, if he had been able to cease laughing long enough to breathe while he ran.

We were perhaps rather louder than we should be at that hour of the night; but I suppose it could be theorized that there is a boiling point for happiness and when it is reached, the emotion becomes, like a vapor, something far less easily contained. We behaved with all the restraint of a group of six-year-old boys on Christmas Day. Any potential muggers who decided to let us pass in favor of a less disorderly group of victims would have shown remarkably good sense.

However, in our current frame of mind, it was a strong possibility that any criminal element who attempted to rob us would find himself treated to a meal and given cab fare home. Nothing arouses the human instinct for forgiveness and generosity like the sense that your own world could not be more perfect. And that night, I can state quite categorically, there were no more contented men in the world than the four of us.

The End