A few of the audience settled back, thinking that the show might be starting again, but most of them knew better. There was an electricity in the air, as if the entire building had been put through a giant electromagnet. The curtains crackled with it, and a pattern of soft, vague, blue static discharges crawled over the screen, flowing, concentrating. The people watched in awe as they swirled into the center, forming an intense spot of light, while behind them the theater began to vibrate with a low, moaning sound. Like voices, thought one man. No, like music, like old songs.
Suddenly the point of light leapt in a straight line to the projection booth, as if the camera had started, a beam of wavering light stretching across the audience. The moaning resolved into ghostly music, an olio of dance-hall tunes, as the first glowing phantom appeared on the lighted line. It was a strutting comedian in straw boater and checked suit, a cane in one hand. Next came a black-faced minstrel with a banjo. A fan dancer followed, then a floppy-pants comic with suspenders and a spade beard. A stripper in a feather boa. A singer in a slick gown. A juggler. A chorine.
The audience hung there spellbound as the ghosts of a century of New York theater paraded down that spectral runway and vanished into the projection booth, every sort of act that the McLean had witnessed from minstrels to matinee idols. And when the last one was gone, and the magic had gone out of the old theater, there was a long moment of silence from the stunned crowd, followed by the loudest and longest applause that McLean 301 had ever heard.
Some distance away, Winston Zeddemore was feeling far from entertained. How could he explain this to his mother? The first Zeddemore boy to ever wind up in the clink. He turned and looked at a huge biker who was watching him curiously.
“We’re gonna get five years for this. Plus, they’re gonna make us retrap all those spooks. I knew I shouldn’t have taken that job.”
The biker spit lazily and scratched his jaw. “Tough luck, man.”
Most of the rest of the tank’s occupants were gathered around Venkman, Stantz, and Spengler, who were trying to ignore them. Stantz had his blueprints spread out on the floor.
“Look at the structure of the roofcap. It looks exactly like the kind of telemetry tracker that NASA uses to identify dead pulsars in space.”
Spengler nodded excitedly and nudged Venkman. ’‘And look at this, Peter. Cold-riveted girders with selenium cores.”
But Peter Venkman was accutely conscious of their audience. He turned to the group of hoods who were trying to figure out Stantz’s coverall. “Everybody with us so far?”
Stantz grabbed his arm. “The ironwork extends down through fifty feet of bedrock and touches the water table.”
Venkman still didn’t get it. “I guess they don’t build them like they used to, huh?”
“No,” Stantz cried. “Nobody ever built them like this. The architect was either an authentic genius or a certified wacko. The whole building is like a huge antenna for pulling in and concentrating psychic energy.”
“Who was the architect?”
“He’s listed on the blueprints as I. Shandor.”
“Of course,” Spengler yelped, startling everyone in the room. “Ivo Shandor. I saw his name in Tobin’s Spirit Guide. He started a secret society in 1920.”
Venkman rubbed his forehead painfully. “Let me guess . . . Gozer worshipers.”
“Yes. After the First World War, Shandor decided that society was too sick to survive. And he wasn’t alone. He had close to a thousand followers when he died. They conducted bizarre rituals, intended to bring about the end of the world.”
Venkman nodded. “She said he was the Destructor.”
“Who?”
“Gozer.”
“You talked to Gozer?” Spengler asked, confused.
“Get a grip on yourself, Egon. I talked to Dana Barrett and she referred to Gozer as the Destructor.”
“See?” Ray Stantz exclaimed proudly. “I told you that something big was about to happen.”
Zeddemore had heard enough. “This is insane! You actually believe that some moldy Babylonian god is going to drop in at Seventy-eighth and Central Park West and start tearing up the city?”
“Not Babylonian, Sumerian,” Spengler said breathlessly. “And he won’t have to. Ray, do you remember what we discussed about ERMs?”
“Yes,” Stantz replied. “All the psychic potential of the city released. The Big Twinkie! We’ve got to get out of here.”
“What’s he talking about?” Zeddemore whispered
“I’m not sure,” Venkman replied, “but it sounds bad.”
“Hey!”
They all turned. A high-ranking police officer was standing in the corridor outside the holding cell, flanked by two jailers. He pointed at Venkman.
“Are you the Ghostbusters?”
“What about it?”
“The mayor wants to see you right away. The whole island is going crazy. Let’s go.”
14
That government is not best which best secures mere life and property—there is a more valuable thing—manhood.
—Mark Twain
Hizzoner had had an extremely successful term as mayor, and he was determined not to let it be spoiled by a few ghosts. Ghosts, fer crissake! I get along with Italians and blacks, with Poles and Irish, with Puerto Ricans and Chinese. My credibility is solid with big business and environmentalists, with Jews, Catholics, and Muslims, with liberals and conservatives. My visibility extends with impeccable clarity to the Carson show, the Letterman show, to Donahue and Griffin and Good Morning America. I’ve published a book, done cameos on Kate and Ali and Ryan’s Hope. They’re doing a play about my life. I’ve done a good job. So, what do I get? Ghosts.
Hizzoner looked up, watching his aides as they tried to keep traffic moving in and out of the big office. The police commissioner, the fire commissioner, the city and state police commandants, the archbishop of the diocese of New York, Rabbi Korngeld, the regional director of the EPA, General Petersen of the National Guard, the city comptroller, the corporation counsel, three city bureaucrats whose names and positions he’d forgotten, several state officials, officers of the Coast Guard and Navy, and the chief agent of the FBI’s New York office—all of them talking at once, most of them trying to talk to him. I have such a headache, he thought. Just once a crisis shouldn’t give me a headache.
Mackay, his point man, stepped into the office. “The Ghostbusters are here, Mr. Mayor.”
The room fell instantly silent as Mackay ushered the four men into the room. Well, they don’t look like monsters, Hizzoner decided. Just average New York crazies. The simple solution would be to dismiss them as frauds, toss them into Riker’s Island, and feed the key to a sea gull. Of course, that wouldn’t explain the thing that came through the wall of my shower this morning. He stood up and placed his palms on the desk.
“Okay, the Ghostbusters.” They nodded respectfully. “And who’s Peck?”
A thin, angry-looking man in a tight suit pushed his way forward. Hizzoner disliked him on sight. He looked like the mayor’s high school biology teacher, and Hizzoner had flunked frog dissecting four times.
“I’m Walter Peck, sir. And I’m prepared to make a full report.” He withdrew a fat sheaf of papers from his briefcase and dropped them on the desk. Typical, Hizzoner thought. The city’s falling apart and this ringding brings me a term paper.
“These men are complete snowball artists. They use nerve and sense gases to induce hallucinations. The people think they’re seeing ghosts and call these bozos, who conveniently show up and get rid of the problem with a fake electronic light show.”
The mayor looked sharply at Venkman. “You using nerve gas?”
Venkman shook his head emphatically. “The man is a psychopath, Your Honor.”
“Probably a mixture of gases, no doubt stolen from the army . . .”
“Baloney!” Stantz cried, then favored the archbishop with an embarrassed smile. Peck charged on.
“. .
. improperly stored and touched off with those high-voltage laser beams they use in their light show. They caused an explosion.”
Venkman looked ready to start talking again, but Hizzoner raised his hands for silence. He looked imploringly at his staff.
“All I know is, that wasn’t a light show we saw this morning,” the fire commissioner said. “I’ve seen every form of combustion known to man, but this beats me.”
The police commissioner’s argument was more telling. “And nobody’s using nerve gas on all the people that have seen those . . . things all over the city. The walls are bleeding in the Fifty-third Precinct. How do you explain that?”
The mayor couldn’t, but had no intention of asking either Peck or the Ghostbusters, at least not yet. He turned to the archbishop. “Your Eminence?”
The prelate and the mayor were old friends from the days when they’d been priest and ward captain, Tim and Ed, but the formalities still had to be observed. He kissed the preferred ring. The archbishop smiled, that enigmatic smile they teach in seminary, Hizzoner thought. Too bad they don’t make one for politicians.
“Officially the church will not take a position on the religious implications of these . . . phenomena. However, since they started, people have been lining up at every church in the city to confess and take communion. We’ve had to put on extra priests. Personally, I think it’s a sign from God, but don’t quote me on that.”
“I can’t call a press conference and tell everyone to start praying. Rabbi, any thoughts on this?”
Korngeld shrugged. “It’s quite a deal. What can I tell you?”
A tall black man stepped forward. “I’m Winston Zeddemore, Your Honor. I’ve been with the company for only a short time, but I gotta tell you . . . these things are real. Since I joined these men I have seen jazz that would boggle your mind!”
The mayor rubbed his eyes wearily. “You, Venkman, how did this happen?”
“Everything was working fine, sir,” Venkman said earnestly. “We ran a safe operation.”
“Ha!”
Stantz rounded on Peck. “It was fine, just fine, until this jerk here shut down our power.”
“Is this true?” the mayor asked. Venkman stepped forward.
“Yes, Your Honor. This man is a jerk.”
Peck launched himself at Venkman, but two of the mayor’s aides pulled him back. Hizzoner stifled a laugh and glared at Peck. “That’ll be enough of that. So, wise guy, what do we do now?”
Venkman grinned. He liked the mayor. He would have done well back on the carny. “It’s this way, sir. You can believe this guy here . . .”
“That’s Peck!”
“. . . or you can accept the fact that this city is headed for a disaster of really biblical proportions.”
“What do you mean by biblical?”
“Old Testament, Mr. Mayor. Wrath-of-God type stuff. The seas boil, fire and brimstone falling from the sky . . .”
“. . . forty years of darkness,” Stantz chimed in. “Earthquakes, mass hysteria, human sacrifice . . .”
“. . . dogs and cats living together in sin . . .”
“Enough! I get the point.” The mayor looked at the assembled multitude waiting for his word. Aides, employees, supporters, the secular arm of the office, waiting for him to pull off the big save so they would all look good, or to fall on his face. To blow it. To create a power vacuum for one of them to step into. I hate these times, he thought. He glanced at the archbishop, who winked.
“And if you’re wrong?”
“If I’m wrong, then nothing happens and you toss us back in the can. But if I’m right, and we can stop this thing . . . Well, let’s say that you could save the lives of millions of registered voters.”
Venkman smiled.
The mayor smiled. If this guy ever goes into polities, he could be very, very dangerous. I wonder if he’s a Democrat.
Peck pushed his way forward. “I don’t believe you’re seriously considering listening to these men.”
The mayor took a long look at Peck, then motioned to his aides. “Get rid of him.” Then, turning to Venkman, he said, “We’ve got work to do. What do you need from me?”
The mess at Dana Barrett’s building hadn’t gotten any better. In fact, things were considerably worse. Louis Tully wandered through a stream of tenants carrying precious possessions through the lobby as lightning roared and snapped around the building, cutting power lines, shattering windows, and blowing pieces of masonry into the streets. Policemen herded the frightened people into cabs and tried to keep the curious motorists moving on Central Park West, making sure there was room for emergency vehicles. In the confusion, no one noticed that Louis Tully was swimming upstream.
His floor was almost deserted. The lights were out, but a continual crackle of lightning was spilling from the opened apartment doors. A figure shuffled toward Tully, Mrs. Blum, a neighbor.
“Louis! What are you doing, standing there? Get out of the building . . . Don’t you know it’s an earthquake or something?”
Louis looked at her, amazed at the fleshbag’s petty concerns. The woman was carrying a bowl of fish, a symbol that did not register in the pantheon of the Destructor. A Shubb, he thought. Be charitable, enlighten her. “The Traveler is coming,” he said, his voice thick with reverent secrecy. But the creature would not comprehend.
“Don’t be crazy. Nobody is going to come and visit you with all this commotion going on.” She hurried off. Another lost soul. So be it. His duty was to Gozer.
He approached the sacred joining and knockcd three times, the thunder answering in concerto as the door opened. It was Zuul, the Expected One.
“Are you the Gatekeeper?” he asked.
“I am Zuul,” she said.
It was the moment. Vinz Clortho, Keymaster of Gozer, rushed to the joining as he and Zuul merged. She was the Gatekeeper and his key was ready. They sank down in the embrace that had been foretold and blew the roof off the building.
The mayor followed Venkman and Stantz through the corridors of City Hall, puffing to keep up and straining to understand. And, he was having second thoughts. By God, he thought, if these clowns screw up, I’ll make sure they never again see the light of day.
The Ghostbusters had begun their preparations and the City Hall area was swarming with vehicles and support people, not to mention reporters, tourists, groupies, and a large crowd of peddlers selling Ghostbuster T-shirts and dolls. A circus, Hizzoner thought. I hate trusting someone else when I don’t know what’s going on.
“I don’t understand it. Why here? Why now?”
Venkman shrugged. “What goes around, comes around, Mr. Mayor. The big lazy Susan of karma just keeps turning, and sometimes we get the short and of the stick.”
“What’s he talking about?”
Stantz clapped him on the shoulder. “This may be nature’s way of telling us to slow down. You have to admit, it’s kind of humbling, isn’t it?”
“We’re humble already,” Hizzoner shouted. “Hasn’t this city suffered enough?”
The Ectomobile was backed up to the loading dock, and Spengler and Zeddemore were charging the proton packs off a coaxial connected to the building current. A maintenance man was looking fearfully at the rumbling nuclear accelerators and trying not to get too close. He tapped Venkman on the shoulder.
“You’re sure this is all right?”
“It’s all right,” the mayor grumbled. The maintenance man glared at him.
“And who the devil are you?”
“I’m the mayor, you meathead.”
“Big deal.”
Hizzoner himself was about to ask if it was all right when Captain Bennett appeared. He had changed into field coveralls.
“We’ve cleared the whole building and cordoned off the street. I’m massing our special tactics squad and the National Guard is on standby.”
“Forget the tac squad,” Venkman said. “There’s nothing for them to shoot. But the National Guard is fine. Peopl
e like soldiers. They give great crowd control.”
“What’s wrong with him?” the mayor whispered to Spengler.
“He’s in charge,” Egon replied bluntly. The mayor blanched. This is definitely going to give me an ulcer, he decided.
Spengler crossed to where Janine was standing anxiously by the Ectomobile. She smiled bravely. A romantic moment, Egon decided, and took her hand.
“Hi,” he said, making a mental note to ask Peter how to talk to girls. They were far more complicated than fungus, or ghosts for that matter. He wondered abstractly whether anyone had ever done a study . . .
“I want you to have this,” Janine said, handing him a coin.
“What is it?”
“It’s a souvenir from the 1964 World’s Fair at Rushing Meadow. It’s my lucky coin.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” Spengler said firmly.
“Keep it anyway. I have another one at home.”
“Thank you,” Egon said, deeply aware of the gravity of the situation. So, this was what history was like.
Peter Venkman was not so sure. He looked at the long convoy lined up behind the Ectomobile; a police Cruiser, three National Guard trucks, three fire engines, a Con Ed van, a wrecker, and—ominously—a dozen ambulances. Okay, this is war. So be it. I’d just feel a lot better if Dana weren’t involved. On the other hand, if she weren’t, I wouldn’t be able to ride out and rescue her.
“Hey, Peter,” Stantz called from the Ectomobile, “You ready?”
Ready as I’ll ever be, he thought. They were all looking at him—Stantz, Spengler, Zeddemore, Janine, even the mayor. He took a deep breath and forced a smile.
“Okay, just remember, whatever happens out there, we are the professionals. Not only are we the best Ghostbusters around, we are the only Ghostbusters around. It’s up to us.”
He gave a thumbs-up and they each returned it. Then, raising his arm in the old cavalry signal, he cried, “Move ’em out!”
15
Ghostbusters Page 13