Descent

XmagicalX

She didn't know it when she lost her life. It was some time before she realized she was dead, that her body lay stiff and cold wherever they had taken it, and her form now was that of an invisible wraith, ethereal, ineffective. At first she thought she was still caught in the dreams, but gradually she learned that this was reality, however fantastic and unforgiving it might be.

Her corpse had long since been removed, but her spirit remained in the dark place of her death. As the confusion lifted from her bit by bit, she realized she was confined. Trapped, just as she had been before--before her death, she remembered, every day with greater clarity. The one sensation of her physical living self that she still recalled was the pinch of the needle as they injected her, and then she had fallen into the stupefaction from which she had never wakened. Even in death, she was still in that black room.

Eventually, she learned to move beyond it, escape through the thick walls as if they were as insubstantial as she. She could not go far, but she explored as much as she was able, the long hallways, the other dark rooms. She could not leave the building, it seemed, forever circling it, or perhaps it was that the building stretched on forever; at any rate, she could never leave its walls.

As time passed she became aware of other presences. They seemed like ghosts to her, ephemeral, flighty forms, but ultimately she realized they were living beings, people as she once had been, some cool and calm, some hysterical with fear, their pure emotions as bright to her as words and expressions once had been.

Then she recognized one for what he was, who he was. And immediately she knew, by the rage running hot as her blood once had flowed, why she remained here.

Horror stories held that some ghosts haunted because they were too frightened to go on, and some had unfinished matters to attend to.

And some wanted vengeance on their murderers.

But there was little she could do now. The tiny strength she accrued with each passing day was hardly enough to affect anything, yet. So she waited, and planned, and watched.

Until she heard them talking, the three of them. She knew them all too well, but it was the one man for whom she burned. The others were cold and dangerous, and she would stop them if she could, but his evil was the greatest, a calculated and sadistic menace. Perhaps if she had known demons or other supernatural terrors, she would have judged him less harshly, but she knew only mortal men, and her fury hardly made her impartial. With every word he uttered, she writhed in rage, even as she closely attended to his measured baritone.

"We're in need, and I know the perfect candidates. It will hardly be any trouble to acquire them."

"All right," the other two agreed, and the woman asked, "When will you bring them?"

"In a week," he said, "and we'll begin immediately. It shouldn't take more than a few days; those I have in mind are admirably suited to this."

His casual tone belied the power of the emotions she sensed, however. Anger blazed in him, nowhere near a match to hers, but hot for a mortal man, an inferno in his icy soul. She pitied the souls who had inspired such feeling, wished there were some way to save them from her fate. In hopes of giving warning she stayed close whenever he was in the building that week, but he never gave a clue to his plans.

On the last day, she perceived him poring over a newspaper. Difficult as it was for her to read printed words now, with immense concentration she focused on the article he studied. A mention of an upcoming event at a local university, but she made out nothing more before he folded the paper. Desperately, she tried to open it again and succeeded in shifting the pages in the draftless room. He twitched, grabbed the rustling paper and stuffed it into his coat pocket, then hurried out the door as if he guessed her presence. Causing him even that small discomfort gladdened her, though it was nothing compared to what she planned.

Unable to find the identity of his candidates, she consoled herself that there was nothing she could have done as it was. Even if she had been able to go to them, and even if she had somehow made herself known, how likely was it that they would have heeded the warning of a hazy and unfamiliar ghost?

If she had learned their identities, she might have tried regardless. But she didn't, so instead she stayed quiet, continuing to observe, waiting for the best opportunity to take her revenge.

His day began ordinarily enough. Peter Venkman hadn't owned an alarm clock in years; he didn't need one. Not when he had three roommates, all, obnoxiously, morning people.

"Rise and shine!" Winston sang out, practically in his ear.

Following the standard routine, Peter muttered something unintelligible with appropriately insulting inflection, and pulled the covers over his head, hoping to steal at least five more minutes of sleep.

With a flourish that would have done a magician proud, Ray grabbed his blankets and tore them from his grip and off his bed, exposing him to the chill morning air. Peter yelped, "Hey! What gives?" and folded his pillow over his head in an attempt to block out the unwelcome sunlight. Voice muffled by the cushion, he demanded, "What's so important I gotta get up now?"

"Your speech," Ray said matter-of-factly.

Almost tripping over his discarded covers in his haste, the psychologist bolted out of bed, gasping, "How late is it--do I have time to shower--you didn't let me oversleep--?"

"Well, we were considering getting you up five minutes before, and seeing if you could get spiffed up and organize your notes that quickly--" Winston began.

"You could in college," Ray reminded him. "Remember that eight o'clock clinical psych course, when you'd set your alarm for seven fifty-nine?"

"Guys, if you--" Peter squinted across the room at Egon's digital clock. Seven-forty, an ungodly time in the morning for a man of his habits, but it gave him over an hour to get ready. "Thanks," he grinned with relief. "Not as young as I used to be, and we're not across the quad from the auditorium." Stretching, he headed for the bathroom, pausing at the doorway to yawn and remark, "I bet they planned it this way. Dean Yeager knew my habits--twenty dollars says he picked this time just to mess with me." He disappeared down the hall.

Ray called after him, "Paranoia like that will lose you money!"

"I'm just being logical," Peter hollered back. "It's too early to be paranoid!" He slammed the bathroom door and in a minute they heard the shower running.

Winston raised his eyebrows at Ray. "Seven fifty-nine?"

Ray grinned. "You should've seen him move. Class officially started five minutes past the hour--and I don't think he was late once the entire semester."

They headed downstairs to the kitchen, where Egon had put on coffee and was making scrambled eggs with a fork in one hand and a physics text in the other. He murmured a generic morning greeting without looking up from his book.

"Uh, you want me to do the eggs, Egon?" Winston asked, thinking of how ignominious it would be for the firehall to burn down due to the unnatural combination of science and breakfast.

Egon shook his blond head absently, took a moment before saying aloud, "No, no, I've got it covered." He stirred the eggs, still intent on his reading.

Ray was pouring milk into his coffee seemingly without a care in the world. Winston glanced at him speculatively, searching him for hidden notes or a concealed book, and found nothing but bright hazel eyes meeting his. "Hey, homeboy, why aren't you panicking? You've got a speech to give, too."

"Yeah, but mine's last," Ray explained. "And I already put the final touches on it last night. Do you want to hear? I've almost got it memorized. Let's see, 'Ladies and gentlemen, I've been with the Ghostbusters since we started the business, and in that time I have encountered no less than--'"

"That's okay, Ray," Winston said hastily, "I believe you. I'll hear it this afternoon, right?" When Ray bobbed his head in agreement, eagerly bouncing on his toes, Zeddemore sighed, "You know, I think I'm glad I wasn't at Columbia with you guys. Were you like this all the time?"

"Nope," Ray cheerfully replied. "Usually we were worse. Egon would forget to eat at all when he had a major lecture to plan, and Peter half the time would be working out a really impressive presentation and the rest would be running around ten minutes before his class started, calling us and everyone else to find who'd 'stolen' his notes--"

"Which usually were recovered under his bed," Egon's dry voice put in, though when they looked over, he was still bent over his text.

"And what about you?" Winston asked of Ray, when it became clear the physicist had offered all his divided concentration would allow.

Ray shrugged. "I was only a TA, never a professor, so I didn't have presentations, though I had classes. They'd rope me into assisting them sometimes--Egon, remember when I helped Peter with that ESP test in front of the parapsych class, and he got every answer? He was supposed to be showing its inaccuracy--the whole class called him 'Spooky' for the rest of the semester."

"Professor Spooky, as I recall," Egon amended, conclusively proving his multi-tasking capabilities.

Which were apparently strained, however, because gray smoke started to curl up from the scrambled eggs. Winston leapt forward and took them off the heat before they started to blaze, but the damage had already been done. Egon blinked in mild astonishment as Winston headed for the sink with the frying pan and scraped the charcoal remains into the garbage disposal. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"It's okay. Why don't I handle the meals for today?" Winston suggested with a sigh. "Breakfast and lunch, at least--am I invited to the dinner tonight?" He wasn't sure, not being a Columbia alum, but he figured if he was barred at the gate, he could call his girlfriend and arrange a date.

Ray immediately assured him otherwise, "Of course you are, they're honoring all the Ghostbusters! Janine could come, too, if she wasn't visiting her sister. They won't be giving you the award," he blushed a little, embarrassed either by the omission or the honor itself, "but they want you there anyway. Maybe you could speak then, too--"

"No, thanks," Winston hastily put him at ease. "I'm not giving a talk at all, if I can help it; I always hated public speaking in English class. And I don't care about the award. You guys are the ones who went through all that education; you should get something for it. 'Distinguished Graduates'--sounds good, and I'm glad for you." He was also glad that they were all being so honored; another Ghostbuster of the Year fiasco was not something he wanted to go through again. The guys were all the best of friends and not especially competitive, under normal circumstances, but his years with them had given Winston an idea of the cutthroat nature of scientific scholarship.

He would just as soon forget it all and do his job: bust the ghosts, help people, get the paychecks, and live a normal life the rest of the time--though his experiences on the job gave him an ever-wider definition of "normal." But his co-workers had other interests: Peter practically lived for his audience, soaking up the attention granted to heroes, and Ray and Egon enjoyed the scientific acclaim they were slowly winning, as they proved the validity of their work.

In the end, of course, when it came down to the wire, they all were just like Winston--the job and the team came first, over all the benefits. If Columbia wanted to give them the accolades they deserved for their accomplishments, more power to them. Winston would stick with his teammates, listen to their speeches, applaud their awards, and accept whatever attention was afforded him. And tomorrow they'd go back to busting, and the next class four or six or eight that came along wouldn't care less about what school any member of the team had attended, or what honors they had received.

Meanwhile, he made breakfast for his three distracted teammates, dropping bagels in the toaster and whipping up more eggs. Peter stumped down to the kitchen some minutes later, damp hair smoothed back and styled, attired in a remarkably tasteful and coordinated brown suit. His green eyes were at half-mast, however, and he didn't so much as mumble a good morning until he had absorbed a cup of coffee. Then he straightened, adjusted his tie and flashed a sharp smile at them. "How do I look?"

"Like a professional," Winston admitted. "Now if you can just stay awake while you talk, you'll be all set."

"Thank God for caffeine," Peter grinned. "I still don't know how they started Oxford before the discovery of the coffee bean. But, look, I'm up, I'm ready to go." He checked his watch. "I've got enough time to make it even through rush hour."

"A modern miracle," Egon murmured from behind his text.

Peter ignored him. "Better run, I'll catch you guys there--and Ray, if you make that face in the middle of it, you'll be sleeping with slimed sheets for a month. That's a promise, not a threat." He grabbed a bagel half just as it popped out of the toaster and took off down the stairs.

"Good luck!" Ray and Egon called after him.

Winston looked at the occultist. "'That face'?"

Ray's ears went pink. "Long story."

"Suffice to say, Peter does not appreciate cracking up in the middle of a serious lecture on the nature of hypnosis," allowed Egon.

"I didn't think he'd find it that funny!" Ray protested.

"So, what was this expression?" Winston inquired.

After a momentary delay, Ray made it.

Winston laughed aloud before he could stop himself, then blinked, wondering how Ray could physically do that with his eyes. Let alone his cheeks. He could understand Peter's point; it would be awfully amusing to watch him struggle for control in the face of that, though...

Probably not worth it, considering the hell Venkman would give them about it afterward. And no telling what he might do during Ray's speech in retaliation.

"Better leave that one behind, homeboy," Winston advised with a final chuckle. "And eat up. If we're late for Pete's thing, we'll never hear the end of it."

They were on time, all in their reserved seats when Peter walked onstage. He spotted them, gave them a quick, confident smile, and launched into his presentation.

It was good, Winston had to admit. He had never had the chance to see Peter as a professor, but people must have flocked to his classes if his lectures had been anything like this one. Fast-paced, though his patter was never too quick to understand; humorous enough to draw frequent laughter from his audience, but informative all the same. Venkman didn't haul out the dictionary like Egon and Ray did when talking science, but he knew his stuff, and could impart it so that it made sense even to a laymen. Which Winston wasn't, not anymore; he was almost more worried by how much he did comprehend their spiels, when they got going. But most of the audience, although all educated men and women, weren't familiar with even the basic principles of ghostbusting.

Winston imagined this was one of the reasons for the talks, to give people a better idea of why they were bestowing this honor on these particular alumni. Judging from his speech, Peter was thinking along similar lines. He emphasized the important nature of their work, but not laying it on as he did for talk shows. Playing up the social obligations more than heroism, he discussed the dangers with a direct honesty that still put his audience on the edge of their seats.

The psychologist could be a first-class showman, owing in part to his father and his con-man ways. A hundred years ago the Venkmans probably would have been snake oil salesmen, but Peter had broken from that and was determined now to prove the value of what he did. And from the applause he got when he concluded, he did a pretty fine job of it.

As he stepped down off the podium, Winston caught him craning his neck, peering out into the auditorium with a slight frown. That vanished as he was mobbed by a crowd of well-dressed society members, professors and students, all clamoring for a few words. Peter caught the guys' eyes and grimaced, clearly preferring to sign autographs rather than answer questions, but giving into his fans no matter their nature.

The persistent ones accompanied him and the others Ghostbusters to lunch at a small cafe on campus, where a professor bought them all sandwiches and sodas. Gathered around the small round tables, Winston, Ray, and Egon didn't get a chance to more than nod congratulations to their colleague, drowned out by the more vocal or more interested followers. Those not so close turned their attention on the other Ghostbusters; Winston found himself trapped between an ancient history professor and a chipper sociology grad student, both seeking his opinion about the recent upsurge of interest in psychic phenomenon. Did he feel it was more closely tied to the approaching end of the millennium, or a consequence of the growing dissatisfaction with science as a result of medical failures and the uncertainty principles governing the universe according to modern theories of physics?

"Uh...." Winston began intelligently.

"Some of both," Egon offered, leaning over from his table to address the two and take the heat off his teammate.

Thanks, Winston mouthed gratefully, and the physicist nodded before plunging into the controversy. Swallowing his bite of sandwich, he turned to his other side, where Ray had managed to strike up a conversation about the merits of Deep Space Nine versus Babylon 5 with three of the quieter members of the group. While Winston was not a fan of either program, he had been in the room enough while they were on not to be completely out of his depth, and joining the discussion did prevent other curious and baffling interrogators from pouncing on him unawares.

He hoped that tonight's dinner wouldn't be this bad. One hour was enough; two would be unendurable. Busting ghosts beat scholarly debates any day of the week--for all that even Peter, once he settled into it, seemed to be enjoying these fans' questions as much as the attentions of autograph hounds.

A little after noon, Egon excused himself to prepare for his own presentation, and the group dispersed. Moving from his center seat to drop into the open chair at Winston and Ray's table, Peter proudly displayed his achievements of the hour. Not one but two phone numbers, one a blonde grad student's and the other from a raven-haired society woman who, Winston had to admit, must have brains as well as class and beauty, considering what he had overheard them discussing.

She had also, quite clearly, been after more than intellectual stimulation. "Not much taste, though," Winston commented, "considering who she was talking with..."

With his audience gone, Dr. Venkman abandoned his poise long enough to stick his tongue out at his teammate. "The lady knows what she likes," he said. "I like that! And she appreciates my unique perspective on parapsychology."

"Didn't think there was anything else she'd go for," Winston muttered to Ray, just loud enough to be overheard, and they both grinned at Peter's mock-stricken look. Before he could come up with an appropriately cutting rejoinder, Ray reminded them of the time, and they hurried to the physics hall for Egon's presentation.

Winston had expected Peter's speech to be entertaining, if nothing else, but he was surprised to find himself enjoying Egon's as well. The physicist's topic, delving into the physical nature of ectoplasm and spirit phenomena, was intriguing, but the talk itself was interesting. Organized, as one would expect, and well-spoken in his even bass, but beyond that he managed to hold his audience's attention for the entire hour. His vocabulary actually seemed toned down from its usual precision--Winston wondered if he had managed to pare it himself, taking time to word things more prosaically, or had he gone to Peter for advice? Pete was pretty good at drawing comprehensible explanations out of their scientists. Winston had long since figured out that nine out of ten times, Venkman knew exactly what they were talking about, no matter how esoteric their language became, but would cry ignorance until they put their theories in more ordinary terms. Keeping them grounded; Egon especially needed that reminder of reality at times.

Winston wondered what the physicist would be like, without someone like Peter to forcibly drag him out of his science, the same way he and Ray dragged Pete out of bed in the morning. Egon most likely would have figuratively pulled the book covers over his head and never left the lab except to eat and sleep. He never would have gotten involved in something as crazy as the Ghostbusters--though how they would manage without his genius was anybody's guess. He'd be a professor still, maybe at Columbia, or else he would have been tapped by the government to work on the latest version of the atomic bomb. Either way, Winston doubted that Egon would have made it here on his own, a distinguished graduate speaking to the most prestigious scientists in the city and beyond.

And while Peter might prefer talk shows and groupies, Egon looked more than content to answer the flurry of questions following his speech. Winston wouldn't be surprised if he picked up a few phone numbers as well, for all that he wouldn't inquire for them--from professors and fellow scientists, of course, but there were some remarkably good-looking ones here.

As they headed down to the stage at the end of the talk, Winston caught Peter glancing behind them, the frown back on his lips. He nudged the psychologist, "Hey, Pete, what's up?"

Venkman shook his head as if to dislodge a passing notion. "Nothing. Just thought I saw someone I knew." Raising his voice, he called down to their colleague, "Spengs, way to liven up the old physics hall! You haven't forgotten my advice, I noticed--I didn't doze off once."

"I am most gratified to hear it," Egon said dryly, but behind his glasses his blue eyes glowed slightly with the praise, accepting it as it was honestly intended, for all the joking tone.

Ray explained, "Peter went to one of the first classes Egon taught, and afterwards he told Egon that if he wanted a prayer of making tenure, he had to keep Peter awake for a whole lecture--and that was another eight o'clock class."

"It wasn't easy," Egon admitted.

"Yeah, it took you a couple of weeks to catch on," Peter agreed, leaning over the physicist's shoulder to take a peek at his notes. "But once you started to lose the unnecessary words over five syllables, and started to really explain what you were talking about instead of reciting it from everything you've read, you turned into a halfway decent speaker. Sure surprised me!"

Winston doubted that, actually. Peter usually could see someone's potential, and if he thought it worth the effort, he would do what it took to draw it out. Encouragement or bullying, teasing or challenges--he had a variety of tricks up his sleeve. Winston had been exposed to a few himself, but he suspected Ray and Egon had received the brunt of that treatment long before he had met any of them. Peter wouldn't have been content to watch Egon be a stolid, unengaging scientist when he could be a much greater individual, and he had seen to bringing that man to light. Even if it had meant getting up at eight a.m.

"It was a great speech," Ray cheerfully confirmed, then saw the clock. "Whoops, it's almost time for mine--sorry, Egon, I have to go get ready!"

"Good luck, Tex," said Peter, then, waving Egon's notebook in his direction, assured him, "You'll do fantastic--bet your notes are better than these. Spengs, how can you even read five-point font, with those glasses?"

Leaving Egon to fend off Peter's perusal of his papers on his own, Winston accompanied the occultist to the lecture hall. They had brought a trap and a proton pack, and Ray insisted on testing and re-testing them three times apiece.

"Got butterflies?" Winston asked sympathetically.

Ray shook his head. "No, I just want this to look good. Aunt Lois said she might come. She'll be at the ceremony tonight, too, and I want to show her what we do--"

"I think she knows already," Winston remarked, still wincing internally when he recalled the state in which they had left her living room those years back. The ghosts had done most of the damage, but all the same...

"But there's a lot of people who don't," Ray said earnestly. "Even those who have seen us in action, they don't understand how it works."

"Neither do I, half the time," Winston admitted. "I use 'em, but I don't know what the throwers or traps actually do."

He might have been slightly embarrassed to make such a confession to Egon, but Ray never took ignorance as anything but a reason to answer what questions he could. "I don't think Peter does, either. He always tuned out when we tried to explain what we were doing when we were first starting. That's why this is so great," he enthused. "We can explain to everybody, and once you know the basics, the details start to become clear. Like when Egon and I were first designing the containment unit, we knew it needed to be like the trap, only permanent, so we figured that the oscillating wave frequency would need to be lower in order to maintain the structural--"

"Okay," Winston held up his hands, "I'll believe it when I hear it. If you can make all that science make sense, you deserve the award."

Fifteen minutes later, people started to trickle into the hall. Ray retreated behind the curtain and Winston climbed off the stage to rendezvous with Peter and Egon. They took their seats, but Peter kept twisting in his, glancing behind them at the audience filing in through the double doors.

Suddenly his eyes widened with recognition, and he elbowed Egon sharply in the ribs, hissing, "Hey, 'Barbie,' am I seeing things or did Ken just walk in?"

"What?" Winston asked, completely confused.

"What?" Egon repeated, in an entirely different tone.

Peter surreptitiously pointed to the back of the hall. "Second row from the top, on the left."

Glancing behind, Winston curiously scanned the faces of the indicated aisle, seeing no one he knew. But beside him Egon blinked and turned forward again abruptly, curtly acknowledging, "It may be."

"I think it is," Peter said. "And I think I saw him at my speech, too. Wonder what Kenny-boy is doing here?"

"He is a scientist, Peter."

"Is he? You haven't seen him in ten years--"

"Okay, hold it." Winston leaned over to address his friends. "Who's this Ken character?"

"Kenneth Ulster," Peter began. "Doctor Kenneth M. Ulster, probably 'the third' or something--"

"Peter," Egon admonished him, not impatiently, more out of habit.

"Kenny was Egon's bestest bud, before I showed up and wrecked his life." Peter's eyes were snapping with undisguised amusement and no small satisfaction.

"Hardly," Egon sighed, though it was difficult to tell what he was denying. He clarified, "Dr. Ulster was a biochemist, with whom I collaborated on several extra-curricular experiments. He was one of the most brilliant scientists I have ever worked with."

"Also the most obnoxious," Peter put in. "If you didn't have an IQ of 160 or higher and made sure you talked like it all the time, Kenny considered you on par with his lab mice and treated you with the same courtesy. He liked Egon because he thought Egon was the only guy at Columbia, student or professor, who was as big a genius as he was."

"He was very intelligent," Egon allowed.

"You're smarter than he could dream of being," Peter retorted. "That was one of the things, though--Kenny knew it. The real reason he stayed so close to you was because he was hoping it would rub off, and because he thought with your brain he could accomplish more. Science, that was what Ulster cared about, that was all he cared about. And of course Egon didn't know any better--you always were a genius, Spengs, but you didn't know jack until I bumped you off that physicist's track you were so intent on."

He grinned at Winston. "You should've seen them. They'd be working late, up all night sometimes--worse than me on the weekends. I'd want Egon for a study session--we were in a parapsychology course together--and I always knew where to find him, in the lab with Ulster, hunched over a chart or a test tube. Outside class they were always together there. I started calling them Ken and Barbie--because of the hair, of course," and he ruffled Egon's yellow locks.

With pretended affront, the physicist smoothed them back to their accustomed style. "Kenneth did not...appreciate the joke," he remarked.

"He couldn't stand me," Peter said more frankly. "He loathed my jokes, he detested my attitude, and he really couldn't take the fact that I was as smart as he was. Even if I didn't spend my life in a lab. And when he figured out that Egon had the excellent taste to prefer my company over his, well...I'd say he hated my guts, but that's not putting it strongly enough. What'd he accuse me of--"

"'Corrupting' me, I recall, on one occasion," Egon murmured.

"Oh, yeah. And 'tempting,' another time. The way Kenny saw it, Egon was the original innocent, and I was the serpent himself, apple in hand." Peter smiled like a snake, fangs flashing. "And when Egon took a nibble--never could get him to bite all the way--Ulster kicked him out of Eden."

"It wasn't quite that dramatic," Egon told Winston, rolling his eyes at Peter. "I don't recall him placing a burning sword before the entrance of the lab."

"Yeah, and a laboratory's hardly paradise--but for Kenny, it might as well have been. He certainly guarded it whenever I came around. Egon kept working with him on a couple things second semester anyway; the 'divorce' wasn't until the next year."

"I remember," Egon acknowledged stiffly.

"So what happened?" Winston asked, curious in spite of himself. He took another peek at the audience behind him, wondering who was the man they now discussed.

"Ray happened." Peter's eyes gleamed green fire. "Much as Kenny loved me, he adored Ray even more. He couldn't imagine why Egon would willingly hang out with an underage, inexperienced, optimistic kid from the sticks who honestly believed in ghosts and weird things and thought they were 'cool.' Me and my parapsychology was bad enough--Ray's occult studies were worse."

Egon's expression was tight with remembered repressed anger. "He never even tried to talk with Ray; he didn't think it worth the time."

"He thought Egon put up with him only because he liked the hero worship." Peter, on the other hand, was not one to hide his ire, though there was satisfaction in his face as well. "And one evening Kenny decided to tell Egon this."

"While Ray was present," Egon added.

Winston nodded; that explained their emotion. Peter, in particular, for all his teasing, was as protective of his younger friend as a big brother.

"I missed that one," the psychologist said, "but I heard about it later that night; Ray told me everything. Spengs stopped working with Ulster after that, and we mutually decided that we wouldn't go near him and he wouldn't come anywhere near us. Kenny agreed to it, with only a little admonition on my part." He cocked his fist suggestively.

Egon's eyebrows shot up. "Peter, you didn't--"

Peter's grin shifted from a snake's to a shark's. "Come on, Egon, you didn't think he got that black eye falling over a lab table, did you?"

Winston smiled as Egon sighed. "I never--"

He was interrupted by the lights dimming. The babble of the crowd subsided to unintelligible murmurs as a woman came onstage and announced her pride in introducing the Ghostbuster, Dr. Raymond Stantz.

Egon leaned over to whisper to Peter, "You actually--? Really, Peter..."

The psychologist hissed back, "Yes, actually. You didn't stay up half the night with Ray, trying to convince him he could handle college when he was literally packing his bags to hitchhike back to the farm. Kenny-boy's lucky he's not eating intravenously. I restrained myself. But that was a while ago--shush now, listen to Ray. Maybe you'll learn something. Always thought he'd make a great prof."

Winston soon seconded this. Ray entered cautiously, swallowing as he approached the podium, and his voice almost cracked during his greeting as he alternated staring out at the audience and glancing furtively at his prepared talk. But by the time he was a paragraph in, he had abandoned his notes and spoke with all his usual excited energy. Ray was always like that; he'd get so caught up in a topic that he'd tell you everything about it whether you wanted to hear it or not, but he was so interested in whatever he talked about that he couldn't help but interest you as well. He had a better sense than Egon of how ordinary, non-scientist people thought and spoke, and his explanations usually were more down-to-earth.

His examples didn't hurt any, either. Most of the audience had probably seen their equipment before, either in person or on TV, but they still oohed and aahed, much impressed by the low-energy particle stream from the proton pack crackling over their heads, squinting in fascination at the trap's light. Ray had been disappointed that Slimer had refused to participate in the demonstration, but he didn't need the little ghost's assistance to put on a good show. And by the time it was over, Winston halfway grasped what a proton stream was, at least, as well as how it helped contain and control ectoplasmic energy. Not bad for an hour and a half.

Ray blushed at his audience's deafening applause, answered questions spiritedly and again showed his prowess with a proton pack. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were sparkling when he descended the stage and made his way through the crowd to his friends. "Did you see that? I think they liked it! Do you think they learned anything? Did it make sense? Did I talk too fast?"

"You did great, Tex," Peter assured him, offering a high-five which Ray enthusiastically returned, still babbling a blue streak.

Winston whispered in Egon's ear, low enough not to disturb his coworker's excitement, "The speech was great, now how do we turn him off?"

Egon smiled and murmured back, "Peter and I never found the switch."

Venkman had developed other ways to deal with that exuberance. Speaking over his chattering friend while making no effort to silence him, he announced, "We should go. The dinner's in fifteen, and I'm hungry!"

"Now, there's a shocker," Winston said.

"Truly a surprise," Egon solemnly agreed, blue eyes dancing behind his glasses.

"Let's go, then!" Ray interrupted himself to suggest brightly, and, after collecting their equipment, they headed out of the hall. Winston caught Peter looking thoughtfully at the faces of the people they passed, but if he saw the Ken guy they had been discussing before, he didn't react or comment to Egon. Just as well; it didn't sound like Ray would enjoy running into him, and with Ray flying so high now, Winston didn't want to see anything bring him down. Today had, against his expectations, been a great day, and it would be a shame if some irritating blast from his friends' past messed up the grand finale.

Remembering Columbia's dubious cafeterias, Peter had been vaguely suspicious of the dinner. But the university had had the intelligence, or perhaps someone on the board had the taste buds, to go to caterers rather than the dining service, and the food was delicious. Lasagna, if properly prepared, got him every time. He went back for a second serving and was debating whether it would be rude if he excused himself for a third when Ray slid a plateful in front of him. The occultist grinned at his delighted expression,

"Just getting seconds for myself, and I saw that look in your eye--Slimer has it whenever we're eating..."

Peter suppressed the automatic urge to stick his tongue out at his friend. "I'll get you for that later, Stantz. But thanks," and he dug in with gusto. Discussion was at a standstill for the moment because one of the deans was addressing the room, mumbling through his prepared speech and looking up in the breaks between paragraphs. Peter couldn't quite remember his name; he didn't think the man had been around when they had gone to school. That was getting to be some time ago; strange how young the students looked now. They must be admitting them younger every year; at this rate they'd soon be tapping junior high schoolers.

Peter grinned at the thought. Better that than him aging. One of the drawbacks of being a professor, having to teach perpetual youth while growing older yourself. Not that he was really that much older, of course, and not that he had experienced it when he had been teaching, some time ago, now. He never regretted leaving the world of scholarship for the excitement of ghostbusting. But today had at least reminded him of why he had stayed at the university as long as he had.

It also reminded him why he had so willingly departed. After the dinner, when the people were milling in small clusters passing time before being seated for the awards ceremony, Peter glanced to the doorway and spotted him. Dr. Ulster, so it seemed.

Looking back, he saw Ray in the center of a knot of engineers, happily delving into the more detailed schematics of their ghost traps. Peter hoped that Ray remembered to tell them that their equipment was all patented, but he couldn't help but smile fondly all the same. The attention was good for Ray, and the respect the students were paying to his knowledge. Egon might need to be taken down a peg now and again, but Ray, for all his confidence now, would do better for the bolstering.

Wouldn't do much good if he and Ulster noticed one another. Peter grabbed Winston's arm. "Hey, Zed, do me a favor and distract Ray."

Winston's eyebrows went up. "I think he's already distracted," gesturing at the chattering people surrounding their friend.

Peter nodded. "I know, but if he looks like he might be heading over here, see that he doesn't, okay? Just for a couple minutes."

"Pete, what's this--"

"Just an interception mission, solve a problem before it starts. Thanks, Winston." He clapped his teammate on the shoulder and began maneuvering through the crowd toward the exit.

Before he reached the doors, he sensed more than saw someone flank him, knew who it was without looking. "Egon--"

"I've seen him, too, Peter," the physicist murmured back. "I'd prefer to accompany you on this, given your previous track record."

Their target was conversing with a pair of grad students, trading strings of polysyllabic chemical terms. As they approached, he nodded to the two in polite dismissal, looked over and met their eyes. Kenneth Ulster, without a doubt. He hadn't changed much in the intervening years, hair a little thinner, middle a little thicker. The faint supercilious smile was still the same, and his even baritone.

"Dr. Spengler! I was wondering if I was going to have to seek you out. Good to see you again!"

"Dr. Ulster," Egon greeted him with a formal nod. At the other scientist's welcoming tone, he exchanged a glance with Peter.

Peter seconded his unease. Wasn't normal, that degree of friendliness from Ulster. It felt akin to a bulldog making nice with a love bite. "Hi, Kenny."

Ulster glanced over as if noticing him for the first time. "Hello, Dr. Venkman. Good to see you, too." Cooler, but nowhere near hostile.

For some reason that irked him further. "Yeah. Hey, glad they reset your nose okay--you can barely see the break."

Egon sighed almost inaudibly; Peter didn't look at him, knowing he'd only be confronted with a disapproving glare. He kept focused on Ulster. The scientist frowned momentarily, then shook his head as if casting aside the memory. "That was a long time ago, Dr. Venkman; I trust we've all long healed from whatever injuries we may have caused one another. I see that Dr. Stantz did get his degree--"

"Yeah, a shame you missed it, I'm sure it broke your heart," Peter replied pleasantly. "Where were you, holding a protest that your alma mater was giving an occultist a doctorate--"

This time Egon didn't keep his disapproval inaudible. "Peter--"

"No, I should apologize," Ulster said. "I was wrong, I'm willing to admit that now. There's more to the supernatural than I believed, than I knew. Your work now--I attended all your speeches today. Fascinating."

"Thank you," Egon said gravely.

"Thanks," Peter muttered. He knew he shouldn't be so openly belligerent, not when Ulster was taking it so well. Stirring up trouble--that was what he had come over to prevent, only he would be the aggressor if anything happened. Ulster hadn't said so much as one negative word.

Maybe he had changed. Time could do that to people. Perhaps all he had needed was to outgrow being a bastard. Peter hadn't exactly been Mr. Perfect himself way back when; he should accept that others could similarly improve.

He didn't have to like it, though. And Ulster's voice still rankled, somehow.

"Congratulations on the award; you deserve the recognition," he was saying. "But I'm actually here for more than that."

"Yes?" Egon prompted, when he trailed off.

Peter recognized that pause. He knew what was coming, and resisted the temptation to mouth the words along with Ulster as he said, "I need your help." He expanded, "I have... I've found something I think you should look at. From what you said in your speech today, Dr. Spengler, and from what I've seen of it, I think I may have inadvertently picked up a ghost."

"What?" Egon frowned.

Peter nodded, unsurprised. That explained his deferential attitude. People tended to reform in a hurry when confronted by the inexplicable; if anything, Ulster with his science would be even worse, had he encountered proof of something beyond his understanding. "So what happened? Make it fast, we've got awards to receive."

"It happened about a week ago," Ulster told them, "and I would have called you immediately, but, well--I was afraid if you remembered me, you wouldn't be forthcoming. So I tried take care of the problem myself, and succeeded in capturing...something. It's in my car now--"

"You captured a ghost?" Egon asked.

"Perhaps. I'm not sure," Ulster confessed. "I have a metal box with something inside it; when I tried to remove it, in a controlled setting, I only got a handful of transparent, sticky..."

"Ectoplasm," Egon supplied. "Very likely a specter, then, though if it were contained by metal, then it can't be very strong. Class two, most likely--"

"Even if it's not strong," Ulster said, "I'd like to be rid of it. Is there any chance you could take it off my hands?"

"You brought the box with you?" When the other scientist nodded eagerly, Egon considered, "I could examine it at least. We probably could get it into the containment unit without trouble. We have another hour before the ceremony, I could take care of it now. Peter--"

"Nuh-uh, I'm coming with you on this one," Peter informed him, making an entrance into the conversation. "Doesn't sound like a big bust, but if I let you go off, you're liable to talk science right through the awards." Besides, the thought of Egon accompanying Ulster anywhere alone made him uneasy.

Jealousy, Venkman? Come on, you know darn well that Egon would never leave the Ghostbusters, no matter how tempting an offer Ulster might make. Though that might be it, Peter thought. He would bet even money that Ulster had ulterior motives. Maybe he was trying to lure his lost friend back to the scientific fold. Probably was working for some high-tech lab and had decided he could use Spengler's genius.

He asked Egon about it, when they headed alone to Ecto-1 to pick up the necessary equipment. "Spengs, have any idea what he's been doing all this time?"

Egon shook his head. "We should inquire," he replied as he collected his PKE meter. Peter hid his smile at the absent-minded way he adjusted its settings; the physicist couldn't hold one of the devices without fooling with it, like a kid with a favorite toy. "To my knowledge he hasn't published anything recently. When we got the new science database last month, I ran a search of his name, and his last paper was in a minor biochemistry journal eight years ago."

"You looked up his name?"

"He was a former colleague, Peter. I often research old acquaintances."

"Checking on the competition, eh? Bet none of them are coming close to Spengler and Stantz." Peter grinned with proprietary pride. "What with that piece in Science last year, and don't try to deny you've got The Journal of Physics knocking on the door, I've noticed those return addresses. You guys are taking the science world by storm. All that and 'busting, too--no wonder Ulster's jealous. Here." He tossed a balled-up jumpsuit at his friend.

Egon caught it automatically. "He said nothing of jealousy. He sounded pleased that we've been successful." Shaking out the jumpsuit, "I don't think we need the uniforms; this shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

"That's more than enough time for a ghost to slime your nice suit. And you won't have time to change. We'd look pretty goofy dripping on our certificates." Peter had already pulled his own over his clothes, zipped it up as he remarked, "Just because he didn't say he was green with envy didn't mean it wasn't in his eyes. Something was, anyway. Come on, Spengs, even you couldn't have missed the look he was giving me."

"I did, and thought it was remarkably tame, considering your past history," Egon said pointedly. "And he was open about needing our help."

"Yeah. Have to love the way a ghost can freak even creeps. And we're obliged to help. Wonder how much we can charge for this?" He had been calculating it already, though it really depended on the ghost. "We should get the usual five hundred for the investigation, and then when we see what kind of gooper it is--"

"Peter," Egon admonished, "he is an old acquaintance, and this shouldn't even take an hour of our time, when we're officially off-duty as it is--"

"Egon, has anyone ever told you you have no sense of priorities? Off-duty means overtime, at least, plus we're going in with just the two of us, so factor in hazard pay--"

"Peter."

"Don't worry." Peter smirked. "I won't give him the bill tonight. We'll let Janine draw it up. I'm sure there's a couple more expenses I'm forgetting." He grabbed the proton pack, slung it over his shoulders and buckled the belt around his waist. "Only one pack available, there's got to be a way to account for that. Got the trap?"

Egon nodded. "We shouldn't even need the pack," he commented, "if the ghost is already secured."

"Better safe than sorry." This one was Ray's, from his demonstration; Peter regretted not having brought another. Experience had taught him long ago not to go into any situation defenseless. This might be only a class two gooper, but it could just as conceivably a demon or a goblin or God knew what else. It wasn't like Ulster knew anything about spooks. Maybe he'd gotten lucky; or maybe it was only pretending to be captured. Peter wasn't about to risk their lives on an inexperienced scientist's say-so. Especially not when it was Kenneth Ulster's.

If it looked like it might be worse than they had been led to believe, they'd bring in the other guys. But Peter didn't want Ray involved if there was a choice. Kenny might be all nice and friendly now, but he had made his feelings about the occultist damn clear and Peter knew Ray had yet to forget it. He didn't need the reminder, not tonight, particularly. It was going to be great, going up on that stage with him and Egon, shaking the president's hand, hearing the applause. How many professors in the audience had derided him and his buddies, told them they were crazy, that they'd never make anything of themselves? Okay, so revenge might be petty, but he couldn't wait for this.

"Come on, we don't want to be late!"

Ulster met them at the exit of the parking lot. Night had fallen and the streetlights cast pools of light on the pavement, black and gray shadows fractured by the smooth surfaces of the cars. Of course he had to have parked on the other end of the campus, explaining that he hadn't wished his ghost to be near enough to endanger anyone. They walked down a side street paralleling the quad, passing a few students heading either toward the ceremony, the library, or most likely the fraternities. Bound to be some rocking parties on a Friday night. Peter momentarily wondered if he could get into any of them; he might not be a student, but if they recognized him, maybe they'd let him drop in. After the ceremony, maybe. Winston might appreciate a taste of the other side of college life, too, since he'd been so patient with the lectures and conversations of the day.

If he pitched it right, he could drag Ray and even Egon along. Peter eyed the physicist appraisingly. The Ghostbusters, gate-crashing a frat party. That would go over well in several houses he knew, and even better if it were all of them. They were famous, after all. Ray would be easy to convince, so he'd only need to talk Egon into it.

He would have tried now, but Ulster's silent presence stalking alongside them stopped him. Egon had drawn himself up ramrod-straight, not even glancing at the PKE meter in hand, let alone fiddling with it. Unconsciously performing, falling into that stiffness that had characterized his interactions with Ulster even before Peter had rolled into town.

Had Egon ever noticed, before Peter showed up, how little he cared for the other scientist? They had worked great together, sure, and Ulster had that sneaking admiration for the physicist's genius, but it wasn't mutual. Egon had better taste than that, but he had been stuck into thinking that college was strictly for education, just as life was for science. Interpersonal interaction hadn't been his strong point. It might have never occurred to Spengs that the guy he hung around and studied with had all the winning personality of a meat grinder. Peter shuddered to think of what might have happened to Egon had he not come along. Locked away in a lab somewhere, miserable, and he wouldn't even know why. Yup, he definitely owed Dr. Venkman for that one.

And the therapy wasn't over yet, not if he still went all formal in front of Ulster. It would be Peter's duty to snap him out of this mood afterward, and the quickest way to manage that would be to drag him to the noisiest party on campus, kicking and screaming if necessary.

The sacrifices one makes for one's friends...

He smirked, caught Ulster's glance and schooled his features into a professional mask of confidence. On the job here--damn, Kenny could do it to him, too. Couldn't take Ulster to the party; he'd suck the life out in a minute flat. Peter knew there was a reason he had preferred Egon to Kenneth from day one, even if none of his frat friends had been able to tell the two scientists apart. Egon at his most stolid couldn't achieve the level of anti-fun that Ulster effortlessly exuded.

Ulster's car was at the far corner of one of the overflow lots, empty this night. His black Volvo was alone under the halo of a streetlight, glittering darkly in the yellowish glow. The scientist hit a button on his key chain as they neared; the car chimed softly as its locks popped up.

Peter glanced at his watch. Half an hour left, and they still had to walk back. "Come on, we're going to be late. Where's the ghost?"

"In the car," Ulster said, and pointed for good measure. "The box is on the front seat. Here." He handed Egon a small silver key.

Peter snatched it peremptorily. "What's the meter say, Eg--Dr. Spengler?" Couldn't hurt to make this official as possible; it would help their case when they handed him the bill.

Egon shook his head. "No readings, Dr. Venkman." Only the faintest twinkle deep in his eyes spoke of his awareness of the game.

"I saw it, I know it's in there," Ulster insisted, an edge of agitation creeping into his phlegmatic tone.

"Sure, we believe you," Peter soothed. "The meter doesn't always catch small ones."

"The metal might be interfering," Egon added. They approached the car, Peter unslinging the thrower from his pack as he powered it up. No telling what might pop out at them--nothing, according to the meter. But the meter wasn't always accurate...and the prickling sensation on the back of his neck emphasized that point. Could be nerves, but he had experience with his instincts as well, and they were right far more than wrong. Ulster hung back, fidgeting, nothing obtrusive, but Peter saw him shift his weight from foot to foot. This ghost really did have him spooked. Pity they couldn't in all fairness let it continue its haunting; the guy was better for the excitement.

Peter opened the car door and examined the box on the passenger seat. Nothing fancy, just a locked storage container the size of a shoebox. Stepping out of the way, he let Egon pass the meter over it.

The physicist shook his head. Still no readings. The metal could obscure the readings, or there might be nothing in it--easy enough to find out. Holding the thrower one-handed, Peter inserted the key in the lock and turned.

The box wasn't empty. As soon as he raised the lid, he heard a faint hiss. Stepping back, he set his stance, but nothing emerged from the vehicle, neither a flimsy shade nor a demon.

"I'm not picking up anything," Egon reported with a puzzled frown.

With a frown of his own, Peter cautiously bent over to peer into the box. His vision blurred as he did, and even before he saw the canister nestled in the newspaper, he knew. Didn't see or smell anything, but when he pushed back, the night swirled around him dizzyingly, the streetlight dividing and multiplying into a field of twinkling stars.

He looked past Egon, who was also beginning to stagger, and through the flashes he saw Ulster, one hand over his mouth. Holding something--a mask. The son of a bitch had a gas mask.

"Egon, get outa here!" Peter shouted, as loudly as he could given that his throat was closing around his tongue, and he lunged for Ulster.

Didn't make it. Either he had miscalculated or the scientist had stepped back, and that was one step further than his own legs could manage. He fell heavily, but didn't feel it, the thrower slipping from his nerveless fingers before he hit the ground. Couldn't see through the shadows reaching over him, couldn't even turn his head, but maybe Egon had escaped; he hadn't gotten such a strong whiff of the gas, whatever it was. He had to have made it. Someone needed to tell the others Peter was going to be late for the ceremony.

Great day, lousy night, opposite of his college experience. Looked like he wouldn't be crashing any parties, either. You better have gotten away, Spengs, 'cause I've got a hunch this isn't going to be any fun, and with that reassuring thought he spun down into darkness.

It was nearly time to go on and Egon and Peter had yet to show. Leaning against the black wall of the auditorium's backstage, Winston glanced at his watch for the third time that minute. Which was about six times less than Ray had checked his own in the same amount of time. His younger friend was rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels, fidgeting with his tie as they waited.

Winston clasped his shoulder briefly, to stop the nervous motion as much as to get his attention. "Hey, Ray, it'll be okay. You know Pete, always wanting to make an entrance."

"Yeah, but Egon..." He looked hopefully to the door as it opened, but it was their presenter, a dean in a formal evening gown.

"Where are they?" she snapped impatiently. "You're all supposed to be seated now."

"They're not in the audience," reported a young man in a dark suit, one of several drafted into the search. "The president wants to know what the delay is."

The dean's lips compressed into a narrow mauve line. "We're going to have to begin, and hope they show up in time for the presentation. This better not be a prank. I wasn't here when Venkman was a professor, but I've heard the stories--"

"If it's a stunt, then we weren't let in on it," Winston told her. And Peter would have told them at least, unless he had something exceptional planned--he hadn't. He had been too determined to make a good impression, for his teammates' sake as much as his own. "Why don't you go on, and we'll all walk out together when they get here. It'll look planned."

Muttering curses at tardy awardees, the dean agreed, her heels clicking like a metronome as she marched onstage to the podium. With a final glare back in their direction, she launched into her address. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we're here to..."

"Peter wouldn't miss this," whispered Ray.

"I know," Winston agreed. Egon he could see being distracted by conversation and entirely forgetting another engagement. But Peter, while selectively amnesiac and on occasion 'fashionably late,' was too aware of this honor to play such games here. He liked the recognition, the reputation, acknowledgment of what they did for people. And he would've dragged Egon with him. They should be here.

"Where were they last?" Ray asked worriedly. "I haven't seen them since the dinner, I was so busy talking..."

Winston hesitated. At the reception, after Peter had told him to distract Ray, Winston had spotted his two teammates with another man, by the door. He had turned to Ray for a few minutes, and when he looked back the three were gone. He didn't recall seeing Peter and Egon again, but he hadn't specifically looked, until they reconvened here and came up two short.

Combining what Peter had asked of him and what they had talked about earlier, Winston had come to a conclusion about the identity of the tall brunet man with them. But Peter had been adamant about not letting word of the scientist's presence slip to Ray, and he was wary of breaking that promise now. Peter and Egon surely wouldn't find their old acquaintance's company so engrossing as to miss the ceremony.

And if it were something less innocuous than that... Winston shook his head, tried to force out his darker thoughts. Calm down, Zeddemore, you read too many mysteries. So the scientist and Peter might have been antagonistic when they went to school together; that was years ago, a long time to nurse a grudge. And what could he do to both Egon and Peter, in half an hour? It would be risky, when so many people might have seen them.

Though when would he have had the opportunity, after the ceremony, when they were planning to head straight home?

Pretty unlikely. And he thought Ray had the overactive imagination? But ten minutes later, they had yet to have any sign of them, and the cold lump in his stomach became too hard to ignore. He could have it out with Peter later.

"Uh, Ray? Do you remember--Pete and Egon mentioned this guy from your college days, a scientist, Kenneth something. Ken Usher?"

"Ulster?" Ray swallowed. "Kenneth Ulster?"

Winston nodded. "Yeah, that's it. They thought they saw him at your speech, and they might have been talking to him at the reception."

"But they wouldn't-- I mean, Peter hated him!" Ray protested. "And he didn't like Peter. Or me..." The uncertainty in his voice was reflected in his wide hazel eyes. "I didn't see him, but..."

He jerked to his feet. "We gotta find them, Winston. They should be here." Tapping the shoulder of one of men backstage, Ray asked of him, "Tell the dean that we're not going to be here, okay? We can't get the awards now."

The young man blinked at him. "Hey, you can't--"

"Something's come up," Winston said. "Sorry, m'man, but this is important."

"But--" He looked from one Ghostbuster to the other, saw the same resolve in both gazes and gulped audibly. "Okay..." With a deep breath, he walked onstage and made for the dean, just as the audience broke into applause.

Probably announcing them. Ray was already slipping out the door; Winston followed before he could see the dean's reaction. He didn't envy the man reporting to her. In front of the other people she'd probably keep her cool, but once behind the curtain...

This wouldn't help his friends' reputations at Columbia, that was certain. Rescheduling big events never went over well, especially not changes at the very last minute. And after all the effort they had put into this...it would be the last time they granted any sort of honors on the Ghostbusters, unless Peter and Egon had an excellent excuse.

Winston hoped they didn't. He hoped that when he and Ray walked outside, their teammates would be rushing up, out of breath, Peter complaining loudly about whatever delay Egon or Ulster had caused. They'd be given hell for it, and he and Ray would gladly help, and tomorrow they'd go back to their job like this had never happened and would soon forget all about it. That was how he wanted it to go--though he knew it wouldn't.

On the way to Ecto-1, a black and white campus security vehicle pulled up beside them, the driver sticking his head out the window to ask, "Hey, you're the Ghostbusters?"

Winston and Ray both nodded.

"Thought I recognized you," the man said. "Heard you were on campus. Could you come with me? I just got a report you should take a look at."

Nonverbally coming to a quick decision, the two Ghostbusters climbed into the vehicle. The man glanced them over before he pulled into the street. "You're Zeddemore and Stantz, right? I'm a big fan, always make sure to catch when you're in the news. Didn't expect I'd actually see you, being on duty tonight and all, but then this came up. It's lucky I found you--where's the other two?"

"We're looking for them," Ray explained, scanning the sidewalks along the street for people.

If Winston had been looking out the window like Ray, instead of at their driver as he was, he would have missed the reaction. The security man's, "Oh," was noncommittal, but his suddenly hesitant expression made Winston's stomach knot.

They turned into a parking lot, joining a second security vehicle and two more men gathered under a streetlight. "A student called this in a few minutes ago," their escort told them. "She didn't see anyone around, and she would have taken it to lost and found, but she wasn't sure she should touch it--"

Winston understood her reasoning. Between the flashing red light and the low, steady hum, the object didn't look entirely safe. But it was familiar, to him at least, and to Ray, who ran forward when he spotted the proton pack and crouched to switch it off. When it powered down, the campus security men surrounding it breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"It wouldn't have been a problem," Winston assured them. "It's not that dangerous--"

"I thought so," their driver said eagerly. "I thought I recognized it. It's one of your weapons, right? What's it doing here, though? How'd you lose it? I was thinking maybe somebody tried to steal it, and then it came on and they got scared. It doesn't seem safe, the student thought it was a bomb--"

Ray wasn't listening to a word the man said, automatically checking the pack for damage before he slung it over his shoulder and stood. "Winston." His voice was quiet and tight. Winston attended to him immediately as he went on, "It's my pack. The one I brought for the demonstration."

Winston nodded. That only made sense; it was the only one they had with them. But the security man could be right about the burglary. "Can you take us to our car?"

Ecto-1 was still there, and none of its locks had been jimmied; nor was there anything else missing at first glance. When Ray opened the storage lockers, they discovered Peter and Egon's spare jumpsuits were also gone. Not your average thief's haul, certainly. And not your average thief--whoever had taken the equipment had had keys. Whoever it was also knew how to correctly activate a proton pack.

It had to have been either Peter or Egon. But they wouldn't have left a pack in the lot like that.

Winston returned to the waiting security man, quietly inquired, "You didn't get any other reports tonight, did you? Of anything...suspicious, in the last hour, maybe? Nobody saw anything, around here or over in the other lot?"

The man shook his head. "No, it's been a quiet night, for a Friday. Do you think-- Could something have happened to the other Ghostbusters?" Obviously, he didn't like the thought that it might have happened on his shift.

Winston wasn't too keen on that idea himself. "We don't know."

Ray joined them. "I just called the firehall on the carphone, but nobody answered. I know a couple places on campus that Egon or Peter or Ulster might have wanted to visit; we could check them out. Don't think we'll find anything but we should try..." He sounded calm, concerned but reasonable. Except Ray usually suggested plans he was convinced would work; he was the team's optimist, and for him to admit that he doubted they'd find anything, for him not to have any ideas that would be successful, was even more telling than the slight tremor in his voice.

It matched Winston's own foreboding. The uniforms gone, the pack abandoned in a dark lot, and he had last seen their friends with a man who might be an enemy... Peter would never have missed the ceremony, not if he'd had a choice. And Egon cared about these affairs more than he let on. They should have been there.

As Egon would say, this was bad. Very bad.

Peter awoke in a cage.

He opened his eyes and the first thing that swam into focus were vertical black bars, about a foot from his nose. It took an indeterminate period of time for him to process this, as he mentally backtracked in order to make sense of what he was seeing.

Ulster. The parking lot. The metal box and the gas canister hissing inside, and he had succumbed. Vague shadows after that, darkness, hands touching him, the heavy proton pack being forced off his shoulders, and he had fought for it. Then a hard grip on his arm, a sharp prick to the pinched skin, and everything faded. And now this, here...

The bars rose up out of his field of vision. Beyond them were dull white walls and a featureless gray floor, smooth tile, the same as he was lying on. He pressed his hands against it, forced himself up to a sitting position. It took less effort than he had expected, though his stomach twisted in protest and his head pounded accompaniment to the nausea. Hangover, unfair because he hadn't drunk anything. But at least he could get a better look at his surroundings: a cage, about eight feet square, and a barred roof the same distance overhead. A narrow pallet was spread in one corner and across from it a basic commode stood unconcealed. The cage was in turn in a larger room with a higher ceiling, illuminated by dim greenish florescents, no windows or lamps. There was a single door outlined in the otherwise featureless wall he faced.

Twisting on his knees, he saw through the bars another cage, a match to his, about four feet away. Another man lay in the center, sprawled awkwardly as if he had been flung inside. His face was turned away, but there was no mistaking the blue jumpsuit or the blond hair.

Weakness vanishing at that sight, Peter leapt forward, ignoring his roiling stomach. "Egon?" There was no response. He pressed against the bars, tried to blink his vision clear enough to see if he were moving at all, if he even were breathing. "Egon, wake up. Get up now. Come on, Egon." His pitch was rising with his growing panic, but he didn't try to reign it in. "Spengs, don't you dare do this to Dr. Venkman--"

Egon groaned. Peter released a long sigh of his own, and in spite of the situation, managed a grin. "That's it, Egon. Roll over and look at me. Let me see if you've still got your glasses."

"P--Peter?" That faltering, faint tone was scarcely recognizable. Slowly, the blond head lifted, turned to peer at him fuzzily.

His glasses, though present, had slipped down his nose. Peter couldn't push them up as he often did, his arms not long enough to reach across the narrow corridor separating their cages. He contented himself with saying, "Right here," and waving for good measure. "Fix your glasses, no point in having them if you aren't looking through them."

After a few confused blinks, Egon obeyed. His mind seemed to come into focus with his vision, and he struggled to sit up, repeating in a more regular voice, "Peter? Where are we?"

"Beats me." Peter shrugged. "Bet I know who does know. The bastard who set us up."

"Ulster," Egon murmured.

"He strung us along but good, huh? Playing up that scary ghost--it was a trap from the start. Premeditated abduction--they're gonna throw the book at him. They just better. I can't believe I didn't see through it." He smacked his open palm against the floor. "Didn't think he remembered me well enough to try something that elaborate."

"He has captured me as well," Egon pointed out mildly.

"Yeah," Peter agreed with no small regret. "I'd hoped you'd got away. What happened, what's the last thing you remember?"

Egon closed his eyes, leaning against the metal bars. "I noticed I was becoming faint just as you checked the box again, and when you retreated, I saw you were losing your balance. It wasn't until you told me to run that I saw Ulster's gas mask and realized what was happening--I should have been quicker to see, but I wasn't expecting anything."

"Me, neither. So by the time you realized it, you were already down."

"More or less," Egon deferred. "I heard you tell me to go, but I didn't know what had happened to you, and--"

Peter bumped his head against the bars with a groan. "Egon, you better not be saying you stayed behind to check my pulse. Do you know how dumb that was? You couldn't have done a hell of a lot of good unless you had a mask, too--"

"I had breathed in a fair amount of gas," the physicist asserted stiffly. "I wasn't thinking clearly, and it was unlikely I could have made it very far--"

"Far enough," Peter shot back. "Ulster probably wouldn't have gone after you. He wanted me. I'm the corrupter, remember. He never had anything against you."

"Exactly," Egon replied. "Last we knew, he bore a very strong grudge against you, Peter. I feared that if he got you..."

"So instead you let him snag both of us."

"Ulster grabbed me right after you fell. When I protested, before I could examine you," Egon explained, "he injected me. I saw the hypodermic, but I don't know what was in it. A clear solution. I soon lost consciousness. That's all I know, before I awoke now."

"I think he shot me up, too." Peter rubbed his arm, pushed up the sleeve of his jumpsuit to examine the spot. Slightly sore and there was a small red mark. "Some kind of anesthetic. There's lots and I don't remember most of them. You feeling all right?"

Egon nodded. "Only a little queasy, and my head--"

"That subsides. Tell me if it doesn't, but I'm betting we got the same thing, and I'm also assuming he wasn't trying to hurt us or we wouldn't be waking up." That thought sent a shiver down his back. If the gas had been lethal, and Egon had stayed-- But it hadn't been. Ulster hadn't wanted to kill them. "Kenny's a biochemist; he knows his drugs. And wherever he's working now, he apparently has access to 'em. So we know how, the question now is--"

"Why," Egon agreed.

"Revenge is the obvious reason," Peter mused, "though why he'd take you-- He didn't have anything against you, not compared to me and Ray." Ray... If Ulster had decided he wanted vengeance on all three of them...

"Revenge is illogical," Egon stated softly. "It's unscientific. He may have been angry with you, but to carry it on for this long..?"

It wouldn't be the first time he had inspired a near blood-feud; but Egon was right. Ulster was far too single-mindedly focused on his science, his work and his experiments, to bother with emotional affairs like this. Or at least he had been; who knew how a decade could change a man? And what had he been doing in the interim? Not publishing. Had he abandoned his science, or failed at it, and blamed Egon for his failure?

Face it, they were both here. They were both in a lot of hot water. Now the number one priority should be getting out; they'd figure out what Kenny was up to after that was accomplished. He closed his fingers around the bars and tried to shake them; the steel didn't budge, unsurprisingly.

"He took off my pack, while we were still in the lot, I think." Maybe Ulster had guessed they could track its energy, or maybe he just realized it was dangerous. "He must have emptied my pockets, too. Have anything to pick a lock?"

Egon patted his pants, shook his head. "They must have taken my PKE meter as well; I was still holding onto it when I lost consciousness. Ulster may have been interested in its functioning."

"He could've asked to see it politely," Peter muttered, then noticed another missing element. "Egon, they get your patch?" He glanced through the bars at his friend's shoulder and confirmed it. The Ghostbusters' symbol, the anti-ghost badge, had been cut from their uniforms.

"They want to keep our identities secret?" Egon hazarded.

Peter snorted, trying to inject a note of smug confidence into his tone. "Like that'll do it--we're on TV. We're famous. People will recognize our faces." If there was indeed anyone around to identify them. Someone would come--why would Ulster bother locking them away just to let them starve? There were faster and easier ways to take care of old rivals. "Winston and Ray must be looking for us by now. Ray can reconfigure another meter, track our biorhythms. They'll be in here blasting us free before we know it."

On that proclamation, the door behind them opened and someone entered the room. Not their friends; a single man. Kenneth Ulster. He was wearing the same dark suit and his face was as collected and inexpressive as it had been at the reception. Walking between the two cages, he regarded them each in turn.

Egon struggled to his feet, pulling himself up by the bars and gripping them to keep his balance. He met the other scientist's gaze grimly, but said nothing.

Peter stayed down, not seeing the point otherwise. Standing would only increase the fading nausea, judging from Egon's greenish hue. He smiled up at their abductor. "Hi, Kenny. Love the decor. Early Penitentiary? I like Gothic dungeons myself, and Egon goes more for the Baroque look, don't you, Spengs?"

"I find some Art Deco appealing as well."

"I prefer function, not style," Ulster said calmly. "Appearance doesn't affect purpose."

"Purpose, hmm?" Peter tapped the bars in front of him thoughtfully. "You planning on selling us to the Bronx Zoo? I know I'm a party animal, but I don't think that's an endangered species, so they won't pay much."

"Trust me, I have no plan to ransom you," replied Ulster. Peter met his cold gaze without blinking, but it was an effort. Something in those gray eyes...

He kept his tone light. "You sure? You could get good money for us." Feeling tentatively for his motives. Not revenge, or at least not only vengeance. And not for a cash prize. But why else do you abduct people..?.

Egon had the courage to voice what he would not. "You can't buy human test subjects, Peter."

Ulster turned toward his cage with a slight smile. "I knew you would understand, Spengler."

"It does fit the accommodations," Egon remarked.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "Bet all your lab rats get places as nice as this."

"Or even nicer," responded Egon, "if somewhat less roomy."

"I just hope the food's better here. Those pellets give me indigestion."

"And you know this how--?"

"The experiment begins today," said Ulster, as if they hadn't spoken.

"Oh, goodie," Peter muttered, leaning back against his braced arms and trying his damnedest to look and sound casual. "Does that mean we'll get back in time to pick up our awards, if the offices are open Saturdays? We didn't get a chance to tell them what came up." Though they must have figured it out--what day was it, anyway? How long had they been out?

Long enough, he knew. By now Ray and Winston would have realized something was wrong. They'd be searching with every available resource. They might not know what had happened, but they were smart. Ray could use a meter to track them if they were in range, and Winston knew Ulster had been around. They'd put two and two together and come looking.

He and Egon only had to manage that long. And the more he talked, the longer he might postpone Ulster's plans. "You know, this wasn't a great way to get into the university's good graces. Bureaucracies hate having their schedules disrupted. When they find out it was your fault they couldn't reward their distinguished graduates--well, I wouldn't want to be the one facing Dean--"

"The first test requires a single subject," Ulster told them, ignoring Peter.

Egon glared down at his old acquaintance, arms crossed over his chest. "This is illegal," he reminded the other scientist, in the tone one would use to chastise disobedient children. "The only human subjects one may use in scientific research are volunteers. We do not volunteer."

"Yeah," Peter chimed in. "It will invalidate your study. There's no way you're getting this one by the Board of Ethics, no matter how many jacuzzis you buy them."

"You're assuming I care if my research is accepted."

"Well, I'm guessing you're not doing it for our health." He didn't like how easily Ulster was maintaining his calm. He especially didn't like the way the scientist looked back and forth between him and Egon, not only listening, but evaluating. A single subject required... "Don't tell me you've finally got a hobby. There's lots of entertainment psychologically healthier than S&M, you know. I could show you some--"

"This isn't entertainment. Nor is it revenge, as you were speculating." Ulster turned to Egon, then back to Peter. "Incidentally, Dr. Venkman, I would have pursued Dr. Spengler had he tried to run. Of course I didn't want witnesses, but more importantly I needed two subjects. You were convenient."

Two subjects. They had that comfort, at least. Ray and Winston had been left out of this.

"Always glad to be of service," Peter replied with heavy sarcasm. "So you were listening to us; that is a camera, then?" He had spotted the glitter of a round dark lens in the far ceiling corner. "Voyeurism, too. Kenny boy, I'm willing to give you half rates on therapy if your insurance doesn't cover it. You need it, bad."

"Peter," Egon said, his admonishing tone sharper than usual. As if he had only just realized what the psychologist was attempting.

Ulster seemed unaffected, however. Insults didn't often penetrate that thick skull. The scientist glanced at his caged fellow. "Hasn't changed much, has he, Spengler?"

"No," Egon sighed, meeting Peter's eyes through the space and bars separating them. He plead silently, not even needing to mouth the words when his expression was so eloquent: Don't antagonize him; don't try to spark his temper.

Don't draw his attention. Sorry, Egon. No can do, not with the way he's looking at you. "Guess it's endemic, then, because you're the same old bastard I remember, too, Kenny. So what are you experimenting with here? Since we know what you're experimenting on--or do you usually keep space aliens in these cages, and we're just a special exception?"

"Drug therapy," Ulster said.

It took Peter a couple of seconds to realize the scientist had given a straight answer to his question. He had been prepared for more of a run-around, Ulster enjoying the power he had over them; these matter-of-fact responses were even more disturbing. And the explanation itself--

"Drugs, huh? The kind at CVS, the kind in hospitals, or the kind you pick up on the street at two hundred dollars a baggie?"

"None of the above," Egon said flatly. "Am I correct, Dr. Ulster?"

"It's good to know that over-exposure to Dr. Venkman hasn't dulled your wits too much, Spengler," Ulster replied.

"At least I'm still a scientist, rather than an entrepreneur," the physicist shot back.

Peter saw Ulster's eyes flash as he slowly turned again to Egon. His voice was colder than before. "I am always a scientist."

"Selling your services out to the highest bidder," Egon replied, his bass just as icy. "You didn't build these cages for us; you've done this before. Who do you work for, a mega-corporation? The government--of what country?"

"The source of my funding doesn't matter," said Ulster. "The work does. We'll proceed with the experiment now." He didn't issue a command, but somebody must have been monitoring their conversation because the door opened again. A broad-shouldered man all in black, from his boots to his buzz cut, marched in. He had a holstered gun on his belt and Peter guessed he was a guard; he didn't look like a typical lab assistant, at any rate. No white coat or glasses. In his hands, he bore a square silver tray with a bottle of spring water.

Peter caught Egon's eye. "What do you know, room service! There may be hope for this hotel after all."

"I wouldn't rate it more than one star," the physicist replied.

Ulster made no comment, looking from one cage to the other thoughtfully. The black-clad man was also silent, standing like a statue, gaze fixed steadily forward. Peter pushed himself to his feet, craned his neck to get a better look at the tray over Ulster's shoulder. Besides the bottle there was a clear stoppered flask of a violet liquid, a narrow brown cylinder, and a plastic-wrapped hypodermic. All glittered sterilely in the florescent light, mirrored in the polished tray.

Biting the edge of his lip, Peter fought back a sudden surge of panic. This was serious. Ulster wasn't playing a game here; he wasn't merely trying to scare them. He had an experiment and they were his subjects, to be afforded as much clemency as any guinea pigs. It was an effort to keep his tone flippant, when he couldn't tear his eyes away from that metal tray. "So what are we looking at? New type of aspirin or the cure for the common cold? You're only working for the greater good, am I right?"

"I doubt it, Peter," Egon said. "Scientists care about the pursuit of knowledge for beneficial ends, but mercenaries only do what they're instructed."

Ulster's brow lowered and Peter glared at Egon. The physicist had picked up entirely too many of his tricks over the years; usually Peter was the one who could get under folk's skin. If Egon continued pushing this way, Ulster might grow angry enough to do something about him.

Which might be what Egon had in mind, but it sure the hell wasn't Peter's plan, and the psychologist was used to controlling these types of situations. "So what are you testing? I don't like signing up until I know what I'm getting into. Examining side effects or mortality rates or what?"

"It's fairly simple," Ulster told them. He lifted the brown cylinder from the tray--a prescription drug bottle, Peter realized, unlabelled but for a white number stenciled on the side. "This is the substance under investigation. It's a derivative of lysergic acid diethylamide."

"LSD," Peter murmured. While he didn't remember most chemical terms for psychoactive drugs, that one he recognized. Words falling from a suddenly dry mouth, "Hallucinogens, then. For sale or private use? So this is how you get your weekend kicks. I knew there was a reason people went into biochemistry--"

"Hardly." Ulster seemed more amused than insulted. "Unlike you, Dr. Venkman, I believe in science as an end in itself, not as an excuse to pick up women or attend college for the parties. There is a specific goal to these experiments, which you will help us achieve. To begin, we must ascertain the basic effects of this," and he shook the bottle slightly. Its dull rattle echoed off the gray walls. "It doesn't always work the same way; we must adjust the dosage for every individual."

Egon was right. He had done this before, how many times...with different drugs, perhaps, or different purposes. What was his goal now? What effect was this particular substance supposed to have?

Not anything fun, Peter knew. Ulster hadn't specifically chosen the two of them just to give them a good time. Recreational drugs, other than alcohol, had never been his preference; even at the wildest frat parties, he had stuck to beer and left the experimenters alone. He didn't take cold medicine if he could avoid it; he hated the drowsiness, the feeling that his body was out of his control, and worse, his mind. He hadn't been smashed since college because he had found he disliked being intoxicated; he had drunk with the best of them, but his tolerance was high enough that he had always stayed aware of where he was, what he was doing.

The memory of his single experience with hallucinogens made his skin crawl, when he looked at the bottle between Ulster's fingers. Then he looked past the scientist and saw Egon's pale face, his eyes also focused on the brown cylinder.

Egon never had been a partier, and though when Peter was sick he might force medication on him, the physicist himself preferred his mother's remedies over conventional drugs. He valued his mind, his brilliance, clear rational thought, over nearly anything. If losing control over those thoughts disturbed Peter, it terrified Egon; the worst nightmare he could imagine.

Ulster must understand this. And he couldn't miss the fear in his former colleague's eyes. Yet he ignored it, impersonally deliberating between them with all the compassion he'd show two equal specimens in a petri dish.

That he and Egon could be so reduced in this so-called scientist's eyes filled him with a rage so fierce his clenched fists shook. Peter fought back the tide, drew a breath and forced himself to speak calmly. Emotional displays wouldn't help their case, and there was a lot at stake here. Too much to let his hatred get the best of him. "You need only one subject, right? I--"

"I volunteer," Egon interrupted him quietly. "I--"

"I volunteer," Peter cut him off, kept talking to prevent the physicist from arguing his case. "Whatever you've got there, I'd be the better choice for it. Like you said, I have some experience with this kind of stuff. And I'm a psychologist--I can give an honest evaluation of my experiences, give you a handle on my mental state. I'm game for it. I'll be able to handle it better than him," nodding toward Egon.

Ulster cocked his head with a faint smile. "So you're volunteers after all?"

"We have no choice," Egon growled. Peter glanced at him, wondering if he had ever heard that tone in his friend's voice before. He usually kept his cool better than that, far better than Peter ever could manage. "But you're making the decision, and I suggest that I am the better candidate--"

"Don't let him bullshit you, Kenny," Peter said. "You know how he can be--you worked with him long enough. He can reason anything, but it doesn't mean he's right."

"Peter--"

"I concede your point, Dr. Venkman," Ulster allowed. "And for this you're correct--you are the better choice. Don't worry, Spengler; you'll be needed in the later phases of the experiments. For the beginning, though..." Unscrewing the cap, he shook the contents of the medicine bottle into his hand. "Dr. Venkman, if necessary we will inject you, but we would prefer to observe the effects when taken orally."

Peter licked his lips. In the corner of his eye he could see Egon watching them with a sort of horrified intensity, barely shaking his head in wordless denial. "Orally's fine," he said. "Beats needles any day." He stuck out his hand through the bars and Ulster dropped a pair of capsules into his palm, then handed him the bottled water.

The pills were lavender, tiny oblong ellipses. They looked no different than a doctor's prescription and weighed next to nothing. Peter eyed the small forms, thinking of how easy it would be to palm them, pretend to swallow and fake his reactions. It would help if he had some idea what his reactions were supposed to be, of course...

"We'll take blood tests later," Ulster remarked, as if following his thoughts. "If you don't swallow now, we'll simply inject you then, but the chances of an accidental overdose will be higher."

Higher? How much higher, and how much later would they take the tests? Should he try it, anyway? Ray and Winston were coming, he had no doubts about that. But how long before they arrived, that he couldn't say; how far would this experiment progress? If he cooperated now, acted the willing subject, later he might have more of an opening, a better chance of catching them off-guard and escaping. Only two pills, not a full dose in the beginning, just a trial run. Ulster wasn't trying to kill them, it seemed. Just getting his experiments done.

Peter uncapped the water, took a swig. Refreshing, untainted; what would be the point of drugging the water? "Sure these should be taken on an empty stomach, Kenny?"

"It's best that way," Ulster told him. "For yourself as well as for our observations."

"Got it." He looked across the way, met Egon's eyes and raised the water bottle to him. "Cheers, Spengs. And bottoms up." Popping the capsules in his mouth, he washed them down with another gulp of water. They tasted like nothing, only the bland, plasticky texture of the coating, and they slid down his throat without a catch, vanishing into his stomach. They'd start dissolving as soon as they made it down, swiftly absorbed into his bloodstream, but he couldn't feel it happening, had no way to gauge the drug's progress through his system.

Ulster nodded with satisfaction and took back the water bottle. Without another word, he walked out the door, the guard following with his tray.

Egon looked to Peter, lines of anger still etched into his face. "You took them, didn't you? You shouldn't have--"

"I should've made them jab me? I've never liked shots, Egon."

"You shouldn't have volunteered," the physicist said. "I could have as easily--"

"Nope." Peter shook his head. "We need you to think of an escape plan. Doesn't do us any good if your brain is scrambled."

"Ulster didn't choose you to keep me thinking clearly," Egon angrily refuted. "You were deliberately provoking him--"

"Me? What were you doing, trying to make up? Gotta work on those people skills, big guy. To me it looked like you were deliberately pissing him off." Leaning against the bars, he slid down to the floor again and crossed his legs.

"Peter?" All the ire fled Egon's voice, leaving only anxious concern. "Peter, are you--? Do you feel--?"

He turned back toward his friend. "I feel fine." Egon had crouched to match his eye level, face wan, peering at him through the bars of their cages. Peter reassured him, "I don't think anything's happening yet. Hey, what do you think the chances are that it was a placebo? Ulster's just playing us along to see our reactions, and there wasn't anything in those capsules?"

"Possible," Egon granted. "But unlikely. He knows you're a psychologist, and that we'd think of such a test. That would ruin the effect, correct?"

"If I don't believe anything would happen? Yeah." Peter closed his eyes, inspected himself from the inside--internal diagnostic, just like a machine. Headache and nausea both nearly gone, leaving him a little hungry. The room temperature was average, neither too cold nor too hot, and there were no drafts against his skin. No sounds, except their breathing and the faint hum of the florescent lights. Everything felt normal.

How would he know if it didn't; would he even notice? He might not; sometimes hallucinators were aware of the unreality of what they saw, and sometimes they weren't. There were so many different types, auditory, visual, tactile, heightened sensations, distorted perceptions, not to mention accompanying states like hyperactivity and paranoia. Would he recognize any of them, or would they all seem natural when they came, real?

Egon would recognize them. Egon would be unaffected; he could tell reality from fantasy, and Peter could trust him to know the difference. Peter could trust what Egon told him, always. He clung to that desperately and wondered if it could be taken from him, could that trust be torn from his mind, and would Egon forgive him if it were...

Opening his eyes again, he met Egon's gaze, behind the glasses drawn and worried. "I feel fine," he repeated, hesitated and went on, "Spengs, did I ever tell you I did a hallucinogen?"

"What?" Egon's eyes went round, flashing with renewed anger.

"It was an experiment. No, not like that. Or this." Peter rapped his knuckles against a bar. "Remember my studies on lucid dreaming? There're parallels between a dream and an hallucinatory state. I made some observations at parties and wanted to test it firsthand. It was in a controlled setting, I took a small dose of a mild substance, nothing like LSD. It wasn't illegal, I got a prescription."

"We had been friends for several years when you did those studies," Egon said irately, "and you never mentioned this."

Wincing, "Yeah, you can see why. I knew how you'd react. Don't worry, I wasn't tempted to try anything like that again." Peter fell silent, resting his chin on his bent knees as he thought back to the experiment. He had enlisted Ray's assistance, to observe that night in case something did go wrong. Ray had been enough in awe of him back then that Peter had convinced him to keep it from Egon. Wouldn't work now, though of course if he wanted to try something so dumb now, he would tell Egon. The physicist had learned a little more patience with him, and wouldn't stop him unless his concerns truly warranted it. Peter knew he could trust him in that as well as everything else.

Egon's thoughts might have taken a similar track; at any rate he was calm when he spoke again. "So what happened?"

Peter shivered, knew it was a futile wish that Egon had missed the reaction. When he looked over, his friend was watching him intently again, the worry in his expression only heightened. He took a deep breath, released it and tried to banish the memories. Nightmares walking abroad from the darkness of his unconscious-- "A bad trip, Spengs. Really bad."

And it hadn't been that much. Only a few milligrams, and not whatever had been in those purple capsules, whatever was snaking through his blood now, streaming toward his brain. Would he know it when it hit, or had it hit already? Were the lights brighter or was that only his imagination? He thought he could hear his heart beating, and another pulse echoing it, but that might only be in his mind. No way to know the difference.

He swallowed, suddenly reached his hand through the bars, stretching out toward the other cage. Egon responded instantly, extending his own arm. Their hands clasped in the middle, Egon threading his fingers through his friend's and squeezing with reassuring pressure. Peter felt the warmth of his skin and knew that touch at least was real.

"Egon?" he whispered, and blue eyes met his, fiery, but not with rage. Just beyond the edge of his vision, sparks danced and snapped. When he twisted his head toward them, they vanished. Not a placebo. He wanted to say something about them, something glib and reassuring, dismissing their unreality, so Egon would know he wasn't convinced by them, that he still was in control, aware. But his tongue felt thick and he couldn't find the words.

Egon's grip tightened around his hand and he hung on for all he was worth, as if he were falling from a cliff and this hold would save him. "Peter?" he heard Egon ask, but his mouth didn't seem to move in time with the word, sight and sound dividing.

"Egon, I'm scared," he muttered, hopefully too quietly to be picked up by Ulster's watching camera. It was an admission only for his friend, because he wouldn't use it against him, because he would understand. He wondered if his words emerged at the same time he worked his lips, or were they too out of synch, and would Egon even hear them.

Egon did, because he replied in a deep murmur, issuing from his still white face, "So am I."

And then Peter fell.

Despite having gotten to bed well past midnight, Winston arose early, with the sun. He was the last one in the firehall up, however, since the only other person around was Ray, and Winston doubted Ray had slept at all.

He found his friend in the study, checking e-mail on their main computer. Ray looked up at the footsteps on the stair and attempted to smile. "Good morning."

"'Morning," Winston replied, squinting over him at the screen. "Get anything?"

"No." Ray sank down in the chair. "No phone calls, either. I hoped..."

"We're gonna find them," Winston assured him. No doubts there; they couldn't afford them.

Last night hadn't been one to inspire confidence. Upon discovering the misplaced pack and the missing uniforms, Ray had wasted no time in resetting a PKE meter to scan for biorhythms. They had driven around the campus for hours, trying to pick up a trace, the faintest signal of their friends' presence. Campus security had joined the search, anxious to avoid the embarrassment of losing their celebrated alumni. If Peter or Egon had been within a couple of miles, even injured or unconscious, at a party or hiding in the audience, they would have found them.

They hadn't. And the two missing men hadn't taken Ecto-1, so unless they had called a cab, or Ulster had driven...where would they have gone, when they knew the ceremony was coming?

That was assuming Kenneth Ulster had anything to do with this. Winston had seen him with their friends, but the Ghostbusters had a lot of enemies, mostly supernatural, some human. Any one of them could have picked last night to act, take them down at the height of their popularity. Though why he and Ray would be ignored...

A nagging voice in the back of his head kept murmuring, what was the good of revenge if your victims didn't suffer? Together they were too formidable for their foes; together they could handle just about anything, and had proved it multiple times. Apart...

Apart they were still a force to be reckoned with. Winston pitied the fool who took on Egon and Peter; both his teammates were stubborn, smart, resourceful men. Egon could outthink anyone on the planet, Winston was firmly convinced, given all their chess games; and Peter, well, anyone who abducted Dr. Venkman was biting off more than they could chew. Pete could talk his way out of just about anything, and annoy his way out of the rest. And if that didn't work, he had a mean right hook. All of which Ulster knew--

"Do you think we can call the police yet?" Ray disrupted his thoughts.

Winston shook his head. "Not yet. They won't put out an APB until they're gone for twenty-four hours." Twenty-four hours--twenty-four hours ago they had all been asleep, getting their rest before a big day. Now... "We'll call tonight, if we haven't found them by then."

Neither he nor Ray even considered the possibility that nothing had happened, that Peter and Egon had decided to skip the ceremony and pursue their own affairs. Alone, he could see either of them so distracted, but what would interest Egon wouldn't matter nearly so much to Peter, and what Peter might pursue wouldn't affect Egon. There had been no signs of supernatural activity on the campus, but whatever had happened to them didn't have to have been supernatural.

It went beyond logic, though. Ray had been upset before it became clear they weren't just running late. Winston had noticed that in his teammates before, an almost uncanny awareness of one another. They would complete each other's sentences, and often they knew without being told where the others were, what they were up to. Old friends could be like that, because of their long familiarity with one another's habits. But his buddies were different. If one of them were in trouble, the others knew. It happened on busts; when someone was cornered, they'd all come running, even if he hadn't had a chance to call for help.

That included Winston. He had realized sometime back that whatever it was they had between them had transferred onto him as well. Egon had once suggested, in an off-hand tone that might have been joking but probably wasn't, that their repeated exposure to psycho-kinetic energies gave them marginally telepathic abilities; maybe that had rubbed off on him. Because right now he knew precisely why Ray was climbing the walls. He felt it, too, an uneasiness, like a lump in his throat that couldn't be swallowed.

Some of the disturbance in his gut was hunger, he suspected. "Hey, Ray, have you eaten yet this morning?" When his friend shook his head, Winston took his arm and hauled him out of the chair. "Come on, I'll make breakfast."

After a final e-mail check, Ray followed him to the kitchen, where Winston whipped up a batch of pancakes. From scratch, not a mix, the way his mother did them; he didn't care one way or another, and Peter wasn't here to thank him for the effort, but at least it gave him something to do. Flour, eggs, milk, baking powder; measure, stir, and pour the mixture onto the griddle. While it didn't help their missing friends any, it was better than nothing.

That was the problem. If they had gotten a PKE reading of Class 9 on the campus and a ransom demand from Gozer's first cousin, Ray wouldn't be sitting at the table with his chin in his hands and his elbows on the place mat. He'd be tearing through Egon's lab, throwing together a device that could take on the whole Netherworld; he wouldn't have stopped until he'd found them, to hell with the odds.

This, though--they hadn't even started, not knowing where, or how, or even who. Ghosts, goblins, demons, the Ghostbusters could handle it, no problem. But the complete disappearance of half the team...

So Winston made breakfast, even if Ray was equally uninterested in pancakes. He emptied the maple syrup over his serving, but his attention was on the phone, staring as if he could make it ring by sheer willpower.

Winston sighed; even if it did, it wouldn't be Peter and Egon. They both knew it. Wishing wouldn't do any good--they had to act. Treat this as a mystery and try to solve it, ghosts or no ghosts. Ray would do better for the distraction, even if they didn't accomplish anything. Winston stuck his head in front of the phone and asked, "Ray, how well did you know this Ken Ulster?"

Blinking, Ray refocused on him. "A little, I guess. Not much. He wasn't Egon's friend anymore, by the time I started hanging around with him and Peter." While the topic was the same, his tone was entirely different from the enthusiastic chatter with which he had described their college days yesterday.

"And you didn't get along with him," Winston encouraged.

Ray shook his head. "Kenny--Ken didn't like the occult." A small smile crossed his lips. "He didn't like being called Kenny much, either, so that was all Peter ever used. I was there the first time Egon called him that, by accident, I think--Ken was furious. He didn't get angry very often...he could be cruel even when he wasn't mad." Ray's eyes dropped to his orange juice. "He thought I was a bad influence on Egon, because I was so excited about the supernatural I interested Egon in it. Egon believed in some of it already, but he hadn't been encouraged to learn about it. Peter drew him into the parapsychology, the psychic aspects, but I was the one who got him into the supernatural, the ghosts and all. Peter didn't believe in any of that, until he saw it."

"Pete as a skeptic. I can imagine it, maybe, but I can't see it."

"Until he saw a ghost, he thought I was crazy. He was my friend, and he defended me against Kenny and anyone else, but he thought I was nuts." Ray flashed a nearly-normal grin. "He still does, of course, me and Egon both. Peter's convinced you and he are the only sane ones around here...and he's not too sure about you."

Sobering just as fast, before Winston could form a comeback, he lowered his gaze again to his plate. "Ken thought I was bad for Egon's scientific career, and he thought Peter was even worse, because Peter was always dragging Egon out of the lab to parties and things, whenever he could get away with it. But that was years ago, and Egon and Ken haven't seen each other for a while, I don't think."

"They hadn't," Winston confirmed, remembering their hesitation identifying him.

Ray frowned. "Why would Ken try something now? When I knew him, he wasn't very nice. Peter used to call him the SOB as much as 'Kenny.' But he never hurt anyone; he was too busy with his research. And after this long..."

Of course Ray would doubt it. Ray saw evil in ghosts and demons and goblins, and faced them all unfazed. But when confronted with the possibility of evil in human form, he retreated; no matter what people had put him through in the past, he was forever an optimist, willing and ready to see the best sides of people. It was one of his greatest qualities, and one of his most dangerous, and Winston was never quite sure how to handle such experienced and determined innocence.

The phone rang. Ray was out of his chair before the sound registered in Winston's ears, across the kitchen and grabbing the receiver before it could ring a second time. "Hello, Ghostbuster Central--"

A pause as the other person spoke, and then his shoulders slumped. "No, I'm sorry, I have no comment. We don't know. I'm sorry, yes, I'll be willing later--we don't have anything." Hanging up with a curt goodbye, he leaned against the counter. "That was the Herald."

The press. Of course. Several news crews and a covey of reporters had been at the ceremony last night; the Ghostbusters, especially Peter, were popular with the media, and even when not busting ghosts they were a hot ticket. Their absence hadn't gone unnoticed, and a few reporters had caught Winston and Ray making the rounds of the campus, searching.

Ray had handled it remarkably well; Winston had trouble stopping himself from punching out the more obnoxious members of the press, but Ray had kept patient, neither denying nor confirming anything. He hadn't specifically mislead them, but somehow they had gotten the impression that the Ghostbusters were on a special emergency assignment, and Peter and Egon were separated for that reason. When the police started searching, it might help to have the media on their side, but until then they'd only be in the way.

"We'll need to call Janine," Ray remarked, lifting his head to the phone again. "If she sees on the news..."

Winston winced. No, that wouldn't go over well. "We can call her tonight, when we call the police. She's still on vacation until Monday--"

"She'll come back for this," Ray said. Absolutely true, especially since Egon was one of the missing--but Janine would return for any of them, even Peter. Winston wouldn't be surprised if she were aware even now that something was wrong; she was part of their circle, and that instinctual awareness affected her as well.

"So what now?" he asked aloud, and offered his own answer when Ray wasn't forthcoming. "The only lead we have so far is Kenneth Ulster. Why don't we investigate him, find out what he's doing now, where he's living, where he works? He wasn't invited to the dinner or the ceremony, but he must have had a reason for coming."

Other than to abduct their friends. Which, of course, they had no proof of, only circumstantial evidence, a sighting and an abandoned proton pack. Not enough to construct a case against anyone, he had read enough murder mysteries to know that. But they had nothing else to go on. He nudged Ray.

"Come on, homeboy, you're a scientist. You must know how to find other scientists. Aren't there directories or something?"

Ray considered this, brightened marginally. "Yeah, there are. There're also science journals. If he's published anything recently, it'll give his address. And we can look him up on the Internet; if he's a professor anywhere he's probably listed." Energized by the possibilities, he bounded up the stairs to the lab computer, Winston trailing after him.

He had had an uncomfortable thought. If this were Ulster, and it was some kind of revenge plot, then Ray would most likely be on his hit list as well. The three of them, all his enemies...

Winston didn't plan on letting Ray out of his sight for a minute. Two of his best friends had vanished; he had no intention of allowing the third to be nabbed as well, not if there was anything he could do about it.

There was an unconscious corollary to this, that it might already be too late for the other two, that there might not be anything they could do. Murder had been motivated by revenge before. He never would have said it aloud, but he had no need to, as it was. He had seen that fear in Ray's eyes, a terror so great that he might not even be consciously aware of it. If Egon and Peter had gone somewhere that they couldn't return...it would rip Winston apart from the inside out. What it would do to Ray was unfathomable.

If Ulster was behind this, no matter what the circumstances, Winston wanted him. The bastard was hurting his friends, and he wondered if whatever he was putting Egon and Peter through could match what Ray was undergoing, not knowing. Ray's imagination was enough to make this torture; for that alone Ulster would pay. If there was more...

But meanwhile he had two friends to find and another who needed his support, and that was far more important than anger or vengeance. Winston hung over Ray's shoulder, watching the computer screen as he ran the searches, offering what help he could and hoping it would be enough.

Egon had experienced living nightmares before. The Boogieman, when he was young, and later, demons of the likes of Watt and Tolay, demigods like Gozer, all manner of ghosts and terrors. They were his job, to face them, fight them, defeat them. Only a foolish man denied his fear, and Egon was never that; he had been afraid before, and withstood it.

But none of those horrors had frightened him like this one; none of those nightmares tore his soul like this. He gripped the bars of his cage so tightly his fingers were numb, but human strength couldn't part them, no matter the will behind it. Would that he were a ghost, to pass through them--but he was living flesh, and trapped.

He didn't know how long it had been; he who had never needed a clock to make his appointments on time had lost all sense of time in this windowless room, the florescent lights unchanging overhead, bright and steady. Perhaps it had been an hour, perhaps two. It felt like two lifetimes or more, an eternity, and in that eon, he had watched, unable to do any more, while Peter Venkman alone descended into hell.

At first it had seemed passable. When the drug had first tickled the edges of his mind, he had been aware of it, aware of Egon. Through the bars they had grasped one another's hands, and Egon had felt how cold his friend's skin was, had heard the slight tremor in his voice as he admitted his fear. He had scarcely sounded like Peter, and the admission was not one he would usually make, but he was still present.

Quite calmly, he had described the onset of the hallucinations, for Ulster, as he had promised, and also for his own sake, so Egon could assure him of what was real and what was not. Visual and audio, flashes and distant whispers. Peter's fingers had tightened around his until it was painful, but he had only squeezed the harder for it, determined not to let go, giving him at least that real contact. Through that touch, he had felt Peter tremble as invisible creatures brushed against him, through his clothing--"I feel it, Egon, it's not real, they're not real, but I feel them..."

He had tried to pull away, but Egon kept holding on, talking soothingly, a meaningless stream of nonsense, trying to scientifically make sense of what was senseless, perceptions with no basis in reality, except in Peter's mind. Reminding him of what was happening to him, assuring him that it would pass, that he would be all right--he didn't know what to say. Peter was the psychologist; he had some knowledge of this, but it was locked away inside his mind, and his mind was under siege.

Then the visions began taking form, not merely confusion, but actual illusions. Peter mumbled about ghosts, a haunting, clouded green eyes fixed on a point near the ceiling, his hand slack in Egon's.

"What do you see?" Egon pressed, but Peter shook his head, "No--I'm sorry--I can't help you--" and didn't answer, tears leaking from the corners of his wide eyes.

"Peter, please..." Egon had tightened his grip, trying to draw his attention, and then Peter had screamed, wrenched his hand free and rocketed backwards to the opposite side of cage, digging his back into the bars as if trying to force his wiry form through them. His hands flew up to shield his face from an imperceptible attack, and all the while he shouted, at first almost intelligibly for help, but that faded into a wordless wail, neither a human nor an animal cry, interrupted by sobs for breath and dying as he lost his voice.

Egon didn't know what he saw, what nightmares came roaring to life from his unconscious mind. There were more than enough to choose from in their line of work, though Peter was rarely frightened by anything they encountered, beyond the initial panic response. He tended literally to laugh in the face of danger, joke in the darkest crises; he kept them calm in the worst situations.

He wasn't laughing now. Whatever he was experiencing was so terrifying as to split all reason from him--or was that the drug, causing not only the visions but the terror as well? He couldn't fight them. He had tried at first, but had been swept along by the power of his own twisted thoughts. Demons, Egon thought he had heard him say. And insects, running over his skin, clawing at him with tiny dry legs and pinching mandibles. Peter had never liked insects.

And other fears as well, because Egon had heard him call their names a single time, hoarsely, after the shouting had drained him. "Egon? Winston? Ray?" Soft and ragged, heartbreaking in its longing. He had never heard that note Peter's voice before, desperate, hopeless.

"I'm here, Peter," he had said. "It's Egon. I haven't left, I promise. I'm right here..." But Peter hadn't heard, and there was no way reach him through the distance separating their cages.

Now Peter huddled in the far corner, head between his knees, panting as if every breath were a struggle. His hair hung over his face, black with sweat. He hadn't made a sound in too long, not a word or even a moan; but his eyes were open, green through the dark strands.

Egon's throat was dry and his mind was empty, but he forced his voice to work. "Peter?" No movement from his friend, no way of knowing if the other man could hear him at all, or react if he did. Egon talked regardless, searching his pale face for any response, the slightest flicker of awareness in that blank emerald stare. "You're going to be fine, Peter, you'll be all right. You were drugged, by Ulster. It's an experiment, I don't know what they're testing, but it's wearing off now, I think." So he hoped, prayed. "You're going to be okay."

This wasn't Peter, he couldn't help but think; only his friend's body, while his mind, his spirit, was gone, fled so far within that only autonomous functions remained. Still breathing, heart still beating, but his thoughts were locked away, unexpressed by voice or action. Inside himself, with only the nightmares. Peter was strong, the strongest Egon knew, but how could he take that, with nowhere to hide, and alone... He couldn't reach Peter. His fingers couldn't even touch his friend's cell, let alone his hunched form curled against the far side.

There had to be a way to reach him all the same, if not physically, then through his voice, talking him out, drawing him from this terrible lost dream-state back to conscious awareness.

"Peter, please listen to me, answer me if you can. You're not alone, I'm here. I know how frightening it must be, but it's all in your mind, there's nothing to be afraid of. Whatever you see, it can't hurt you, not if you don't let it." It wasn't working, he wasn't getting through; he didn't know if Peter could even hear him, let alone listen. His voice nearly cracked, stuttering as he tried to reassure, "I won't let--won't let anything harm you. Whatever you're seeing, I won't allow it to hurt you..."

It wasn't precisely false, for whatever existed only in his mind couldn't hurt his body; but it was far from true. Egon couldn't protect his friend from more of this. Though he would do all he could, it wouldn't be enough, not if Ulster returned. The lie curdled his stomach.

But Peter responded, his head lifting fractionally, and the green eyes focused, finding him. Egon stared back, afraid he might be imagining it, misinterpreting the motion.

"Peter--"

No voice came, but the pale lips moved, and he read the silent words, Thank you. One hand loosened its hold around his knees and reached toward him, trembling with fatigue, fingers dangling limp as if the effort to extend them were too great.

Shaking his head blindly, Egon stretched out his own hand; it didn't matter if he couldn't reach, that he made the effort was enough that the corners of Peter's mouth turned up. So tiny an expression, nothing like his usual grin, but it was Peter's, and through the exhaustion and the passing terror in his gaze, Egon could see a hint of the life that defined his friend. It was over, the worst of it at least, and he had survived it, somehow come to terms with the visions and risen above them.

Egon opened his mouth to speak, but Peter, as he so often did, beat him to it. His whisper rattled in his hoarse throat, and it was a strain to hear it, but the words were carefully enunciated. "Glad it wasn't you..." Then his head slumped to the side as if it were too heavy to support, eyes fluttering closed.

Egon watched him breathe, slowly, like sleep, though too shallowly. He called Peter's name, but his friend never stirred; his respiration seemed steady, at least. With no other options, Egon sank from his crouch to sit heavily on the floor, pressing his forehead against the bars of the cage. Closing his eyes, he stared into the blackness behind his lids and tried to focus on more productive thoughts, hypothesizing on the purpose of this experiment, planning escape. But even with his eyes shut against distractions, it was nearly impossible to concentrate when the only sound he was aware of was the faintest rasp of his friend's breaths.

He was not aware of dozing off, but he must have, because when he next looked up Kenneth Ulster stood over him, gray eyes narrowed speculatively.

Pushing himself away from the cool bars, Egon looked past the doctor into the other cell. Peter was curled in the corner on his side, arms loosely wrapped around his knees, drawn up to his chest. He was not moving and his too-white face was tight, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut. As Egon watched, he trembled once, tightened his grip around his legs.

At that proof of life, the physicist sank back against the bars, unable to prevent the sigh of relief which escaped him, blinking back water welling up in the corners of his eyes.

His glasses didn't hide the tears, however. Hearing a snort, he raised his gaze to Ulster.

"What happened to you, Spengler?" the other scientist demanded. "You used to be the best, the brightest. And you didn't let your emotions get the best of you. You used to be better than that. Mind over heart, reason over instinct. We're men, not animals."

"Some of us are," Egon shot back, glaring through his lenses up at his former colleague. "Others of us would be vastly improved if they possessed the scruples of a weasel." He half-hoped the sound of his voice would awaken Peter, but there was no response from his friend.

Ulster followed his gaze, sneered, "What'd he do to you? I never knew what you saw in him, Spengler, but when you started hanging around with him... You thought you could be a good influence, maybe? But he corrupted you, instead. You should've stayed with me, we could've accomplished great things together."

"In a place like this? With men in cages?" snapped Egon. "Maybe he 'corrupted' me, as you say, but I was no fan of torture even before I met Peter Venkman."

"It's not torture," the other doctor said. "There's no sadism involved. I may not like the man, but I don't care what happens to him one way or another. All that matters is the work. If he dies, that tells us something; if he lives, that tells us something as well. Either way, it advances knowledge; I have no personal stake in it. You used to understand--this is science, Spengler. The pursuit of knowledge."

"There are things more important than science," Egon whispered, watching Peter in the other cell, focusing on his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

"Such as? Fame? Money? Women?" Ulster rolled his eyes. "What has he convinced you? He never cared about science, not as much as he cared about his own pleasure. Don't tell me he taught you to be a hedonist as well. You were an aesthetic, Spengler; you were far better than that."

"I'm a better man now than I was then," Egon told him wearily, not trying to argue, only affirming it for himself. Even as he said it, he knew how true it was. And not only because he was someone important, someone halfway famous, and not only because he had made valuable scientific discoveries, broken ground into whole new areas of study. But because of who he was now, and who his friends were.

"You're a far worse scientist," Ulster replied, as if it were the most heinous insult he could conceive of. "I hope you can control yourself well enough not to get hurt, or should we restrain you?"

Egon frowned up at him. "Why?"

"Because we're taking your 'friend' now," the scientist said. He motioned and two burly black-clothed guards, both different that the one who had brought the tray before, came forward. One stood watch while the other produced a key and unlocked the door to Peter's cell.

Exhausted as he was, Egon shot to his feet as if yanked by strings. "No, what are you doing? Where are you taking him?"

"It doesn't matter," Ulster remarked. "You aren't part of this experiment, Spengler, and there's nothing you can do."

Egon tried to slow his breathing, speak rationally for all the shrieking in his mind. "Then it would hardly affect your results if you told me what you planned."

"Just as it wouldn't have any effect if I didn't waste the time to tell you." Ulster gestured the guard. He entered, crouched by the prone man and poked his back interrogatively. Peter shuddered, but made no other motion, eyes still screwed shut. Shrugging, the guard hooked a thick arm under him, heaved him up and draped him over his shoulder in a rough fireman's carry. Peter hung there, limp, as the man marched from the cell.

Egon wrapped his hands around the bars, fighting the urge to push at them; such a display would be a useless waste of energy. He might strain a muscle, but the steel would not give. Ulster saw his white-knuckled grip, and smiled.

Squeezing the bars, Egon visualized the scientist's thick neck under his hands, using the mental image to calm his thoughts and speak coolly. "Ulster, he's already been tested; it would be best to use a new subject so as to not influence your results on this next round of experiments."

"And you offer yourself, hmm?" Ulster shook his head. "Sorry, Spengler, you don't understand the nature of these tests. Venkman is the perfect subject