Goddess Hecate, return me to Part One.
Sam felt self-conscious lingering in front of Straightaways, even though Rashid and Jack casually moved to block him from view when any early morning folks strolled by. Would Murray have warned his neighbors to keep an eye out for Cody, or not?
At least it felt good to be doing something constructive to save Al. Maybe the optimistic attitude of these two demonologists was rubbing off on him, or maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he'd decided Al was probably doing fine in the Netherworld. Sure, he was scared of ghosts--who wouldn't be?--but by now, if he knew his partner, Al had probably seduced some deceased but attractive ghostess. He might even object to being rescued.
At least, that's what he had to keep telling himself.
"Ah! Good girl," Jack murmured. "She's moving them to the other end of the boat, so we can board. Now let's hope she was able to locate the right trap."
Briskly, they moved toward the RIPTIDE. Beside her, the CONTESSA was chugging out of the harbor, her deck laden with bikini-clad crewmembers and middle-aged men in fishing gear.
"Oh, hi, Cody!" chirped a brunette.
Forcing an artificial smile, Sam waved to her, then held a finger to his lips. She looked puzzled, but shrugged and turned back to a bait bucket that had spilled. Luckily, nobody on the RIPTIDE had noticed.
Quietly, they walked toward the cabins, keeping a watchful eye on the group by the bow. Micki had anchored Egon and Murray on each arm, but she had to keep releasing one or the other to reach back and pry Peter Venkman's hand from her hip. It was quite enough to keep anyone from observing three silent figures slipping into a cabin.
Holding his breath, Sam edged down the short flight of stairs to Bozinsky's cabin. When he spotted Micki's purse hanging from the doorknob, he nodded and waved the other two down behind him.
Marshak eased the cabin door shut, then gazed thoughtfully around the cabin, crammed with a big-screen TV, piles of print-outs, and countless electronic gadgets. "This must be the infamous trap. Interesting." He lifted it carefully. "I wonder if it could be modified somehow for our use? You know, this works on the theory that paranormal entities have identifiable PKE readings. If cursed objects also give off emanations...."
"You seem to have plenty of success in tracking down cursed objects without machinery," Rashid observed.
"Mmm. Yes. Well. . . ."
Oblivious, Sam paused to quickly scan the print-outs and spiky, almost illegible handwritten notes strewn around the room. Most seemed to be attempts to explain the strange readings he and Al had produced on the Ghostbusters' equipment, and therefore were useless. Taking a deep breath, he moved on.
Stacked neatly in one corner, on top of a pile of computer magazines, were two proton packs and particle rifles. Sam examined them carefully, concentrating, conscious of time passing too quickly, but not willing to risk their lives by overlooking something.
It was fortunate that he'd kept up-to-date on everything in the field of quantum physics, even having Ziggy summarize the most esoteric journal articles for him when he and Al were absorbed with Project Quantum Leap. With a solid grasp of Egon Spengler's and Ray Stantz's mindsets, and the research he'd done while waiting for Marshak, the actual equipment seemed almost familiar. Sam felt his confidence increasing.
He would have to be sure the modifications would treat their living bodies as similar to ghostly forms, so they would be sucked into the trap and not torn apart molecule by molecule, but it no longer seemed like an impossible dream. Good thing the Boz had all these computers on hand.
As he sat down before a keyboard, Sam held up his hands and arched his fingers, almost like a concert pianist about to perform. Respectfully falling silent, Jack and Rashid moved in to watch him type.
"Well?"
Sam scowled at the screen, modified two equations, arched an eyebrow, and changed one decimal point.
"Will it work?"
"Hmm?" He spun around in the swivel chair, lifting a proton pack and scrutinizing the dials and meters on it.
"We don't have much time, Sam. Will it work?"
"Yes. I can recalibrate this to a setting that will safely absorb a human being." He licked his lips and turned off the computer. "I think."
Rashid removed his fez and slowly, absently, twirled it between his hands. "I would like you to be quite certain. Consider that I am the one to pull the trigger, and it would greatly distress me to kill you."
"It would distress me even more to be killed," Jack rumbled. Experimentally, he held the trap to his ear and shook it, with no apparent result.
Fastidiously, Sam readjusted a setting, squinted at it, then fine-tuned it. "Oh, it's safe. Basically. We don't have time to do a trial run, but I'm willing to go in alone--"
"Nonsense. I'm going with you. Otherwise, how would you and Al get back out?"
"No one's going anywhere."
"Oh, boy."
As one, all three men turned to the stairs, where Murray Bozinsky stood, arms folded, glaring at them. "Look, even I could see that the Foster woman was trying to distract us. Cody, who are these people? What are you doing in here?"
"Uh--"
"I called the Reserves. Nick should've been here yesterday." His voice quavered. "What is going on?"
Marshak gently set the trap down. "We're here to retrieve a cursed object, a helicopter compass, that was apparently placed in the Sikorsky owned by your partner, Nick Ryder. The curse is quite deadly, which explains Mr. Ryder's disappearance. I understand it also produced some unusual readings for the Ghostbusters."
Sam shot him an appreciative glance. Why couldn't he think that fast? On most of his leaps, he was too discombobulated at first to think clearly, let alone to come up with such a clever story.
Murray, however, wasn't having it. "The Mimi wasn't here yesterday, when Egon's readings went haywire," he objected.
"I believe the curse has affected Mr. Allen somewhat."
"Then what are you doing aboard the RIPTIDE? Why aren't you with Dallion, looking for Nick?"
Sam said gently, "When the Ghostbusters fired at me, they accidentally caught someone. We're here to set him free. He's the only one who can give us the exact location of Nick and the Screaming Mimi."
"Caught someone? This is crazy, Cody."
"We've worked with Al on cases before," Marshak offered. "In my line of work--tracking down antiques cursed by the Devil--a sort of supernatural partner is a big asset."
"There's no time. Murray, please, you'll have to just trust me on this; it's Nick's only chance. Ryan's going to try, but there's no way he can find Nick in time without precise directions."
Sam handed the proton pack and particle rifle to Rashid, and stood beside Marshak. The Egyptian murmured something vaguely prayer-like in what sounded like Arabic.
"You're not going anywhere without me."
"No. Murray, this is dangerous. You don't know anything about the paranormal."
"Oh, and you do?" His face was drawn, nearly as white as a print-out, but his chin was thrust out in the familiar Bozinsky `I'm-not-moving-an-inch-even-if-the-Pentagon-fires-rockets' expression. "Nick is missing, and you're about to do something dangerous, and I'm not going to be left out of it. We're partners, Cody, and don't you forget it."
Marshak shrugged. "We don't have time to waste arguing with him. Let him come."
"No one else!" Rashid broke off in mid-prayer. "The strain of returning all of you--"
"No one else. Keep an eye on us, Rashid."
He hesitated, holding the rifle stiffly, as if it were something distasteful. Murray stalked to Sam's side, bristling.
"Oh, come on, now, don't tell me you're going to fire that thing at--"
Rashid blurted, "The Power of Light be with you," then grimaced and pulled the trigger.
When the fiery plasma-charged streams enveloped them, Sam's first thought was that it felt like the start of a quantum leap. On second thought, he decided it was like being spun rapidly in a revolving door on a sunny day; he never felt this dizzy when he leaped, and he always came out more confused. At least it wasn't painful. He blinked, and wondered how he had ended up inside a white shoe polish bottle instead of the Ghostbusters' trap. Beside him, Murray hiccoughed.
After a moment, Marshak cleared his throat. "What this place needs is a good interior decorator."
"Al? AL!"
Sam's bellows were muffled by the white curtains enveloping them. Lowering his hands, he turned to Jack as the paranormal expert.
"How do we find him in here?"
"We walk. By its very nature, the portable containment field locks us into a very small portion of the Netherworld. It may look huge to us as we travel, but actually it's a very small area; sooner or later, we'll come across Al."
"This--this is incredible," Murray said softly, as if he were in a church or funeral parlor and afraid to speak up. "What exactly are the parameters? Can this field be accessed without Ray's equipment?"
Jack began to walk, carefully not looking down at his feet. "By magick, if the user is powerful enough and has the right spells. Think of it as similar to a computer; no matter how powerful a hacker's board is, he has to use the right codes to crack into a program."
"Why would you want to?" Sam muttered.
"Oh, you'd be surprised. Not all of the Netherworld is featureless. If a being has the power and the inclination, it can shape the environment to suit it--build a castle, lay out a swamp, toss in a few animals, whatever."
He squinted, trying futilely to penetrate the haze. "If I know Al, maybe we should be looking for a Vegas showroom. Or a harem."
"Do you know Al, Cody?" Murray asked, frowning. "How?"
Jack glanced quickly at him. "This is a dangerous place, Dr. Bozinsky; we should concentrate on making sure nothing sneaks up on us."
His eyes widened behind the thick glasses. "Like what?"
"It could be anything from a ghost to a demonic creation. A gargoyle, for instance."
He swallowed hard. "Vampire bats?"
"Yes. Snakes. Bugs. Even harpies."
"Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!" Sam added under his breath.
Murray hiccoughed again. After that, he kept stumbling, because his head was constantly craning around as he tried to check out the entire 360 degrees surrounding them at all times. At least it distracted him from asking difficult questions. It was better for him not to know what was really going on, not just because the government wanted Project Quantum Leap kept secret, but because Murray was such a loyal and caring friend. He was already worried about Nick, with good reason, and puzzled by "Cody's" odd behavior. If he knew that Cody was actually stuck in someone else's body in the future, and might never leave it if this leap failed, he'd be...well, he'd be as upset as Sam was, knowing Al was in danger.
Although the Senate committee believed Admiral Albert Calavicci, Navy war hero and ex-astronaut, was the star of Project Quantum Leap, Sam had never wanted to let Al risk his life as the first time-traveler. Even though leaping had left him with spotty amnesia, he remembered that quite clearly. The whole point in him leaping when it seemed likely the project would be shut down was to shoulder the risks himself, before Al could come up with the idea. Before they were faced with that crisis, they had skirted the issue, with both of them training to be the Project Observer, because Verbena Beeks and Ziggy bombarded them with tests proving no one else in the project was so closely linked, emotionally and intellectually. It had worked out. Besides, Al would've bopped him in the nose if he didn't get to participate, one way or another.
Being Project Observer should've been completely safe. Al's actual body was strolling through the mammoth Imaging Chamber, with only his mind traveling through time. How could he possibly he hurt?
(Well, let's see. . .so far he somehow switched places with me and got himself concussed and almost killed; got torn up and strangled by the Blood Beast of Thulec; got sucked into the Netherworld by the Ghostbusters--)
"Is this real?" Murray asked in a small voice.
"Not only real, but deadly."
He shuddered. "Nothing to see, nothing to hear. . .like being inside a monitor when the program crashes and there's nothing left but static. Am I dreaming?" He hiccoughed again, a series of falsetto barks. "I don't believe this is happening."
Sam patted his shoulder reassuringly. Accepting the supernatural was especially hard for someone so used to manipulating hard facts and figures, instead of the flexible anything-is-possible-and-probably-mandatory flux of quantum physics.
"Uh-oh."
"Uh-oh what?" Murray demanded, alarmed.
Jack knelt on one knee and scraped at a reddish-brown stain on the cloudy `floor.' In his fingers, the haze seemed ropy, somewhat like bleached cotton candy that was getting stale. "I'm not sure, but it looks like bloodstains."
"Oh, no." Sam closed his eyes. "AL!"
Somewhere far away, a familiar voice squeaked, "Sam?"
He plunged into the fog in the direction of that voice, only dimly aware that the others were following. Ahead, the mist seemed greyer in patches, which gradually solidified into two human figures. As he ran forward, he could see first Al's fluorescent orange goldfish tie glowing like a beacon, then Al's face.
The mist creased and pulled back.
His first thought was that Al looked as if he'd been run through a giant blender, judging from the ripped and bloodstained clothing. He was moving awkwardly, too, cradling his ribs with one arm while swatting at something in the air with the other.
About fifteen feet away stood a plump--no, obese--woman in a flouncy pink dress and pearls. Something about her face seemed familiar. Jack sucked in his breath.
"Gods and Goddesses--Mary Jo Liese!"
No, Marshak had to be confused. Mary Jo Liese was dead. Okay, that didn't preclude her being in the Netherworld, but she died a somewhat stocky middle-aged woman, not a stand-in for the fat lady in a carnival.
Yet even buried in those folds of fat, the pink-ringed mouth and heavily outlined eyes were familiar.
"Ow!" Al winced as something thin and silver whipped past Sam and hit him in the right shoulder. "Sam, get outta here!"
Confused, he caught Al's shoulders, supporting him. Murray pointed shakily at the fat woman, his eyes round.
"Look at her. She looks like the Michelin Tire Man!"
Weirdly, it was true. As Al's face whitened, Mary Jo inflated, her girth broadening at least another two inches. Gasping, Al fumbled at his shoulder and wrenched the needle-thing free. Mary Jo promptly stopped spreading. It was as if she were feeding off Al, absorbing him through the needle.
Whatever the needle was, it quivered in Al's hand. Sickened, Sam grabbed at it, trying to steady Al's shaky grip, but the needle yanked itself free of them both and zipped away.
Jack Marshak stepped forward, drawing the ghost's blue-mascara-cemented eyes to him. He held up his right hand, the two middle fingers curled downward, and intoned in a sonorous baritone, "By the horns of Hecate--"
"No!" screeched the bulbous, bloated woman.
His fingers opened and his hand moved in a slow circle. "--the powers of Aurora--"
"It's not fair!"
"--shield us from the sting of Darkness."
Like some elongated mosquito, the needle hovered in mid-air, not ten inches from Al's face, punching at the air as if stymied by an invisible wall. Al flinched at each jab, but the needle never penetrated.
"You have no right!" Mary Jo whined. "Murderers! Cheaters! I'LL SHOW YOU!"
Jack continued walking toward her, his hand raised in the horn symbol again, the horns tilted to point at her. Murray stood stock-still, shaking his head, as if denying any of this could be happening. Trying to take all this in, Sam held Al up, squeezing his shoulders reassuringly.
Behind Jack, something red formed in the haze, immense and muscled and horned, with a gaping pus-filled hole where its left eye should've been. A bull? No, it was scaled, vaguely reptilian. A dinosaur?
Al groaned, "Aw, no, not the Devil Dog."
"Jack, look ou--"
Too late; it vaulted from the clouds with a snarl that drowned out whatever Jack was chanting. One swipe from a colossal paw, and he crumpled at Mary Jo's high-heeled feet.
When Marshak collapsed, so did the protective field. With an angry whine, the needle swooped forward. Sam instinctively stepped in front of Al, his arms spread, trying to shield him.
"Stop that!" the ghost demanded, stamping one foot.
With its fangs about to close on Marshak's throat, the Devil Dog paused, pus-colored drool splashing on the winded man's neck. Reluctantly, it lifted its head and turned toward Mary Jo, growling. At a gesture from her, it backed away from its victim, stiff-legged, gathering its muscles beneath it. The huge head swung around, the one remaining eye flaring as it focused on a new victim. Then, snarling, the monster hurtled over Murray and slammed into Sam, hurling him aside.
The needle bored deep into Al's belly. Choking, he folded in half over it, then dropped to his knees, one knee at a time.
Mary Jo tossed her head and laughed with delight.
Murray Bozinsky had been standing silently near Sam, apparently more-or-less shell-shocked, only reacting by ducking when the Devil Dog jumped over him. Now he stiffened, radiating righteous indignation. "This is just too much!" Murray shouted, and vaulted onto the Devil Dog's back.
Pinned beneath the monster's mammoth brownish-red legs, Sam couldn't inflate his lungs. As his vision began to blur, he had a confused impression of Murray's legs dangling, scrabbling for a foothold against the scaly body, then Murray was sitting astride, making little surprised hoots of pain.
The Devil Dog rumbled a deep-chested threat, twisting its head to snap at its uninvited rider. Pitching back and forth, the skinny young scientist clutched at the horns on its head for support. Startled, the creature began to gyrate, trying to toss him off.
At least the sunfishing and yawing got it off Sam's chest. For a long moment he just lay there, sucking in desperate gulps of air.
Above him, Murray kept opening and closing one hand at a time, as if holding onto the stubby horns was painful, but he couldn't let go, because the furious Devil Dog reared onto its hind legs, and he nearly slid down its massive rump.
Still dazed, Sam forced his protesting body to sit up. What should he do? He was torn between trying to save Murray, and ripping the needle from Al's stomach. Somehow he found the strength to start crawling.
Clapping her hands and giggling, enjoying the show, the corpulent ghost was expanding again.
A quick glance showed him that Murray was flopping back and forth so hard that it looked like his head would snap off at any second. Clinging desperately to one horn, he scrabbled with his right hand for the pens and pencils stuffed in his chest pocket, and then jammed the whole handful into the Devil Dog's right eye.
Both the monster and Mary Jo wailed in agony. She flung both hands over her face, as if her own eye had been destroyed. The scaly beast shuddered, throwing Murray free, then rolled onto its side. Its legs kicked spasmodically, then it faded into tufts of smoke, and was gone.
Sam had no time to relish its destruction; he had finally reached Al's side. Al was curled into a tight fetal ball, arms wrapped around his belly. Gently, Sam tried to pry his arms loose.
"Relax, Al. Please. I can make it stop."
Al groaned, his arms tightening. Sam peeled one arm free and groped until his fingers touched the needle, but it didn't feel like a needle. Instead of cool metal, he felt something warm, soggy, and pulsing as it sucked greedily at his partner's life. Every instinct screamed at him to drop the repulsive thing and run, but Sam set his shoulders and pulled. It struggled, writhing in his grip, trying to burrow deeper.
With both hands, he hauled it out, bracing himself against its fight to escape. Like steel drawn to a magnet, it kept pulling toward Al's prone body.
"Mother and Moon-Goddess,
Ever-changing mistress of the night...."
Jack Marshak, levering himself to his feet, began a shaky chant. Lowering her hands, Mary Jo Liese whirled. She was now so bloated that if she took one dainty jump upward, she would probably float away like a blimp.
"No! Shut up! You can't stop me! He gave me the power, because He wants to stop them interfering in His plans!"
Jack held up the moon medallion in both hands, his eyes gleaming.
"As the moon turns from Darkness to Light,
Turn thy Light upon us and banish Darkness!"
Holding the medallion aloft in his left hand, Jack again pointed a horned fist at the ghost. Was it Sam's imagination, or was she dimming, losing color? On an impulse, he drew back his arm, remembering his brief leap into an aging baseball pitcher, and threw the needle at Mary Jo.
She shrieked as the needle pierced her stomach, and then her yowls were joined by a shrilling noise like an overheated teakettle going off. All the oxygen around them seemed to be swept upward and stirred, as if a tornado had taken shape in their midst. Wind buffeted Sam, punching him back, and he threw himself protectively over Al, squeezing his eyes shut.
Did something explode? All he knew for certain was that his ears were popping. Abruptly, the winds were stilled.
When Sam hesitantly lifted his head, Mary Jo Liese was gone. A few thin, rubbery shreds of something pink littered the `floor' and clung to the creamy mist around them; he didn't want to think about what they might be.
Marshak slung the medallion around his neck and bent to help a somewhat groggy Murray to his feet. Sam rolled off Al, who straightened out slowly, rolled over, and stared upward. After a moment, he smiled. It was a surprisingly sweet, boyish smile.
"She's gone. Ain't that a trip?"
"I'd ask if you're okay, but I can see that you're not. Here, let me help you up."
Al extended his hand. When Sam clasped it, both men grinned. As soon as Al was on his feet, swaying a little but upright, Sam grabbed him and hugged him fiercely. Al patted his back weakly, but with feeling.
"Yeah, I know, kid. I missed you, too."
"Can we go home now?" Murray asked in a strained voice, blinking as he put his glasses back on.
Jack's smile congealed on his face, and he frantically dug in his jacket. "The mirror!"
"Oh, boy," chorused Sam and Al in unison, sounding remarkably Bronx.
Anxiously, Jack unwrapped the bundle of white velvet, then relaxed. "It's all right. It didn't break. Just give me moment to concentrate."
Respectfully, all three backed away. Al glanced at Murray. "Burned your hands, huh, kid?"
Murray gave him a rather glazed look, like an owl unexpectedly awakened in bright sunlight. "Well, yes, a little. I see you did, too."
"Yup." His mouth quirked upward. "Just consider yourself lucky she didn't think about making its whole body hot while you while you were riding it."
"Ouch!" Murray locked his knees together in pain and turned green, just thinking about it.
Covertly, Sam scrutinized Al, not liking what he saw. No way of telling if the ribs were broken without x-rays, and nothing they could do about it anyway. Al was so drained of color that he blended into the fog around them, and he kept touching his stomach as if the needle-thing was still eating away at it. Catching Sam's gaze, he raised one eyebrow, so Sam asked, "Uh, have you still got your hand-link?"
Al touched his pocket. "Never leave home without it. But it won't work in here." Terribly anxious, he muttered, "Say, listen, Sam. How long have I been in here? That ghost said--"
"About twenty-four hours, I think. I've been so worried I've kind of lost track."
"That's all? I mean, it's only been a couple hours here, but I was afraid...well, anyway, that's okay, then." But then he looked even more panicky. "You don't suppose ghosts can, like, tag along with us when we leave, do you?"
"No. Absolutely not," Sam said firmly, even though he wasn't sure. "Even if they could, the Ghostbusters are on the RIPTIDE; ghosts are afraid of them."
Murray adjusted his glasses. Some of the masking tape had given way, so one arm was crooked. "Can I just ask one question? Why do you keep calling Cody `Sam'?"
"Slang, kid. I call everybody `Sam'--men, women, children, chimpanzees. Saves learning new names."
"Oh." Murray nodded sagely, as if this made sense. Maybe he had hit his head when he was thrown off the Devil Dog.
Sam shrugged out of Cody Allen's sweater and used it to mop up some of the blood still oozing from the jagged claw marks running down Al's short torso. Sourly, he reflected that the only advantage to leaping into a woman was that she'd have a slip or other filmy underthings that made good bandages; he couldn't possibly rip this sweater in half. What kind of unspeakable filth had caked the Devil Dog's claws? Those cuts were no doubt overflowing with bacteria.
"Make sure they give you a hefty dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics the minute you get back."
Al stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "No rabies shots! None! Once, back at the orphanage, this geeky kid called Alfalfa--quite a rascal, actually--got bit by a stray mutt, and they gave him seven shots in the gut with these huge horse needles--" Absently, he scrubbed the back of his neck with the heel of one hand.
Sam pulled his hand down. "Leave it alone, you'll only irritate it."
"Fair enough; it's sure irritating me."
"Here, let me see." Gingerly, he probed the swollen area where the needle-thing had hit. It was an angry red, streaked with purple-black bruising, more like a venomous sting or bite than the mark of a hypodermic needle. "Tell them to do extensive blood-work, and have Ziggy analyze the--"
"Forget it. A couple Bandaids, some pitchers of beer, and I'll be fine."
"You're thirsty because of blood loss. Al, I feel terrible. This is all my fault--"
Scowling, Al snapped, "That's crazy! It's Mary Jo Liese's fault, and nobody else's."
Edging closer to them, Murray asked uncertainly, "Can she come back?" Both men froze. "I mean, can you kill a ghost?"
Simultaneously, and with great alacrity, Sam and Al moved toward Marshak, with Murray close on their heels. Silently, the older man tilted up the round mirror.
Instead of his own alarmed expression--or rather, Cody Allen's--Sam found himself looking at the salt-and-pepper goatee of Rashid, beaded with sweat. His lips were moving rapidly as he passed his open palms over the the mirror's surface, but he made no discernible sound. It was, as Rashid had described it, like looking through a window.
Carefully, Marshak placed the mirror on the `floor,' so that it seemed to be floating on a frosted cloud. Holding up his open right palm, he folded the middle fingers down and moved his hand in a slow circle, ending the spell with his hand on his heart.
"By the powers of Aurora,
By the shining name of Helos,
The darkened shores of Sharon,
The dying fields of Aramis--
Admit these travelers entry."
As the chant ended, he put his horned fist through the mirror, yet the glass didn't shatter. His arm simply seemed to end at the wrist, which was resting on the silvered surface.
"Now. Step on it, but lightly."
The other three exchanged nervous glances. Al inched back, elaborately polite. "After you."
"Quickly!" gritted Marshak. "Before it closes."
Wild-eyed, Murray straightened his glasses again, emitted one forlorn, stifled hiccough, and stepped forward. He sank downward and vanished, only to reappear inside the mirror, looking surprised when Rashid brushed him aside.
Was it his imagination, or did Sam hear something behind them? It wasn't so much Murray's "squeaking" as the squeal of a dying rabbit.
(Ohhh, boy.)
He nudged Al forward, feeling a wrench in the pit of his stomach as his best friend stepped through the looking glass. Who knew how long it would be before they could once again share a quick hug?
Despite the danger they were in, Jack abruptly laughed. When Sam leaned over the glass, he saw Al flashing a cocky grin and holding up his right thumb. Sam smiled back, and stepped forward.
From his point of view, it felt like stepping through a wave, only he emerged completely dry. In fact, the haze seemed to have flaked off on him, leaving a smoky ash lightly dusting his skin.
Rashid had locked the cabin door, but Venkman and Spengler could be heard outside, pounding on it, demanding to know what was going on. The Egyptian ignored this, grabbing Marshak as he leaped through the mirror on Sam's heels.
"Jack, you're all right? You succeeded?"
Marshak nodded wearily, one hand on the moon medallion, but didn't speak. After a moment, Murray began carefully blowing out the candles Rashid had placed on every open space in the cabin. In the corner, Al was sagging against something invisible, probably leaning on a wall in the Imaging Chamber. Instinctively, Sam reached out to help him, but his hand passed through Al's body; he was a hologram again. One corner of Al's mouth jerked upward in a humorless grin, and he half-shrugged.
"We need the exact location of the Screaming Mimi," Sam told him. "Then you're going to the hospital."
"Nothing they can do for a hologram," Al said flippantly, punching something into his handlink. It squawked and tooted at him, every light flashing. "Maybe you oughtta send me to a Fotomat booth."
"Al--"
"Here it is. Listen up."
Sam repeated the latitude and longitude to Marshak, who had already produced a small radio and thumbed it on. Distantly, he heard Dallion confirm it.
Peevishly, Al looked up over one shoulder and yelled, "I'm fine! Shut up, already--I can't hear myself think."
Murray had hesitantly unlocked the door, and as he stepped back the two Ghostbusters tumbled in, but that wasn't what provoked Al's irritation. Sam asked, "Gooshie?"
"Yeah, the whole crew's goin' crazy."
His memory had more holes in it than Swiss cheese, so he couldn't picture `the whole crew,' but Sam could imagine their distress. They could see Al in the Imaging Chamber, his body developing gashes and burns, but they had no way of figuring out how it was happening to him or how to stop it.
"They can't get to you until you break the link with me, can they?"
"Not since I had Ziggy change the locking system. Good thing, too, or they'd be interferin' all the time and really screw things up."
"What is going on here, people?" Venkman demanded.
Micki forced her way into the already crowded cabin. "Look, if you'll just come back on deck, I can explain--"
Sam turned his back on them, lowering his voice but still trying to sound authoritative. It wasn't easy; admirals don't take orders well. "Go home, Al. You've done everything you were supposed to do for this leap."
Sure enough, Al scowled, looking away. "I'm not goin' to Sickbay, Sam. Not until I know Ryder's gonna make it, and you're not stuck here."
"Al--!"
"Murray, what happened to your hands?" Spengler asked abruptly. "I am positive I heard a particle rifle--"
Alarmed, Venkman told Murray, "Our insurance company is not responsible for any injuries if you started fooling around with our equipment. I distinctly told you, probably, that it wasn't safe--"
"Be quiet, people!" Marshak bellowed. "They've found Nick, and they need an ambulance!"
"Oh, my God! How badly is he hurt? Is he all right?" Bozinsky snatched the radio from his hands, ignoring the pain it must've caused his burned palms. "All I'm getting is static. How do you work this thing? Where's my keys? I've got to go--"
Gesticulating wildly, he plowed through the crowd toward the door. Venkman, Micki, and Rashid followed him, babbling defenses, questions, and helpful advice.
Egon, however, still hovered protectively over the proton pack. "These settings have been tampered with. This is most unusual."
"Now that we know Nick's okay, everything here is just fine," Sam said pointedly, glaring at Al.
The admiral grimaced and raised both scalded, blistering hands. "Okay, okay." The familiar blue-lit doorway rumbled into existence behind him. "Ziggy says Ryder's gonna be fine, and they're gonna stick me in the hospital even longer than him if I don't get my butt in gear. See ya next leap, Sam."
He straightened out and squared his shoulders to stroll casually through the doorway, but it clearly took an effort. The doorway winked shut, and was gone.
Egon cradled the pack as if it were an injured child. "What is going on here?"
Sam sighed. "Mr. Marshak came here for your help."
"He did?"
"I did?" Jack was startled; Egon, suspicious.
"Well, yeah. You see, Mr. Marshak and his partners have a business somewhat similar to the Ghostbusters, only they track down antiques that were cursed, instead of ghosts. The problem, as I understand it, is that cursed objects can't be destroyed, so they've got a whole basement vault full of deadly antiques."
Egon looked intrigued. "You think we might be able to destroy the curses?"
Jack raised his eyebrows, considering it. "Well, it's worth a try. You seemed convinced that you could exorcise a possessed human with your technology; you could be able to exorcise a demonic curse. The situations do have a certain theoretical similarity."
"It would require some research first. Are the objects available for examination?"
"I think it would be safe, if we remove only one item at a time."
Egon adjusted his glasses. "Our vacation is, in fact, nearly over. . . ."
Sam felt the familiar vertigo-inducing sensation of an approaching leap, and almost welcomed it. They'd saved Nick Ryder's life, and possibly repaid the owners of CURIOUS GOODS for their help. The sooner he leaped into his next problem, the sooner he'd learn how Al was doing; what felt like an instantaneous switchover to him usually lasted a week in real-time.
As the blinding sunburst of light faded into fairy dust around him, Sam blinked. His shoulders were hunched protectively, and he stood poised to duck, since usually he landed in the middle of a crisis...but nothing happened. This time he didn't seem to be standing on stage, or about to parachute from a plane, or in the middle of surgery. Cautiously, he looked around.
He was apparently crossing a quiet street in some small, rural town in mid-autumn. The street was overhung by white birches gloriously laden with crimson and gold leaves. Pick-up trucks were parked in most of the spaces on the street, in front of weathered wood-frame buildings. Not far away, a medium-sized liver-spotted dog of the Heinz 57 variety, tail erect, was trotting briskly on some no doubt important business. It was the only thing moving in the otherwise placid street.
Sam relaxed, wiping the last Netherworld dandruff from his hands onto his worn, comfortable blue jeans. This was like leaping home to the family farm in Indiana. Maybe the Powers That Be had relented and given him an easy leap this time. Al kept grousing that if they didn't get a vacation soon, he was starting a time-travellers' union and going on strike. Maybe Whomever controlled their leaps had been listening.
On the other hand, maybe not.
He was almost all the way across the street when a heavy-set Indian woman, her long black hair flying behind her like a tail, darted around the corner. "Holling, look out! Stampede!"
Alarmed, Sam swung toward her, wondering why he didn't hear the thunder of approaching hoofbeats. Instead, he found himself facing a herd of enraged ostriches, long necks outstretched, feathers ruffled, charging right at him.
Diving into the back of the nearest pick-up truck, Sam Beckett hollered, "Oh, boy!"
-----Monday, March 3, 1992
Goddess Hecate, return me to Part One.
Egon, Ray, aim those photon generators this way and shoot me to Jane's Fan Fiction so I can read more tales.
Gooshie, fire up the Accelerator and tell Ziggy to send me to the sequel.
Roboz, send feedback to the author.