George slowly raised his head. His eyes, the eyes of Marc Pillsworth, looked pained and darkly apprehensive.
"But, my lords," he pleaded, "what was I to do?"
"Do?" the voice thundered. "You were supposed to haunt the environs of your subject in a business-like and orderly manner, befitting an agent of the High Council. It seems that it was too much to ask. The only mortals you frightened even a little were two office girls who quite rightly mistook you for nothing more than an unscrupulous employer displaying his lower impulses. You may as well know that the Council is considering an action that will remove your ectoplasm credits permanently...."
"No!" George cried. "It wasn't my fault ... after all, the deceased refused to yield. These mortals can be unreasonable creatures when...."
There ensued a short series of rumblings as various anatomical fragments made brief appearances on the steam beds, then as quickly vanished. After an abrupt silence the ominous clearing of a throat sounded from a source impossible to ascertain.
"Hmm. Yes.... There ARE extenuating circumstances ... for which you may consider yourself fortunate, and hummph, from which we may still be able to salvage some slight measure of respect from our allied departments. Perhaps the blame can be laid at the door of the bookkeeping section, if you...."
A tiny gleam of hope crept timidly into George's eyes as he nodded in vigorous assent. "I have my release," he offered eagerly, "signed by the section head."
"But!" the voice resumed, "that does not explain your irresponsible conduct, or the disgraceful affinity you displayed for alcoholic beverages!"
George's head slumped dejectedly to his chest again, and he stared into the bottomless regions beneath him. Then he started visibly as he noticed that the gaseous substance upon which he was standing was no longer secure beneath his feet. Already, it had grown thin and unsubstantial and he was beginning to sink downward till his legs were obscured almost to the knees. It was apparent that his worst fears were being realized and he was being sent into—
"Wait! My lords! I admit my conduct was contrary to all the fine traditions of haunting ... but I'll never touch a drop again ... not for a thousand years!"
George's voice echoed away, and his feet stopped slipping. With another series of low rumblings, the voice spoke again:
"The Council is inclined to accept the penance you have imposed on yourself. There is the proviso, however, that the other departments must receive no inkling of this scandalous affair. Agreed!"
George's head bobbed up and down in such energetic agreement that it seemed almost in danger of becoming dislodged from his neck.
There was an abrupt sound. A loud clap that may have been thunder. The steam beds expanded, billowed outward, then faded away. From somewhere, it seemed a long way off, a voice was heard to say: "Council dismissed!"
And George, finding himself alone, dissolved his ectoplasm and sat down with a troubled sigh. Absently, he scooped a handful of steam cloud from the small embankment and tossed it lightly out, into space.
He would need a long time to ponder the narrow escape he had just had. Then, too, the fact that Marc Pillsworth, through his unreasonable obstinance, had nearly wrecked his career, was not a matter to be dropped without serious consideration. And beyond that there was also that shrewish little creature who called herself Toffee. Toffee. Yes, a singular creature indeed. He wondered what department she worked under. To be sure, she was a nasty tempered little package, but her legs were nice, and her figure.... He wondered, musingly, if someday they might meet again....