"That's right," the Second Head agreed. "I remember distinctly. He attempted to fire poor Pillsworth off into outer space without a pressure suit. We banished him to the Void to sing bass in the Moaning Chorus."
"We certainly picked the right party for the job," the First Head reflected. "There isn't a more base spirit in all Limbo. Has he been summoned?"
The Supreme Head coughed regretfully. "I issued the call through Message Center before I announced the council."
"Oh, dear," the First Head murmured, "then the stinker is practically on the sloop at this very moment."
"The stinker is crossing the sloop even now," the Supreme Head amended, his gaze fastened hauntedly on a disturbance in the outer mists. "Here he comes."
"Secure your valuables," the Second Head said morosely. "And keep your hands in your pockets."
Hesitantly, under the unblinking disapproval of the Council, George materialized. As the Council watched, a duplicate of Marc Pillsworth's long, lean body, made vague by misted robes, rose solidly out of the moiling vapors. It grew to full stature, rounded out at the shoulders, extended a neck, then stopped short of the head. There was an expectant pause, but nothing further developed.
"The rotter's ashamed to face us," the First Head observed sourly.
"Little wonder," the Third Head muttered. "After the way he's blotted the haunting profession, he hasn't got a leg to stand on."