Hammer launched himself at the intruder with intent to do bodily harm, mayhem, and perhaps a little bit of second-degree murder that might be juried into justifiable homicide.
He did not connect. The stranger disappeared at that instant, and Hammer's well directed blow fell upon thin air. Hammer, finding no resistance before him, fell flat on his face, which mashed the cigar into his mouth and burned a hole in his fine Persian carpet. He turned over and sat up, spitting out bits of tobacco mixed with equal parts of very bad language. Blankly he ran his hand through the spot where the stranger had been.
"Now," he said in puzzlement, "what in the name of—"
"May I apologize?" came a voice at the door. Hammer whirled and saw the intruder again, standing there with a rather dumfounded expression on his face.
Hammer grunted. At least he is now cognizant of his ruin-production, he thought. This was true. The intruder no longer had that fatuous expression that ignored the damage.
"Apologize?" exploded Hammer.
The intruder stepped through the ruined door. "I got the focus wrong," he said, "otherwise the image could have—"
"Image?" yelled Hammer.
The stranger nodded. "Image," he said. "Look, Hammer, you don't really think that I actually walked through that door, across your office floor, and then disappeared into thin air, do you?"
"Well ... and who are you?"