"What the heck is a pire driver?"
"You are construction man. You do not know?"
"Oh. Pile dliver," said Randal Rumpp, after writing the words down on a pad and substituting L's for R's. "Why didn't you say so?"
"Did."
"Right. So you're saying that the skyscraper is literally pounding its way into the ground?"
"Yes. You must not ret it demateliarize."
"Spectralize. Get it right."
"Spectrarize. Yes. You must not-"
"Hold it," Rumpp interrupted, hearing a beep in his ear. "My other line just beeped."
Randal Rumpp tapped the handset switch hook and got a familiar staticky roar in his ear. He jumped out of his chair and under his desk just in time.
The light was a cold flare that soon abated. Rumpp crawled out. The Russian in the vibration suit was hanging suspended in the air, his belt buckle as red as if it were on fire. A cold chill went through Randal Rumpp's trim body.
"Oh, shit. Forget ending up in Kazakhstan. We're about to go nuclear."
Over the next ten minutes, Randal Rumpp did everything he could to capture the floating white apparition before it merged with anything solid.
A luminous foot slid into an oaken coat rack. Rumpp knocked the rack over. The top of its head merged with a ceiling fixture, and Rumpp got up on a chair and shattered the frosted glass globe with a paperweight carved in the shape of his own initials.
He got under it and tried to blow it away from the wall with his breath. He was close to fainting before he gave it up.
He tried sucking the thing down with a Dustbuster he found in a maintenance closet, but the thing was impervious to suction, too.
Finally, as Randal Rumpp lay under the thing, out of breath, it came to life. Its arms and legs started waving crazily. One hand reached for its belt buckle.
Realizing what was coming, Randal Rumpp tried to roll out of the way. He was too late.
"Oof!"
When he regained his senses, the white thing, no longer luminous, was standing over him, its expression even more blank than usual.
"You almost killed me!" Rumpp roared.
"Sorry." The white creature cocked a head in the direction of the door. "I hear pounding."
"The police are trying to break in. We're trapped."
"It is worse than that. American agents are coming to liquidate you."
"Liquidate me how?"
"How do you think?"
"Well, I'd like to think they're coming to liquidate my assets."
"It is not your assets they are coming to liquidate, but your ass."
Randal Rumpp groaned. "How do you say 'damn' in Russian?"
"Proklyatye. "
"Proklyatye, " Rumpp repeated. "What do we do?"
"Surrender to police at door."
Rumpp sat up, aghast. "And be lynched?"
"Better than being killed dead," said the Russian.
"You got a point there," the Rumppmeister said, getting to his feet. He looked around his office frantically.
"There's gotta be another option. All my life, I've found other options." His eyes fell on the faceless Russian agent.
"That suit got any more power in it?"
"Probably."
"Buy it from you?"
"No sale. You are broke."
Randal Rumpp shrugged. "Okay. Just thought I'd ask. It can't hurt to ask, can it?"
"No. It cannot hurt to ask. Suit not for sale."
Randal Rumpp picked up the heavy paperweight in the shape of his initials. His eyes were on that blank white head, which suddenly looked as fragile as an eggshell.
"On the other hand, I can just bash your stupid head in, Chuck, and take it."
"You would not do such a thing. Would you?"
"Bet your ass."
Just then, the pounding at the door grew in intensity and fury.
"They must have brought up a battering ram," Rumpp mumbled.
The pounding turned into the screech of metal.