The Fortress in Orion by Mike Resnick Page A

can’t do.”
    He lowered his head in thought for a moment, looked up, blinked twice, and suddenly a huge grin spread across his face.
    â€œI’m an idiot,” he said.
    â€œYou have an idea?”
    â€œYeah. I just said it myself. We have to concentrate on what you can do.”
    â€œI don’t follow you.”
    â€œWe go to the bar. Wait until half a dozen humanoids are using their IDs to pay for their drinks. They’ll be lying on the bar waiting for the bartender to pick them up and run them through his machine, or he’ll have just returned them, and because they plan to order more they won’t put them away.” Pretorius smiled again. “Then you do your thing.”
    â€œMy thing?”
    â€œYou stand twenty feet away, where everyone will be able to see you, and then you roar and project an image of some fire-breathing monster twenty feet high.”
    Suddenly Proto returned the smile. “Yes, I can do that.”
    â€œThey’ll be startled and probably scared shitless, and while they’re staring at you I’ll pick up a few IDs, passports, anything else that’s lying on the bar. And the beauty of it is that it’s just an image. If they shoot for your heart or where they think your heart is, they’ll be ten or fifteen feet above you. And once you see me walk away from the bar, kill the image, and while they’re looking for it, take this identity, or become whatever race seems to be most popular in the bar, and just walk out after me.”
    Proto considered it. “You know,” he said at last, “I think it’ll work.”
    â€œIt will,” agreed Pretorius. “And if a true shape-changer tried it, he’d be shot dead in two seconds.”
    They entered the bar. There were tables and chairs to accommodate a dozen races, and liquor for even more. It wasn’t very crowded, and half the clientele were Kabori, so Pretorius nursed his drink while Proto pretended to nurse his, and within half an hour the place was crowded, and most of the clientele was human or humanoid.
    â€œNow?” whispered Proto.
    â€œWait another minute,” said Pretorius, studying the bar. When enough customers were in mid-transaction he nodded his head; Proto walked about twenty feet away, stood in front of a wall with holos of Michkag’s and of the bartenders’ home worlds—and suddenly, in place of the man who had wandered over, there was a twenty-five-foot monster that looked very similar to illustrations of mythical Chinese dragons Pretorius had seen on disks as a child.
    There were shouts of surprise, some of terror, and three or four customers drew their burners and screechers and turned them on the dragon’s image, which only made it roar in rage.
    Pretorius moved quickly, picked up five sets of ID, and walked quickly out the door. A moment later Proto joined him, and they could still hear cries of “Where did it go?” and “What was it?” as they walked down the block and crossed the street at the corner.
    â€œDid you get what we need?” asked Proto.
    â€œI think so,” said Pretorius, patting his vest pocket. “I hope so. Pandora will let me know. I don’t think that stunt works too many times in the same place.”
    They went back to the ship, where Ortega and the two Kabori were waiting for them.
    â€œI found a ship,” announced Ortega. “Just about perfect. Let’s just hope they don’t come back for it before we’re ready to leave.”
    â€œYou’re sure it’s from a Coalition world?”
    â€œIt’s got the Coalition’s emblem emblazoned all the hell over it,” replied Ortega. “Looks like it fits ten, maybe twelve.”
    â€œAny armaments?”
    â€œJust the usual,” came the answer. “It’s not really equipped for battle.”
    â€œThat’ll do,” replied Pretorius. “We don’t want to get