The Fortress in Orion Read Free Page B

best.”
    â€œI can produce copies of the death certificates if necessary,” offered the computer.
    â€œDefinitely not necessary,” said Pretorius. He closed his eyes, lost in thought, for another long moment. “Okay,” he said at last. “I’m off to bed. You’ve done your job. Tomorrow I’ll start doing mine.”

3A
    Pretorius walked down the midway, past the barkers, the hucksters, the hints of sinful pleasures within the old-fashioned canvas tents. There were strippers of both human sexes and three other sexes that had very little in common with humanity. There were half a hundred games of skill and even more games of chance. There were trained animals from a dozen exotic worlds, their number of limbs differing wildly.
    There were grifters, pickpockets, hookers, everything you’d expect to find in a carnival except a freak show. With over two hundred known sentient races in the galaxy and hundreds more presumed out there somewhere, one entity’s freak was another’s lifemate.
    â€œKill a Pizo!” cried a barker, holding up some wicked-looking spears. “Three throws for fifty credits!”
    Pretorius grinned and continued walking. He’d seen Pizos in action. They looked reasonably normal: humanoid bipeds with two eyes, two ears, a purple tint to their skins, and totally without hair, down, feathers, or any other natural covering—and they could absorb just about anything from a dagger to a bullet to a laser blast with absolutely no ill effects.
    â€œYou sure you want to walk away, fella?” said the human barker, grabbing his arm. “For you, we’ll make it four throws.”
    â€œKeep your spears,” said Pretorius. “I’ll pay you fifty credits if you’ll let me feed him a candy bar.”
    â€œGet outta here!” snarled the barker.
    Pretorius grinned. Not much killed Pizos, but contact with chocolate or sugar did it instantly.
    He continued walking, looking at the various signs, and finally he saw the one he’d been searching for: The Galaxy’s Strongest Creature .
    And in smaller type, just beneath it: Is he Man, Alien or Machine?
    Pretorius paid his admission and entered the tent. Only eight other spectators were there, two humans, four Robalians, and two whose races he couldn’t identify.
    Standing on a makeshift stage was a man, or rather, thought Pretorius, what was left of a man. He wore only a loincloth. His head was bald, and his eyes seemed to be entirely pupil and iris, with no white showing. He had gleaming metal prosthetic arms, heavy prosthetic legs made of a heavier metal, and his left ear was also artificial.
    â€œOkay, Samson,” said a voice over a speaker system, “show ’em what you can do.”
    The man walked up to a pair of metal weights, each emblazed with “500 pounds,” inserted his artificial hands into grips at the top of each, and lifted them until both arms were extended straight out from his body. There was mild applause, and he lowered the weights to the ground.
    â€œNow,” continued the voice, “if any member of the audience can lift even one of those weights, the management will refund double your money to every member of the audience.”
    One of the Robalians climbed up onto the stage, tried to lift a weight, grunting ferociously, and gave up after about half a minute.
    The mostly prosthetic strongman offered four more demonstrations of his prowess, and then the show was over, and the audience walked out.
    All except Pretorius.
    â€œNot bad, Felix,” he said. “Not bad at all.”
    The strongman peered into the darkness. “I’m Sampson,” he said.
    â€œYou’re Felix Ortega, and you’re wasting yourself here,” said Pretorius.
    The strongman peered more intently, then straightened up. “Nathan,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here? Have you come to gloat?”
    â€œI’ve