Camouflage

After a glance confirming that there were no witnesses, it covered the man’s mouth and nose and shoved him back into the room.
    It punched him on the chin just hard enough to daze him, and slapped on the light. It was a room about the size of a walk-in closet, with racks of supplies. It plucked a roll of wide duct tape and carefully pressed a piece of it over the man’s mouth, and squares over each eye, after capturing his retinal pattern. Then it undressed him and put on his uniform, and bound him tightly with tape.
    It took his fingerprints, studied him for a moment, and then turned out the light and concentrated on becoming him. It wasn’t too painful, skin color and facial structure. Then it pushed its way out behind the cart, leaving the door locked.
    How much time did it have? If those cops were waiting for Mr. Daniel, it was only minutes.
    It hesitated by a door that said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY , trying to imagine what might be behind the sign. It could be the place where janitors went to catch a smoke. Or it might be full of nervous security types.
    Turning the cart around, it headed back toward Customs. There were six lanes open for U.S. citizens, and three for foreigners—and one marked “employees.”
    It got halfway through the short lane, and somebody shouted, “Hey! Asshole!”
    It stopped and turned around. A fat cop said something angry. It was in Hawaiian, unfortunately.
    It shrugged, hoping that not everyone who looked Hawaiian spoke Hawaiian. “You know the drill,” he said. “Where the hell you goin’?”
    “Just out to the car,” the changeling said. “My dinner is in the cooler.”
    “Yeah, liquid dinner. Just leave the goddamn cart on this side, okay?” The changeling trudged back and parked it out of the way.
    Once outside, of course, the uniform made its wearer stand out rather than blend in. It would be conspicuous to hail a cab or get on a bus. Bad planning, not to carry along Daniel’s clothes.
    It would take about twenty minutes to “grow” inconspicuous clothes, and discard the janitor’s. Too long. Taking a chance, it ducked into a souvenir shop and bought fairly modest tourist clothes—Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, and flip-flops. It changed in the men’s room—also changing its skin to pale white—and carried the uniform out in the shop’s paper bags.
    In the line at the cab stand, it started mapping out its strategy. It told the cab to take it to the downtown Hilton, but paid attention for the last mile, looking for a more seedy place. The Crossed Palms looked suitably run-down.
    It paid off the cab with an unremarkable tip, and walked straight through the Hilton lobby. On the way back to the Crossed Palms, it threw the janitor’s uniform into a Dumpster.
    The chain-smoking woman at the desk was glad to give “James Baker” a room for three days, paid in advance with cash, no ID or luggage.
    The room was musty and dark, and definitely not worth $150 a night. But the changeling was finally able to relax,for the first time since the side door to the Wing Room had opened to admit the unwelcome spies.
    This couldn’t be rushed, it told itself; the identity it took back to Apia had to be absolutely bulletproof. It could go back to California and re-create its college-boy surfer dude, but why not just stay in Hawaii? Closer to Samoa, and so a more likely point of origin for a job-seeker.
    There would be a job opening soon. Michelle, the project’s receptionist, was seven months pregnant. She was looking forward to quitting and becoming a full-time mother.
    The changeling had perhaps a month to construct a perfect replacement and establish her in Samoa.
    Receptionist would be good. It didn’t dare try lab technician again, but it did want to be someone Russ would notice, and fall for.
    It had evidently been caught because it had masqueraded as a real person, and was snagged by some routine security procedure. “We talked to the real Rae Archer” was all the changeling knew or needed to know. Using an actual human had been lazy. This time it would create a woman from the ground up.
    The changeling knew pretty exactly what Russ liked in a woman. But it probably wouldn’t be too smart to make a woman perfectly built to order—even if it didn’t make Russ suspicious, someone else might notice.
    So she wouldn’t be a modest slender Oriental woman with a degree in astronomy. A normally plump blonde Caucasian who had studied marine biology. It would be