A klaxon blares alarmingly, then again, and once more, and the lights in the shuttle cabin drop to make it so dark you squint, but not so absent of light there aren't still noticable, menacing shadows.

"Please ensure you are seated during docking, and that your safety belts are properly secured at all times," commands the flight attendant with cold certainty. "You will be able to depart the shuttle in approximately 2.6 standard minutes."

You hunker down deep in your seat, gripping the edges until your knuckles ache. Almost immediately the cabin shudders, shaking from side-to-side, then is eerily calm. Seconds later it rocks with such force you hear your teeth hit each other as your jaw is forced closed too tightly, and in your stomach you feel the artifical gravity adjust somehow. Far left, you hear the jarring sound of something metal hitting something else, ringing for but a moment before it's cut short.

The monolithic, midnight blue AluSteel blast doors at the very front of the shuttle make a sudden hissing noise, releasing coils of thick, grey smoke from the deep in the gaps. As they judder creakily towards you, they split suddenly asunder, unveiling the only way out.

"You may now release your safety belts and depart from the shuttle in an orderly fashion," gloats the flight attendant mechanically. "Thanks again for choosing IntroStel, a subsidiary of GlajexCo, for your interstellar travel needs."

You wrench the belt release, and grab the two overfilled khaki satchels that were jammed firmly under your seat. Putting alternating shoulder straps across your chest bandolia-style, you stumble forwards, towards the leery grin of the flight attendant. She eyes you coldly, then blurts, "Thankyou, pleasehaveafantastictime, andchooseIntroStel for allyourinterstellartravel." Breaking her glare, you struggle forwards quickly onto the docking bay.

What a nightmare.

The docking bay is gargantuan, spanning multiple stories comprised of coldly lit infoplates reflecting on obsidian-like and unyielding metallic surfaces and overhanging struts in painfully bright colours. Everywhere you look is a creature of some unknown species, each less recognisable than the last. All forms are represented, from scaled and angry red with unknowable appendages, to small, spiked, oily carapaces on spindled legs. You can't begin to guess at their names and forms. Who knows if they can guess yours?

The environment is a cacophony of sounds. Layered on top of the whining buzz of a high-speed drill is a deep, base growl from somewhere unseen. It's almost -- but not quite -- drowning out what sounds like ethereal flute music from the pre-history of Earth.

The smells are another matter entirely! An artificial fruit odour, acrid and sharp, mingles with a deep, ceramic smell, like rain on a freshly dug grave. It's all just failing to hide the underlying odour of musky, dead air.

At first, you are completely overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what is before you, blindly panicked by the sheer quantity of sensory information. But, all too slowly, you begin to make clear distinctions, and you notice some signs that you can actually read. And there's someone waiting for you.

The spindly, vole-like creature stands apart from the crowd of claws and eyes and legs and spikes. He's holding a hand-scrawled sign with scratchy InterGal letters that appear to read "quarrixco representative". And his squinting, subterranean eyes are staring directly at you.

If you'd like to approach the creature with the sign, turn to page 97.
If you want to make a run for it back onto the shuttle, turn to page 83.
If you think you can disappear into the crowd, sneak along to page 6.
If none of this makes sense, and you just want to curl up and cry, accept your fate and turn to page 84.