It's not always about where you want to go, sometimes it's about where you must go. It's this thought that goes over and over in your mind with every step you take towards the sharp-eyed vole alien. It has a hunched form, with greasy fur tinged with a sheen of violet. Its clawed fingers grip tightly around the pole of the sign it's wielding, which, as you approach, it lowers to hang club-like by its side.

It runs a bright maroon tongue across cracked lips before rasping, "You are QuarrixCo person, perhaps?"

Setting you with a critical gaze with beady, red eyes, you notice the vole-man's arm twitch, as though readying itself to bludgeon you with that sign. Or, it might have just been an involuntary spasm.

It's not too late. You could still make your escape into a crowd of nearby aliens. Side-step onto page 6.
Then again, maybe you could bribe this thing to just leave you alone. Turn to page 82.
Or, perhaps your only recourse is to strike before it does. Attack! Page 73.