text: [Themes: sci-fi, mystery]
  
  The problem arises, however, when a platoon breaks formation and starts charging across the grazed area straight toward you.
  
  "Orders, Lieutenant?" Dansmith says.
  
  You shake your head, realizing the impossibility of your situation. The only options that come to mind are to pass back through the portal and take your chances in the village you just escaped, or to flee into the tall, ungrazed grass a few hundred meters away. But the Folvan soldiers are approaching fast, so you have to decide now.
  
  > If you flee into the wild grassland beyond the grazing area, turn to page 144.
  You point to the wild, ungrazed grass. "It's there or nowhere," you say. "Run—our best bet is to try and lose them in the tall grass."
  
  No one looks thrilled with the prospect, and like you, everyone is probably having a hard time foreseeing how this is going to end well. But running toward the tall grass is better than standing and letting yourselves get captured, so that is what the five of you do.
  
  Not that it matters. The soldiers trot up to you with the grace and speed of antelope, and they surround you long before any of you can reach cover. They wear leather armor, but you do not see any plasguns. Behind the infantry, three other Folvans stride forward: the leader you presume and two aides.
  
  The officer points at you, and the aides step forward and seize your plasguns. Next he taps his left wrist, and the aides promptly return to remove everyone's WristComps.
  
  "Lieutenant?" Dansmith says in alarm.
  
  "Do not resist," you say. It's clear to you the Folvans have done this before, but if they miss your comms you'll still be able to contact the ship.
  
  But then the officer touches his ear, bleating a single syllable that could be an order to his soldiers or a curse aimed at you. The aides then make the round one last time, removing the small translucent devices clipped behind your ears—and with it, your last hope of contacting the Orion.
  
  Surrounded by the Folvan soldiers, you are forced across the open terrain toward the thick-walled structure, which is made of adobe but is so organic in shape that it looks like it grew out of the landscape as a living object, rather than constructed as an intentional act by intelligent beings. Every line is a curve, and the massive openings reveal an empty darkness inside. Perhaps these are neither doors nor windows, but vents to allow air flow into the underground city. You cannot think of any human buildings with a similar construction. In any event, the structure is even more massive than it appeared from afar, imposing and impersonal.
  
  The platoon of soldiers is forced to slow their pace, as you humans are anatomically incapable of sustaining the same speed they can. Not only are your muscles straining against the 2.3 Gs, but you lack the elongated lower legs that make the Folvans so swift and tall.
  
  But even when forced to creep alongside you, the soldiers never break formation. They lead you up a long, narrow ramp toward a small opening about fifteen meters above the ground, which in turn leads to a passageway that curves downward into the ground. This corridor spirals in a single, long arc, passing side chambers and merchant stalls, none of which are occupied today. Like everything else the Folvans have contructed, there are no squares or rectangles to be seen, as if these people have concocted an entire style of architecture with a complete absence of mathematical knowledge.
  
  > Page 189
  The rounded passageway bottoms out at the entrance to an enormous underground chamber, with steps leading up along the walls to various burrow-like openings. Whereas the lakeshore village seemed sleepy and uninhabited, these burrows are very much populated, their occupants coming and going up and down the steps in restless energy, their homes stacked vertically almost all the way up to the ceiling, but otherwise spaced at seemingly random locations.
  
  Down below, on the floor of this great space, merchants stand watch over collections of strange tubers, sorted by size and color and arranged on mats of woven grass placed on the ground. Prospective customers walk slowly from mat to mat, eyeing the merchandise with careful scrutiny.
  
  You pass a pack of young children that watch you with great interest as they munch on handfuls of dried grass. Disinterested adults watch all of the bustle below with great boredom from balconies at the entrances to their burrows. Looking up, the ceiling reminds you of the inside of a giant funnel; the opening at the top allows the daylight to shine in and illuminate this great hall.
  
  The soldiers steer you hard to the right toward an irregular set of steps leading into a side chamber. This room is long and dim, like a church with its windows shuttered. Nine grim Folvans stand waiting for you at the far end of the chamber, and the soldiers force you and your companions to line up before them.
  
  Then the lead soldier takes one of the confiscated WristComps and activates it, as confidently as someone who has been using this technology for years.
  
  The nine grim Folvans standing shoulder to shoulder before you puff up their throat sacs in unison and begin to trill out what must be a rehearsed statement. The WristComp begins translating after a few moments:
  
  "We, the Imperial Magistrates, the Guardians of Justice and the Imposers of Retribution, the upholders of the ancient writings of the Law Council of the First Great Emperor Salallil and the jurisprudence of Emperor Wauka'a the Fair-Skinned, do receive these foreigners to our grazing lands, where the Army of Kaja did feast in celebration upon slaying Paqar, the Last Beast of the Garda Paqall. Why do these foreigners trespass upon our grazing grounds and despoil our Anywhere Devices?"
  
  The statement is spoken as if in a ritual chant, and the nine magistrates stare ahead into space as they speak. Therefore when they pose that final question, you can't tell if it's rhetorical, posed to no one in particular, or if you're actually expected to provide an answer.
  
  However, when one of the soldiers nudges you with a pike, you assume you are expected to answer. There is no way you can match the magistrates in their long-windedness, though.
  
  "Uh, I speak for the... foreigners," you say. "We do not come to trespass. We come to find one of our own people, who went missing. We apologize for any offense."
  
  The magistrate on the far right breaks formation, hissing with disgust. "We know who you come for," it says.
  
  > Page 190
  "If that's the case," you say, "will you help us find her?"
  
  "Je is not here," the magistrate says, pacing in agitation while its peers remain poised. "That is all one needs to know."
  
  The Folvan stops, turning to regard each member of your team with its black eyes. "We cannot tolerate the off-world presence on our grazing grounds any longer. But our law is also clear that we cannot pass judgment on anyone not born of this world, because who among us dare claim sovereignty over those who descend from the heavens? Can the People of the Prairie be so audacious as to impose terrestrial law on celestial beings? What if you were gods?
  
  "We do not believe you are gods," the magistrate continues, "but nevertheless the law is the law. We will defer our judgment to those who may impose justice on other off-worlders, and whose judgment we trust. We will remit your case to the Elders of Emar."
  
  With a loud whoop from the magistrate, the soldiers lead you and your companions back into the marketplace. All nine magistrates follow, making this a rather conspicuous and somber procession through the underground city.
  
  Your situation is getting weirder and weirder—and as far as you can tell, more and more desperate. You have no idea where you're being led, or who these Elders of Emar are. However, you are being led single-file now and are no longer flanked by soldiers, so it is possible you could escape into the crowds of this great Folvan marketplace.
  
  That idea seems like it would be an act of desperation, though. Maybe you're just better off following the magistrates.
  
  > If you attempt to run, turn to page 151.
  You have no idea where you are being led, who the Elders of Emar are, or what fate awaits you. If your choices are to be passively led to an unpleasant fate or to seek safety by your own action, you would much prefer to act.
  
  So you clear your throat to get the attention of your teammates, and then say flatly, "Run."
  
  You break from the linear procession, but confusion follows. Your companions weren't expecting your action. After a moment of inaction the Folvan soldiers close around them, preventing them from escaping. Two other soldiers break into pursuit.
  
  Realizing you are now completely on your own, you turn to sprint through the crowd, but you feel like lead weights are strapped to your chest and to each leg. The residents of the Folvan city stand back from you, unwilling to get involved. Not one of them steps forward to provide assistance or give quarter.
  
  You know of only one way out of this place, the long and curving passageway leading back up to the prairie, but it is impossibly far away, and there is no way you can outpace the fleet-footed soldiers. They overtake you within moments and force you to your knees.
  
  The magistrate takes his time approaching you. But this time he says nothing, just snorts and turns his back to you. The soldiers raise their pikes, and then bring down the pointed tips with deadly accuracy.