"We will dilute it with a harmless liquid for you since No. 1 does not wish you to die instantly.
"Enter your"—the Steel-Blue hesitated—"mausoleum. You die in your own atmosphere. However, we took the liberty of purifying it. There were dangerous elements in it."
Jon walked into the little igloo. The Steel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dials and switches on the outside. Jon's space suit deflated. Pressure was building up in the igloo.
He took a sample of the air, found that it was good, although quite rich in oxygen compared with what he'd been using in the service station and in his suit.
With a sigh of relief he took off his helmet and gulped huge draughts of the air.
He sat down on the pallet and waited for the torture to begin.
The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo, staring at him through elliptical eyes.
Apparently, they too, were waiting for the torture to begin.
Jon thought the excess of oxygen was making him light-headed.
He stared at a cylinder which was beginning to sprout tentacles from the circle. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. An opening, like the adjustable eye-piece of a spacescope, was appearing in the center of the cylinder.