"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. A square, glass-like tumbler sat in the opening disclosed in the four-foot cylinder that had sprouted tentacles. It contained a yellowish liquid. One of the tentacles reached into the opening and clasped the glass. The opening closed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotor appendages, moved toward Jon. He didn't like the looks of the liquid in the tumbler. It looked like an acid of some sort. He raised to his feet. He unsheathed the stubray gun and prepared to blast the cylinder. * * * * * The cylinder moved so fast Jon felt his eyes jump in his head. He brought the stubray gun up--but he was helpless. The pistol kept on going up. With a deft movement, one of the tentacles had speared it from his hand and was holding it out of his reach. Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder's hand. But he was too slow. Two tentacles gripped the kicking leg. Another struck him in the chest, knocking him to the pallet. The same tentacle, assisted by a new one, pinioned his shoulders. Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinder lifted a glass-like cap from the tumbler of liquid. Lying there helplessly, Jon was remembering an old fairy tale he'd read as a kid. Something about a fellow named Socrates who was given a cup of hemlock to drink. It was the finis for Socrates. But the old hero had been nonchalant and calm about the whole thing. With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curious unto death, relaxed and said, "All right, bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'll take it like a man." The cylinder apparently understood him, for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholstered his stubray pistol. Jon brought the glass of liquid under his nose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent. It brought tears to his eyes.