Field note. The humans have installed a door that is also a trap, and they enter it willingly.
It is a vertical cylinder, partitioned into wedges of glass, rotating on a fixed axis. The specimen approaches, hesitates, and inserts itself into one wedge. It must then walk in a curve while remaining perfectly still relative to the panel behind it. Observe: the human walks and arrives nowhere new until the machine decides to release it. It is a corridor bent into a circle. They pay for the illusion of forward motion with the reality of pushing a wall.
Behavioral data collected across one solar cycle. The humans do not synchronize. A slow specimen enters a wedge already occupied by a faster specimen, and both become trapped in a shared arc, pressed close, faces averted, breathing the same recycled column of air. Neither speaks. This is a species that will share a sealed glass chamber with a stranger and pretend the stranger is furniture.
Note further: beside every such door there stands an ordinary hinged door, which opens instantly and requires no coordination. The humans ignore it. They prefer the rotating trap. Working hypothesis: the appeal is the ritual of the threshold itself, the small ceremony of being briefly enclosed, briefly nowhere, before being ejected into the destination.
Correction to earlier logs. I had recorded the revolving door as a failure of engineering, a task made harder for no gain. This was error. The device performs its true function flawlessly: it grants the human a moment of complete separation from both the outside and the inside, a sealed instant belonging to neither. They call this "going through a door." They have built a machine that manufactures, four times per rotation, the sensation of arriving.