conversation_id int64 1 2.52k | category stringclasses 1 value | conversation list |
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268 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThere should be an epitaph for every the day. And he had been a nobody, full of a nobody's idle hopes and schemes. And now he was lying in the bed next to hers in her swank Manhattan apartment in the most exclusive hotel in town. The unrealness of the A thought teased at him. Charles looked at the woman again and decided \"I could have fallen in love with you once. A year ago, perhaps, or longer. But not now. Not now.\" He turned away and walked to the window. \"Now the world is dead. The whole world is dead.\" New York lay quietly below him. It was the hour of indecision when day has not quite made up its mind to leave and night has not yet attacked in force. The streetlights were already on, making geometric \"Why did it have to be her—or me? Why should it have to happen to anybody! Why!\" A gust of wind from the outside breezed through the shattered opening, attacking his olfactory patch with the retching smell of decaying flesh. Charles ignored it. Even smells had lost their customary meanings. He felt the rage build up inside again, tearing at his viscera. His stomach clenched up like an angry fist. \"But I don't want to be the last man alive!\" he shouted. \"I don't know what to do! I don't know where to go, how to act! I just don't know—\" of the sharp pain that raced through his system, in spite of the bright, warm, red stream that trickled down his face, he knelt by the \" Maybe I'm not the last! \" The thought struck him with suddenness, promisingly, edged with and dangled from the edge of the bed like a crazy pendulum. Charles The phonograph was near the door. On sudden impulse he switched it on, turned the volume up full, and in grim jest left it playing Rachmaninoff's Isle of the Dead on full automatic. The music haunted him down the hall to the elevator that he had to run himself. was fun, just a bowl of cherries, until....\" Two years ago the animals had started dying. Strangely enough the rats had gone first, to anybody's notice. Sales of poison dropped, scientific laboratories chained to a perpetual rodent-cycle began to complain bitterly. Then the lovers who hunted out and haunted the lonely lanes through the countryside began to remark that the locusts were late that year. The Southern states joyously reported that mosquito control was working to left on earth. The panic which had begun with the death of the animals was quieted somewhat by the fact that humans seemed immune to the pandemic. But the lakes full of dead fish caused a great stink and residents along the coasts began to move inland. Sales of perfumes and deodorants soared. Then just one year ago, the first human became infected with the strange malady. Within six months, half of the world's population was gone. Less than a month ago no more than a few thousand people remained walked on down the bloody street. Before the plague the Bureau of Vital Statistics had been one of man's who was dead, and where everybody was. Once a year the Bureau issued The Index, an exact accounting of Earth's four billion inhabitants. Four billion names and addresses, compressed Only once, before the plague, had he seen the interior of this room. But he still remembered it and he still recalled the powerful emotional recording that Charles had come to the Bureau some twenty-two years \"So different now,\" he thought, surveying the room. \"Now it's empty, so empty.\" The machine seemed to reflect the stillness, the very deadness Charles activated the switches that would flash a schematic map of New \"Why, it was just yesterday (or was it the day before?) that ten of us, at least, met here to check the figures. There were lots of us alive then.\" Including the blond young woman who had died just this afternoon.... Charles stopped talking and forced his eyes upwards. Peripheral vision One. He gasped. one . Charles was by himself, the last person alive in all of New York City. He began to tremble violently. The silence of the room began to press quickly in on him. His frantic fingers searched for the computer One. Alone. Alone! But thinking about \"why\" didn't answer the question itself, Charles thought. He looked around him. He was sitting on a bench in Central Park, alone except for a few stray corpses. But the park was fairly free of bodies. \"You've got about ten minutes warning,\" he said to himself. \"I guess that most people wanted to die inside of something—inside of anything. Not out in the unprotected open.\" The silence was like a weight hanging around his neck. Not an insect noise, not the chirp of a bird, not the sound of a car nor the scream Charles sighed. Chance. That was it! The laws of probability, the bell-shaped curve, normal distribution, rectilinear regression. More people per square foot in New York than elsewhere. The first person who died was from New York, so the last person who gave way to the disease should come from here too. Spin the wheel throw the dice assumptions about good and evil, no need for teleological arguments concerning cause and effect. Simply explain it by chance. Somebody had to be the last to go and that was— \"No,\" Charles said, standing up in the quiet of the spring evening. \"No, chance won't do it. No man can reckon with chance. The mind sleep out the long one, no place to rest while time came to change things around and make them for the better. No place to hide. satisfaction. It took almost three hours to find the right sort of casket, durable but not too heavy for one man to handle. He carted it out to a grassy plot close to the center of the park where the grave it down over him. \"I can't very well bury myself,\" he said. \"I guess it will rain after \"'In this now hallowed corner of the planet Earth—' No. That sounds too ... too....\" Make it simple, he thought. And he finally wrote: HERE LIES THE BODY OF THE LAST MAN ON EARTH Yes. That was it. Simple. Let whoever came afterwards figure out the Charles was hungry. He got up and started for one of the restaurants smallpox. The vaccination never took. That's probably it.\" He smiled. Strange, but now he wanted very much to go on living, alone or not. There were things he could do, ways to keep occupied. quickly repressed the idea. It couldn't be the plague. He was immune! Another burst of pulsating, shattering pain crashed through his body, tearing down the defenses of his mind, putting an end of his thoughts Charles struggled to end his body's disorganized responses, to minutes. It was a matter of forgetting time and measuring space. He concentrated on the grave he forced his body to become an unwilling Charles refused to think. Machines, especially half-broken machines, do Convulsions shook his body like a cat shakes a captive mouse. He humped his body forward between the seizures, hands outstretched, searching for the grave. sapped the last bit of his energy, corroding his nerves and dying muscles. Now he knew, and the knowing was the end of it. into it, swinging senseless in the air, pointing accusingly at the empty coffin. The world will end, not with a bang, nor with a whimper, but with the last man's anguished cry at the unreasonableness of it all. \"It is finished?\" asked the second. \"Yes. Just now. I am resting.\" \"I can feel the emptiness of it.\" \"It was very good. Where were you?\" and sloughed softly to the ground (read the names: Looman, Loomana, Loomanabsky). It was not until the dusty morning sun stirred up the breezes that they fluttered down into the shallow hole beneath, unnoticed. The writing on the metal, until then partially obscured by the papers, became legible: HERE LIES THE BODY OF THE LAST MAN ON EARTH— CHARLES J. ZZYZST GO TO HELL!\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the name of the song Charles plays on the phonograph?\n\n<options>:\nA The Land of the Dead\nB The Isle of the Dead\nC The Song of the Dead\nD The Night of the Dead\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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2,102 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nSara lets the Lyft park itself in the drive, lets out a sigh, and tweets wish me luck plus some emojis before slipping her phone into a hoody pocket. Curtains twitch, and before she can get her bag out of the back Mom is there, right there next to her, their hands touching on the handle as they compete for control. much of a failure.\" Mom sighs, shoulders falling, looks at Sara directly. \"I'm sorry honey.\" She looks old, Sara thinks, watching a resigned tiredness flicker across her face in a way she'd not noticed before. Like she's exhausted by conflict, surrendered to it. \"Now, don't I get a hug?\" Sara smiles. They hold each other for a few long seconds, rubbing and squeezing each other as the Lyft silently backs itself out of the driveway. When they part it's Mom's hand that's on the bag's handle. Inside she unwraps herself from scarves and layers, the heat in the house almost a shock after the cold air. Michigan in February. Mom is already halfway up the stairs, bag in tow, headed for her room. \"Mom, just leave that and I'll…\" 'We know what really makes America great' Sara finds herself in the front room, sobbing. \"Yeah. Fine. Y'know. Same as always.\" He smiles back at her, nods knowingly. Their first words in nearly a year. Fine. So far. She relaxes. Of course it is. How bad could it be? \"I thought I was gonna come pick you up from the airport?\" \"No, no it's not. We always fight. And I know that's mainly my fault-\" 'Well, now, c'mon-\" \"No, it is. It's my fault. I got myself into thinking we can never agree on anything, that we can never see eye to eye. That we've got nothing in common anymore.\" She lifts her head to look up at him. \"But I know that's wrong. That I shouldn't assume things about you. That there's still things that can bring us together.\" He grins back at her. \"Like Super Bowl ads?\" She laughs. \"I guess. But you know what I mean, really.\" \"Ah, no. I got a cab. I didn't want to bother you.\" She straightens herself up, wipes her eyes. Suddenly feels a little self conscious. \"Sure. Let me just go freshen up first.\" \"Of course honey.\" Mom and Dad watch Sara leave the room, and then look at each other. \"Well.\" \"Well indeed.\" \"I'm glad you think this is funny, I really do. But what you New York types need to realise is-\" \"Ed!\" Mom had appeared in the doorway. \"Please! Both of you. No fighting today, please.\" \"Sheryl-\" \"No. I don't want to hear you two as much as disagreeing about anything today, unless it's about the game. And even then you'd better keep it civil. Otherwise you can both go hungry. Understand?\" Awkward pause. \"Fine.\" \"Sorry Mom.\" Sara turns back to the TV, to watching the war, to trying to work out which one it is. It had always been this way, ever since she was about thirteen. Up until then it just seemed like constant warmth, as though she didn't have any childhood concept of Dad apart from him getting home from work, then her sitting on his knee, eating cookies and watching football highlights until Mom came in and scolded them both for ruining their appetites before dinner. And then everything changed. Suddenly there was rap music and nose rings, sneaking out of the house to see her friends and not wanting to go to church. Suddenly he was no longer this lovable bear-man that ruffled her hair and gave her candy and explained defensive plays to her, but this huge obelisk of injustice that just wanted to crush her high school life into dust. It was constant warfare So they didn't talk much now, barely online, never on the phone. Since her second year of school he'd never been to NYC to visit her. She came back when she could face it sometimes for birthdays, sometimes for Thanksgiving. Maybe for Christmas. But somehow always, like now, for the Super Bowl. Like football was the one thing they still had, that one thing they could still sit in the same room together for. Shouting at players, screaming at the ref, laughing at the ads. Dad is in the bathroom, and Sara has had enough of Fox and whichever war this is. She reaches over and grabs the remote from the arm of his chair, and tries to find something else to watch. The government had scrapped all the rules about how the internet worked, and for most people like her parents it had suddenly gotten a lot cheaper to get their TV through Facebook, so all she can find is Dinner is Mom's meatloaf, with gravy and mashed potatoes. Cornbread and broccoli. Every mouthful tastes like nostalgia, and Sara can feel herself being encompassed by a bubble, this barrier of warm air and long forgotten simplicity enveloping her body, protecting her from the confusion of the world outside. \"How's work, honey?\" Mom asks. \"Yeah, going OK.\" Sara works for a non-profit in Brooklyn that helps big organisations to transition to renewable energy. The pay is lousy but it feels important. \"We just got the last few schools in the city to agree to put solar panels on their roofs. Big deal for us. I've been working on them for the last two years.\" advertising now? Do you just hate everything about America?\" Sara looks over to Mom, who looks like she's on the brink of tears. Suddenly she finds she's also lost the will to fight. Gently she closes the iPad and puts it down on the table, next to her plate. \"No, of course not Dad. Maybe I'll read this later, after the game.\" After dinner she helps Mom clean-up, the two of them loading the dishwasher in near silence. She's leaning against the counter, scrolling through Twitter on her phone, when Mom finally speaks. Sara slips her phone into her pocket, genuine guilt. Feels like a spoiled kid. \"I didn't realise. I'm sorry.\" Mom smiles, walks over and kisses her on the forehead. \"It's OK honey. Don't feel bad. Just go. Just go sit in there with him and watch some TV. Please.\" Out in the kitchen Sara sits at the table and wants to scream. She's angry, mainly with herself. She should never have fucking come here. She should have known better. There was never any fucking way anything good was going to come from this. As much as Mom wants to romanticise things, to make them sound cute and adorable, the truth is shit with Dad has never been right since she was a teenager. Too much resentment, too much bad blood, too much control and rebellion. They hadn't agreed on anything - they hadn't managed to have a simple conversation that didn't descend into fighting - in 15 goddamn years, and no amount of eating cookies and watching fucking Super Bowl ads on the TV was going to fix that. She sighs, wipes a tear from her cheek. On autopilot she takes her phone from her pocket, feels its reassuring warmth in her hand, and swipes open Twitter. Everybody seems to be talking about the same thing.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the primary significance of the final scene?\n\n<options>:\nA It shows that Sheryl is going to be okay in the end\nB It shows a subversion of expectations to add irony to the story\nC It shows that the media control runs deeper than the reader might have expected\nD It shows that Ed and Sara will really be able to settle their differences\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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649 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIt was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked “You awake, Eddie?” enough training in the subject to know how to handle that isotope safely,” Mr. Taylor said. “But, Dad,” Eddie wondered, “what could they do with it?” “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” “They could study it,” his father explained. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where During dinner Eddie wasn’t sure just what dream,” he said. “Plain as day. It was out on bother his father with any more questions. He asked if he could go over and visit with Teena “Do you believe in dreams, Dad?” he and Teena sometimes walked along the beach barefoot, collecting sea shells. Today Eddie had no desire to do that. He ran down the block. Teena answered his knock. Eddie pulled on his trousers and T shirt finger into his mouth, and unhooked the small rubber bands from his tooth braces. He dropped them into the waste basket. He’d “Oh, yes,” Eddie affirmed. “He was the one who ordered the isotope.” “What’s an isotope?” Teena asked. radioisotope is, Eddie.” “I’ll say,” Eddie agreed. “Of course, only to school. I’m expecting to receive shipment of a new radioisotope today.” The very word excited Eddie. In fact, anything guess,” Eddie said. “Most atoms stay in one vacations, too?” Eddie asked. One reason for Eddie had learned not to ask questions about he wanted known, so Eddie stuck to worry. We’ll take a week or so off before school starts in the fall. Maybe head for the mountains with our tent and sleeping bags.” “And Geiger counter?” Eddie asked eagerly. “Wouldn’t think of leaving it home,” his blow up.” “Boy, that sounds dangerous,” Teena said. “Well, they know just how to do it,” Eddie replied. “I will,” Eddie promised. He had forgotten several times before, weakening the batteries. 17 not actually using it.” them. Remember to switch it off when you’re think of something more for him to do. over his hasty retreat. “What are you going to do?” “Think I’ll do a little prospecting,” Eddie said. “Where?” “Probably in the hills beyond the college,” Eddie said. The more he thought about it, the more he realized it was a little late in the day 18 “Are you going alone?” his mother asked. “Oh, guess I’ll stop by and see if Teena wants to go,” Eddie answered casually. He tried to make it sound as though he would be doing Teena Ross a big favor. After all, she was only a girl. Eddie didn’t figure a girl would make a very good uranium prospecting freedom, racing back and forth as Eddie “You mean it’s hot?” Teena asked. “It’s hot,” Eddie said, “but not like if it Teena—lived at the far end of the block. Eddie went around to the side door of the light-green stucco house and knocked. “Oh, hi, Eddie,” Teena greeted him, appearing “Well, I—I just happened to be going by,” Eddie said. “Thought you might want to watch me do a little prospecting with the Geiger counter. But maybe you’re too busy.” That’s how to handle it, Eddie thought. Don’t act anxious. Let Teena be anxious. Then maybe she’ll even offer to bring along a couple of sandwiches or some fruit. “That’s about it,” Eddie said. “My dad says “What kind was the one stolen from the college today?” Teena asked. “Dad didn’t say exactly,” Eddie answered, “except he did say that if whoever took it Eddie went inside and followed Teena to the kitchen. He felt triumphant about the Eddie nodded. It was even more serious out all right,” Teena’s mother said. “So do I,” Teena agreed. Eddie glanced at the kitchen clock. “Oh, Eddie knew she was right. They were since Eddie’s family had moved to Oceanview boy,” he said, “I’d better be heading back “Oh, I don’t really mind, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said. “Besides, Teena’s making sandwiches to take with us.” “Another prospecting trip?” Teena’s mother glanced at the Geiger counter which Eddie had set carefully on the dinette table. Eddie,” she said, “but I wouldn’t quite know how to go about feeding an atom.” “Or greasing one,” Teena added. Eddie laughed. “I sure wouldn’t want the job of trying to feed a herd of them the size of hikes.” 22 “Oh, yes, it’s fun, Mother,” Teena replied, a period,” he said. “Did you know that there too.” “Don’t go too far out from town,” Mrs. Ross cautioned, as Eddie picked up the Geiger “What are we talking about, Eddie?” counter. “And stick near the main roads. They walked past the college campus, and toward the rocky foothills beyond. At various rock mounds and outcroppings, Eddie switched on the Geiger counter. The needle but Eddie knew these indicated no more than had hiked and searched most of the forenoon, Eddie said, “We might as well call it a day, Teena. Doesn’t seem to be anything out here.” “It’s all right with me,” Teena agreed, “All right,” Eddie said. “You know, one of these days I’d like to go out to Cedar Point and scout around. Maybe we’ll find something there.” Then he told Teena about his dream. Teena smiled. “A dream sure isn’t much to It was midafternoon by the time they arrived back at Teena’s house. They worked a while on a new jigsaw puzzle Teena had received on a recent birthday. Then Eddie said good-by and went on down the street toward his After putting Sandy on his long chain and filling his water dish, Eddie went in the back door. He put the Geiger counter in the closet and saw Eddie. in Eddie’s mind about something being whether Eddie had discovered any uranium ore that day. Always before, he had shown genuine interest in Eddie’s prospecting trips. “Dad,” Eddie said anxiously, “what—what’s the matter?” wrong, Eddie,” he said, “and I guess there’s “Eddie, you remember me mentioning this “What does that mean, Dad?” Eddie asked, At the moment, Eddie didn’t pry for further information on the theft of the valuable radioactive isotope. His father had plenty on his “Fifty pounds,” Eddie said thoughtfully. “That’s a pretty big thing to steal, isn’t it?” “Not when it’s lead, son,” his father replied. “Kid?” His father smiled thinly. “We don’t think it was any kid, Eddie. Not by a long shot. The whole thing was carefully planned and carefully carried out. It was not the work Eddie read the newspaper account. The “But, Dad,” Eddie continued, “how would\n\n<question>:\nWhat dream does Eddie have and why is it significant?\n\n<options>:\nA Eddie has a dream about prospecting with his father at Cedar point. This dream is what inspires him to find out what happened to the missing isotope by searching the hills behind the college.\nB Eddie has a dream about prospecting with his father’s Geiger counter. The dream is what inspires his hike to Cedar Point.\nC Eddie has a dream about prospecting with his father’s Geiger counter. The dream is what inspires Eddie to go over to Teena’s house and teach her about isotopes.\nD Eddie has a dream about prospecting with his father’s Geiger counter. The dream is what inspires the hike he has with Teena.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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1,578 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nMoran cut apart the yard-long monstrosity with a slash of flame. The thing presumably died, but it continued to writhe senselessly. He turned to see other horrors crawling toward him. Then he knew he was being marooned on a planet of endless terrors. Moran, naturally, did not mean to help in the carrying out of the plans which would mean his destruction one way or another. The plans were thrashed out very painstakingly, in formal conference on the space-yacht Nadine's ship's company, it was simply necessary to get rid of Moran. In their predicament he might have come to the same conclusion but he was not at all enthusiastic about their Moran observed these things from the control-room of the watched out the same ports as the planet seemed to approach. Burleigh said encouragingly \"It doesn't look too bad, Moran!\" heard something. It was a thin, wabbling, keening whine. No natural radiation sounds like that. Moran nodded toward the all-band speaker. \"Do you hear what I do?\" he asked sardonically. \"Hm ... Call the others, Harper.\" Harper, prudently with him in the control-room, put his head into the passage leading away. He called. But Moran observed with grudging respect that he didn't give him a chance to do anything drastic. These people on the unquestioned at any other space-port and take off again—provided the had clearance papers covering five persons aboard—four men and a girl Carol. Moran made six. Wherever the yacht landed, such a disparity between its documents and its crew would spark an investigation. A lengthy, incredibly minute investigation. Moran, at least, would be picked out as a fugitive from Coryus Three. The others were fugitives too, from some unnamed world Moran did not know. They might be sent back where they came from. In effect, with six people on board instead of five, the Nadine could not land anywhere for supplies. With five on board, as her papers declared, she could. And Moran was the extra man whose presence would rouse space-port officials' suspicion of the rest. So he had to be dumped. He couldn't blame them. He'd made another difficulty, too. Blaster in needed to make a planet-fall for this. The rest of the ship's company came into the control-room. Burleigh waved his hand at the speaker. \"Listen!\" be a long time ago, though.\" \"It's weak,\" observed Burleigh. \"We'll try answering it.\" Moran stirred, and he knew that every one of the others was conscious of the movement. But they didn't watch him suspiciously. They were alert by expected, and start it up again. Moran considered the story probable. Only people accustomed to desperate actions would have remained so calm when Moran had used desperate measures against them. Burleigh picked up the transmitter-microphone. \"Calling ground,\" he said briskly. \"Calling ground! We pick up your provide food in a minimum of time. It was not an encouraging thought, though, and Moran grimaced. She hadn't said anything about being sorry that he had to be marooned. they had revolted, and what sort of set-back to the revolt had sent the five off in what they considered a strategic retreat but their government would think defeat. Moran's own situation was perfectly clear. He'd killed a man on Coryus III. His victim would not be mourned by very important, and the fact that Moran had forced him to fight and killed him in fair combat made no difference. Moran had needed to get space-traffic required a ship on landing to deposit its fuel-block in the space-port's vaults. The fuel-block was not returned until clearance for departure had been granted. But Moran had waylaid the messenger carrying the Nadine's dogged the door shut, and threaded in the first trip-tape to come to hand. He punched the take-off button and only seconds later the overdrive. Then the yacht—and Moran—was away. But his present companions got the drive dismantled two days later and once the yacht leaden skies. It was attached to a large cylindrical object of which the fore part was crushed in. The other landing-fins could be traced. \"It's a ship,\" said Moran curtly. \"It crash-landed and its crew set up a signal to call for help. None came, or they'd have turned the beacon off. Maybe they got the lifeboats to work and got away. Maybe they lived explore.\" \"Aye, aye, sir,\" said Moran with irony. \"Very kind of you, sir. You'll go armed, sir?\" \"Then since I can't be trusted with a weapon,\" said Moran, \"I suggest that I take a torch. We may have to burn through that loathesome stuff to get in the ship.\" \"Right,\" growled Burleigh again. \"Brawn and Carol, you'll keep ship. The rest of us wear suits. We don't know what that stuff is outside.\" Moran silently went to the space-suit rack and began to get into a easily as in ship-clothing. The others of the landing-party donned their special garments with the brisk absence of fumbling that these people displayed in every action. \"If there's a lifeboat left,\" said Carol suddenly, \"Moran might be able to do something with it.\" \"Ah, yes!\" said Moran. \"It's very likely that the ship hit hard enough to kill everybody aboard, but not smash the boats!\" \"Somebody survived the crash,\" said Burleigh, \"because they set up a beacon. I wouldn't count on a boat, Moran.\" \"I don't!\" snapped Moran. He flipped the fastener of his suit. He felt all the openings catch. He seen no moving thing outside, but arms were simple sanity on an unknown world. Moran, though, would not be permitted a weapon. He picked up a torch. They filed into the airlock. The inner door closed. The outer landed. Moran moved scornfully \" Moran grunted. Distastefully, he saw his predicament made worse. He knew what had happened here. He could begin to guess at other things to be generally, the weird landscape became less than incredible. But it remained actively unpleasant to think of being marooned on it. \"Suppose we go look at the ship?\" said Moran unpleasantly. \"Maybe you can find out where you are, and I can find out what's ahead of me.\" He climbed up on the unscorched surface. It was elastic. The skin and be floundering in this mess.\" \"I'm giving the orders, Moran!\" said Burleigh shortly. \"But what you say does make sense.\" He and the others joined Moran on the yielding surface. Their footing was uncertain, as on a trampoline. They staggered. They moved toward the hillock which was a covered-over wrecked ship. somehow sedate. Moran heard muffled noises in his helmet-phone as the others tried to speak. Carol's voice came anxiously \" It was to be noted that Hallet the engineer, avoided the huge harmless creature more widely than most. They reached the mound which was the ship. Moran unlimbered his torch. He said sardonically \"This ship won't do anybody any good. It's old-style. That thick belt crew. His fate would then be sealed. But they also would be . They need not maroon him. In fact, they wouldn't dare. A ship that came in to port with two few on board would be investigated as thoroughly as one that had too many. Perhaps more thoroughly. So if Harper were killed, Moran would be needed to take his place. He'd go on from here in the\n\n<question>:\nWhy does the crew get off the ship with Moran?\n\n<options>:\nA The ship's supplies are low. They are hunting for edible creatures.\nB The crew needs to gather information to compare against the Galactic Directory. Then they can figure out where they are, so they can get where they are going.\nC The ship's supplies are low. They are going to raid the ship that sent the distress call.\nD They want to hand off Moran to the crew of the ship that sent the distress call.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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1,905 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nShe surely got her wish ... but there was some question about getting and quietly handsome, had an alive, excited look. And the faint lines around his dark, deep-set eyes were accentuated when he smiled at his wife. \"All set, honey. How do I look in my monkey suit?\" far. She said, \"You look fine, Phil. You look just right.\" She managed a tray on the maple coffee table and took another from the pack. He came to her and touched his hands to her soft blond hair, raising her face until she was looking into his eyes. \"You're the most beautiful ritual but her voice broke, and she turned her head away. Phil sat beside her and put his arm around her small shoulders. He had stopped smiling. \"Honey, look at me,\" he said. \"It isn't going to be bad. Honestly it isn't. We know exactly how it will be. If anything could go wrong, they wouldn't be sending me you know that. I told you that we've sent five un-manned ships up and everyone came back without a hitch.\" She turned, facing him. There were tears starting in the corners of her wide, brown eyes, and she brushed them away with her hand. \"Phil, don't go. Please don't. They can send Sammy. Sammy doesn't have a wife. Can't he go? They'd understand, Phil. Please!\" She was holding his arms tightly with her hands, and the color had drained from her cheeks. \"Mary, you know I can't back out now. How could I? It's been three years. You know how much I've wanted to be the first man to go. Nothing would ever be right with me again if I didn't go. Please don't make it hard.\" He stopped talking and held her to him and stroked the back of her head. He could feel her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. He released her and stood up. \"I've got to get started, Mary. Will you come to the field with me?\" \"Yes, I'll come to say good-by.\" She paused and dropped her eyes. \"Phil, be here because I won't be the wife of a space pilot for the rest of my love you, I just couldn't take that, Phil. I'm sorry. I guess I'm not \"I wish you had told me this a long time ago, Mary,\" Phil said. His wife of a space pilot. But I don't think I ever really believed it was It's so stupid to jeopardize everything we've got for a ridiculous dream!\" He sat down on the edge of the couch and took her hands between his. \"Mary, listen to me,\" he said. \"It isn't a dream. It's real. There's again. I'd be through.\" She looked at him without seeing him, and there was nothing at all in her eyes. \"Thanks, sergeant. I'll be seeing you next week,\" Phil said, and smiled. turned off the ignition, and sat quietly for a moment before lighting a cigarette. Then he looked at his wife. She was staring through the windshield at the rocket two hundred yards away. Its smooth polished \"She's beautiful, Mary. You've never seen her before, have you?\" \"No, I've never seen her before,\" she said. \"Hadn't you better go?\" Her voice was strained and she held her hands closed tightly in her lap. \"Please go now, Phil,\" she said. \"Good-by, darling,\" she said. \"Wish me luck, Mary?\" he asked. \"Yes, good luck, Phil,\" she said. He opened the car door and got out. \"Mary, I—\" he began, and then turned and strode toward the Phil had worn earlier. When he came into the room, the noise and bustle \"Hello, Phil. We were beginning to think you weren't coming. You all set, son?\" \"Yes, sir, I'm all set, I guess,\" Phil said. \"I'd like you to meet the Secretary of Defense, Phil. He's over here by the radar.\" waved to him, but he didn't smile. Phil wanted to talk to him, to say \"How do you do, sir. I'm very proud to meet you,\" Phil said. \"On the contrary, colonel. I'm very proud to meet you. I've been looking at that ship out there and wondering. I almost wish I were a young man again. I'd like to be going. It's a thrilling thought—man's first colonel. It's a privilege few men have ever had and those who have had it didn't realize it at the time. Good luck, and God be with you.\" \"Thank you, sir. I'm aware of all you say. It frightens me a little.\" The general took Phil's arm and they walked to the briefing room. There front of a huge chart of the solar system. Phil took his seat, and the last minute briefing began. It was a routine he knew by heart. He had gone over and over it a thousand times, and he only half listened now. He kept thinking of Mary outside, alone by the fence. The voice of the briefing officer was a dull hum in his ears. \"... And orbit at 18,000-mph. You will then accelerate for the breakaway Phil asked a few questions about weather and solar conditions. And then the session was done. They rose and looked at each other, the same unanswered questions on each man's face. There were forced smiles and handshakes. They were ready now. \"Phil,\" the general said, and took him aside. \"Sir?\" \"Phil, you're ... you feel all right, don't you, son?\" \"Yes, sir. I feel fine. Why?\" \"Phil, I've spent nearly every day with you for three years. I know you better than I know myself in many ways. And I've studied the psychologist's reports on you carefully. Maybe it's just nervousness, Phil, but I think there's something wrong. Is there?\" \"No, sir. There's nothing wrong,\" Phil said, but his voice didn't carry conviction. He reached for a cigarette. \"Phil, if there is anything—anything at all—you know what it might mean. You've got to be in the best mental and physical condition of your success. I think there is something more than just natural apprehension wrong with you. Want to tell me?\" the rocket. For ten hours, the final check-outs had been in progress and now the men were checking again, on their own time. The thing they had worked toward for six years was ready to happen, and each one felt Her hands moved slowly over the top of the fence, twisting the barbs of wire. But her eyes were on the ship. And then they were ready. A small group of excited men came out from the administration building and moved forward. The check-out crews climbed alone, one man climbed the steel ladder up the side of the rocket—ninety feet into the air. At the top he waved to the men on the Mary waved to him. \"Good-by,\" she said to herself, but the words stuck tight in her throat. from deep inside, a rumble came, increasing in volume to a gigantic roar that shook the earth and tore at the ears. Slowly, the first manned herself. And then she felt the touch of a hand on her arm. She turned. \"Phil! Oh, Phil.\" She held tightly to him and repeated his name over and over. \"They wouldn't let me go, Mary,\" he said finally. \"The general would not let me go.\" She looked at him. His face was drawn tight, and there were tears on his cheeks. \"Thank, God,\" she said. \"It doesn't matter, darling. The only \"You're right, Mary,\" he said. His voice was low—so low she could hardly hear him. \"It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now.\" He stood with\n\n<question>:\nHow does Phil respond to Mary's concerns regarding the space mission?\n\n<options>:\nA He strives to communicate that he should not have to choose between his relationship and his lifelong passion\nB He lovingly teases her about her emotions, but ultimately them as unfounded and hyperbolic\nC He tries to present reassuring evidence and be honest about his fears if he is not allowed to fulfill the mission\nD He insists that she trusts in his competency and readiness for the mission at hand\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\njust random ones. I think I’m trying to capture pictures of people that help others see what they’re about. Some photographers will make someone look the way the photographer wants them to look, and not the way they appear, so they’ll pick the one picture out of 100 where the guy looks more egotistical than he really is. Some photographers are almost medical, and are going after a perfect portrait. I’m somewhere in between. It’s amazing how many people will upload snapshots of people where the pictures don’t look like them at all. To me, uploading a picture that is not an easily recognizable picture of that person defeats the point, which I’m working toward, to try to express who they are. On the other hand, professional photographers usually have a subject whom they don’t know personally, so they end up having to try to capture an image that they’ve created based on who they think the person is or how they want person is nervous, it’s very difficult to try to see what it is that you’re trying to capture. A lot of what I’m doing is, I just start shooting photos. After half an hour of having their picture taken, people start to ignore you. Or I’ll take pictures when I’m talking to people about what they’re doing, so after a while they get distracted by the conversation and forget about the camera. That’s something that I’m not perfect at, but I’m getting better. I think good photographers are also able to disarm people through conversation, but still, it’s difficult to have a disarming conversation with somebody you don’t know, or to make them laugh. Many times people photographer. For instance, a board meeting picture, like the one with Eric Saltzman: that was during a very tense discussion. I’ve found that people are at There’s a paradox: with many people’s Wikipedia articles to which I’ve contributed, when it comes to the picture, many of these people don’t have any free photos of themselves on the web, so while they are “notable” on Wikipedia, their images aren’t free of the copyright of the photographer, or the institution who hired the photographer to take the picture. Often, even the subject of the article can’t make an image available to the Wikimedia/Wikipedia community. This means that a lot of people who have a Net presence have a legally all the time, “By the way, do you have a photo that we can use?” But they don’t. By making these pictures available under a Creative Commons license, now they do. This is solving the issue of legal freedom. pictures for something positive, rather than for something negative. The benefits greatly outweigh the risks. I think we spend way too much of our lives worrying about the risks, at the cost of a lot of the person. Now they can get a picture that represents the person, at least from my perspective. That said, I shouldn’t be the only person doing this. More people should do the same, and make the photographs available freely. For one, I feel that “free” CC licensed photos have a much higher chance of not disappearing. But I don’t know exactly how these happy with this, and I’m happy, and the Berkman Center’s happy because they’re not all pictures of people sitting at desks in the Berkman Center. There’s one more important thing: Creative Commons is great for original creative works or derivative creative works, but when it That’s a good question. I think that at least Creative Commons has become much more mainstream. Creative Commons has moved from a fringy goes on. Many people are asking: can you make money and share? The answer is, yes. CC is becoming an important part of the business discussion. But one thing that happens when a movement like CC becomes a business thing, is that a lot of the pioneers fade into the background, and it becomes a part of industry. This happened to the Internet. And so while you still have the core people who still remember and hold the torch for affordable and ubiquitous. The second part is the strong movement of participants who fight to keep the Internet open and try to prevent the right now is a good example of the importance of continuing to balance these principles with business interests. Similarly, I think that business interests can help make Creative Commons ubiquitous and more easily accessible to everyone. However, I think it’s important to remember to keep pushing to make content more “free” and not allow businesses to use Creative Commons in exploitive or destructive ways. In addition to the business side, Creative Commons is being used by the United States. Although the United States is still slightly farther ahead in terms of commercialization, the size of the whole free culture movement outside of the United States is huge now. The CC China Photo exhibit was just amazing. There were some great images, and a lot of the photographers were professionals. This is beyond what anybody has done in the US. A lot of the progress that we’re making is international. What are your personal realizations or experiences? Well, we’re all getting old, if you look at these pictures. But there’s another thing, though, about this book: the number of professional-quality amateurs has increased significantly due to the importance of digital in both professional and high-end amateur photography I hate to say it, a lot of people love the darkroom, but it really feels like the death of the darkroom with this year. With new 22 megapixel cameras coming in under $10,000, and Lightroom and some of this software at a couple hundred dollars, it doesn’t really make sense, except for particularly fussy artists, to do wet-work anymore. If you’re a commercial photographer or a high-end amateur, you can do anything you used to do in the darkroom. I think it has really lowered the bar. I don’t know how that affects the industry directly, have my darkroom anymore, I still was shooting 6x6 Hasselblad 120 film and processing it in a special lab, and then digitizing it. For me, that film was it. You could never get as good as medium-format film or large-format film At the time, the digital Hasselblad backs were too expensive, and were still not as good as 8x10 film. So there was this whole period where the I could use my old gear, and it had enough megapixels to be as good as some film. a technology breakthrough, let’s call it that, that allowed me to switch completely away from film, and I think this happened to a lot of photographers. It caused an explosion of content and an increase in the quality of content on sites like Flickr. It has allowed amateurs to create a business model with professionals. Interestingly, I think these new high-end amateurs are buying more photography books and photographs and are probably providing an increasing revenue stream for professional photographers. I think most amateurs, including myself, are paying homage to the professionals and not trying to “compete” with them. Despite the existence of social software, what is still important about meeting people face-to-face? friends, than I’ve met in any other year. I know my travels were crazy, but I think that the online world has allowed me to do that. What’s great about photography is that it captures the moment that I was rich experience. It’s the combination of social software and photography. For me, reality is “the present” plus what you remember from the past. I think this being able to connect with people through social software mostly increases your travel, it doesn’t decrease it. It is great because you get to meet all these people. But it is bad for the environment, and bad Specifically, I think that trying to keep an international focus and a balance between business and the non-business elements of the movement is essential. My job is to keep that focus and maintain that balance. Also, CC needs to run smoothly as an organization and there is a lot of operational work that we all need to do. My photography is a way for me to participate in a small measure on the creative side of the Free participants who aren’t so well known and who are essential to moving everything forward. Personally, I don’t think it’s ultimately meaningful to talk about one\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the author's grievance against photographers?\n\n<options>:\nA Photographers are too concerned with bending an image to fit their incomplete or inaccurate perspective of a subject\nB Too many photographers are flocking over to digital art, signaling the death knell of darkroom photography\nC Photographers are more interested in personal financial gain than supporting the vitality of their industry\nD There are too many photographers competing for the same creative opportunities\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\non Mars was humane about sending me? oxygen for the return trip (Jones assures me there'll be a return trip to Mars. He was always getting trip), and the air's only a little bit me . \"It'll be the biggest break a writer ever got,\" he told me, two days before blastoff. \"Oh, sure there'll be scientific reports on the trip, but the public doesn't want Either way, it's better than what Jones calls them. with the help of the aliens. Or maybe June 1960. on things.\" \"But, Louie,\" I said weakly, \"I'll probably be locked up for the whole trip. If there are fights or accidents, they won't tell me about They'll identify with you.\" there's hope, and now he won't talk to me. I congratulated Kroger on a short and unscientific word and went to sleep. So I went on the first trip to what they intend to do with us. Feed us, I hope. So far, they've just left us here, and we're out of rations. They picked the launching date from the March, 1959, New October 1, 1960 Times , which stated that this was the most likely time for launching. Trip time is supposed to take 260 days (that's one way), so we're aimed toward where Mars will be (had better be, or else). There are five of us on board. A on all four sides by running water, enough. Dwight Kroger, the biochemist, is rather old to take the \"rigors of the journey,\" as he puts it, but the blasted off, though, and he's still with us. He looks a damn sight better than I feel. He's kind of balding, and very iron-gray-haired and skinny, but his skin is tan as an Indian's, and right now he's telling in the heart of the planet, says better than starving.\" It is not. June 24, 1961, probably . So is everybody else. Right now I could eat a dinner raw, in a centrifuge, and keep it itself out into airless space. (they call it the bulkhead, for some reason or other) island before he made the far side. had to lift him out of the swirling he's probably got them on his face, too. So far, all he's said is, \"Scram, I'm busy.\" scales. They had melted down in during blastoff. The inertial gravities outside of their watched them more closely and seen that they have long rubbery now and then suck up water from today. Not me. October 2, 1960 Feeling much washes away (from the inside, of course) the sugar they need for energy. I knew the formula for carbohydrate. tall and does Like plants, on Earth, he said. Except, instead of using special shape of the on the way to the galley (the October 3, 1960 Well, I've spoke to him, and it sounded like Flants. That can't be right. Also, I am one of the first five again.\" \"I dunno,\" said Jones. \"Remember those of starvation.\" The hell it is. June 24, 1961, for sure mines. That's what they use those out of a carton. Right now we're using It looks like a long trip. October 4, 1960 I won I went to the galley for coffee got back to the ship quickly. First on Mars?\" We're going back . Pat says that a week is all we were allowed to stay and that it's urgent to return and tell what we've learned about Mars (we know there are When I got back to my compartment, them now, by the time we get back we'll be yesterday's news. This way shortly after landing.\" uses his first name as a gag. Some fun. And only 255 days to go. April 1, 1961 I've skipped over the last 177 days or so, because there's nothing This time it wasn't so bad. I much new. I brought some books Mars, so escape velocity didn't about Vanity Fair , (relatively) trip on our shock-absorbing time I'll be the one to quit. War and Peace , Gone with Babbitt . They didn't take as long as I thought they would, except for Vanity Fair Mars. And I kept a diary. This is it when he'd pulled a particularly good gag. Some fun. And only 78 days to go. June 1, 1961 Only 17 days to go. I saw Mars on the screen today. It seems to be Pat has declared a state of emergency. Earth for instructions. We can't. Here we are, somewhere in a void headed for Earth, with enough air and water left for maybe three days—if the Martians don't take any more. Kroger is thrilled that he is June 18, 1961 the whole screen Mars has again. We're going to land, so I have to go to my bunk. It's all did me at takeoff. Earth seems awfully Kroger put us all into a state of suspended animation till landing time, eight months away. Kroger said, \"How?\" June 27, 1961 the air is getting worse. Pat suggested got to set up camp, then get instructions from Earth. So we just have to wait. The air is very cold, but the Sun is hot as hell when it hits you. round and smooth. No lichen so far. Kroger says June 28, 1961 The AFAR system is no more and the water gauges are still dropping. June 20, 1961 Got lost today. Kroger suggests baking bread, then slicing it, then toasting it till the rocket behind me. Walked for maybe an hour then the oxygen gauge got past the halfway mark, got back they were gone. However, After maybe ten steps, the rocket couldn't have guessed at the carbohydrates present in the bread after a lifelong diet of anthracite. Pat I certainly hope so. So does Kroger. Brief reprieve for us. The and the gauge has gone up a notch. That means that we have a quart of water in the tanks for drinking. However, the air's a bit better, the rocket. Worse and worse . Lloyd At least I think they were footprints. Twice as long as mine, and three times as wide, but kind of featureless because the sand's loose and dry. They doubled back on themselves, spaced considerably Well, it's time for takeoff. to make a landing. carry us to Earth and we can die always meant to read and never them, nor the jeep, on my trip back. So we followed the wheel tracks for had the time. So now I know all made of carbohydrates, too. I'd rather not have known. back yet, either. June 21, 1961 We're not idea. I guess before another windstorm blows you know the rest of , my diary aboard, and towed the the \"captured Martian\" leaked out, And we're locking up the ship. It's later until the dismantling of the and we all became nine-day wonders rocket. the jeep to follow the aliens' on a Martian. The trail ended at the brink of and hydrostatic pressure and crystalline life, but in no time at all in a few weeks. It looks like the five of us have abetted an invasion from Mars. Needless to say, we're no longer setting, so we're waiting till tomorrow to go down. inside of the crevice, but the Sun's to sign on for the flight to Venus scheduled within the next few days—because of our experience. Kroger says there's only enough fuel for a one-way trip. I don't care. mingled with the alien ones, sharp and clear. The aliens seem to have six or seven toes. It varies from print to print. And they're barefoot, too, or else they have the damnedest-looking\n\n<question>:\nWhat portion of the journey was spent in cryosleep?\n\n<options>:\nA 4 months\nB They did not use cryosleep.\nC 6 months\nD 8 months\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nHB73782. Ultroom error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer \"Hello, Joe,\" she answered. It was her brother who lived in Kankakee. \"I'm going to take the baby for a while,\" he said. \"All right, Joe.\" He reached into the pen, picked up the baby. As he did so the baby's knees hit the side of the play pen and young Laughton let out a scream—half from hurt and half from sudden lack of confidence in his child. Around the corner and after the man came a snarling mongrel dog, eyes bright, teeth glinting in the sunlight. The man did not turn as the dog threw himself at him, burying his teeth in his leg. Surprised, the man dropped the screaming child on the lawn and turned to the dog. Joe seemed off balance and he backed up confusedly in the face of the was,\" Nancy told her husband for the tenth time. \"I don't even have a \"Don't you think I know it?\" Nancy said tearfully. \"I feel like I'm don't even want to think about it.\" \"You—you don't believe me at all, do you, Martin?\" When her husband did not answer, her head sank to her arms on the table and she sobbed. \"I'm going with you,\" Nancy said, hurriedly rising and coming over to think he was her brother. She doesn't even have a brother. Then he tried to get away with the baby.\" Martin leaned down and patted the dog. \"It was Tiger here who scared him off.\" \"Not at all. The bank still owns most of the house. I have a few hundred dollars, that's all.\" \"What do you do?\" Nancy had taken a sedative and was asleep by the time Martin finished Martin and Tompkins shook hands. \"The baby—?\" Dr. Stuart asked. \"Upstairs,\" Martin said. \"You'd better get him, Dr. Tompkins, if we're to take him to the opened it and started looking for his checkbook. Dr. Stuart stood by him, making idle comment until Dr. Tompkins came down the stairs with the sleeping baby cuddled against his shoulder. \"Never mind the check, now, Martin. I see we're ready to go.\" He went over to his assistant and took the baby. Together they walked out the front door. Stuart crumpled to the ground, the baby falling to the lawn. Dr. Tompkins whirled and there was a second shot. Dr. Tompkins pitched forward on his face. The figure of a woman ran from the house, retrieved the now squalling infant and ran back into the house. Once inside, Nancy slammed the door, gave the baby to the stunned Martin and headed for the telephone. \"One of them was the same man!\" she cried. Martin gasped, sinking into a chair with the baby. \"I believed them,\" he said slowly and uncomprehendingly. \"They made me believe them!\" must be! I tell you I shot these men who posed as doctors. One of them was the same man who tried to take the baby this afternoon. They hypnotized my husband—\" \"Yes, I know, Mrs. Laughton. We've been through that.\" The sergeant guy carrying your baby, don't you think?\" \"I shot him in the legs. The other—the other turned and I shot him in the chest. I could even see his eyes when he turned around. If I the baby.\" He reached over and smoothed the sleeping Reggie's hair. Nancy, who was rocking the boy, narrowed her eyes. \"I wonder why they want our baby? He's just like any other baby. We don't have any money. We couldn't pay a ransom.\" \"Reggie's pretty cute, though,\" Martin said. \"You will have to admit can't, that's all. I'd be able to think of nothing but that day.\" \"Still thinking about it? I think we'd have heard from them again if they were coming back. They probably got somebody else's baby by this time.\" Martin finished his coffee and rose to kiss her good-bye. \"But keep an eye on Nancy and Reggie and to call the police at the first the child and mother. Reggie, attracted by the sudden noise, looked up to see the approaching vehicle. His mother stood up, set her palms against her cheeks and shrieked. The car came on, crunched over the play pen, killing the child. The mother was hit and instantly killed, force of the blow snapping her spine and tossing her against the house. The car plunged on into a tree, hitting it a terrible blow, crumbling the car's forward end so dogbite, the Laughton dog died that night. His menu evidently didn't agree with him. Never did figure what killed him, actually.\" \"Any record of treatment on the man she shot?\" \"I'll say you wouldn't. The pair must have crawled away to die God knows where.\" \"Getting back to the man who ran over the child and killed Mrs. Laughton. Why did he pretend to be drunk?\" It was the chief's turn to shake his head. \"Your guess is as good as Arvid 6—for John Smith Arvid 6—had lain in that position for Arvid 6 knew Tendal 13 had materialized and was somewhere in the the Ultroom!\" \"I'm sorry, Tendal,\" the man on the cot said. \"I didn't think—\" \"You're absolutely right. You didn't think. Crashing that car into that tree and killing that woman—that was the last straw. You don't you was needed. I volunteered. Imagine that! I volunteered! Tendal 13 reaches the height of stupidity and volunteers to help Arvid 6 go back \"Oh, you've been a joy to be with! First it was that hunt in ancient Mycenae when you let the lion escape the hunters' quaint spears and we were partly eaten by the lion in the bargain, although you dazzled the when her husband mistook me for you and you let him take me apart piece by piece—\" idea of taking Reggie right out of his play pen. 'Watch me take that child right out from under its mother's nose' were your exact words. And before I could stop you, you did. Only you forgot an important factor in the equation—the dog, Tiger. And you nursed a dogbite most of the afternoon before it healed. And then you took your spite out on the poor thing by suggesting suffocation to it that night. \"And speaking of that night, you remember we agreed I was to do the talking. But no, you pulled a switch and captured Martin Laughton's These twentieth century machines aren't what they ought to be,\" Arvid Tendal 13 turned and looked steadily and directly at Arvid 6. \"Do you Arvid 6 flushed, turned away and looked at the floor. Arvid 6 sighed. \"After what you just said I guess it wouldn't amuse \"That's right.\" \"Well, I didn't know what to do. I could see they thought I was drunk, so I was. But they had a blood sample before I could manufacture any of pneumonia for the two-year-old. A simple procedure. It wouldn't work here. Medicine's too far along.\" He produced a notebook. \"The HB92167. Ultroom Error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer Arvid 6 rose from the cot and the two men faced each other. \"Before we leave, Arvid,\" Tendal 13 started to say. \"You remember the chief said it's all right to take him with me, Matthews,\" Tendal 13 told the jailer. \"Yes, I remember,\" the jailer said mechanically, letting them both out Arvid 6, an amused set to his mouth and devilment in his eyes, watched \"Arvid!\" Tendal 13 walked briskly through the door, snatched Arvid 6 by the\n\n<question>:\nWhy do Arvid 6 and Tendal 13 want to take Nancy's baby?\n\n<options>:\nA They took the baby because it is not human.\nB They took the baby to correct a mistake that Arvid 6 made.\nC They took the baby to rescue Kanad.\nD They took the baby for ransom.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] asteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings had he thought they would actually find what they were looking for. \"Cut the drive!\" he yelled at Queazy. \"I've got it, right on the nose. Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes in as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back couldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, so He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out, and thumbed his nose at the signature. \"Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fifty thousand dollars!\" Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face. the atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of the asteroid.\" \"Have it your way,\" Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergram to the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—so called because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the ship straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with star-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia, one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. It rocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm) neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answering ethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. It was, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chance there was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worries asteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space only three weeks. The \"asteroid in your back yard\" idea had been Bob Parker's originally. Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the first rich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid. Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in on Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate to get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer any \"May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?\" reached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. \"I said,\" remarked the girl, \"that you should scram off of my asteroid. go and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commission He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid they hadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigid qualifications Burnside had set down. \"Wait a minute,\" Bob Parker begged nervously. \"I want to make some conversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—\" to move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth. Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. I for this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyard If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back to Queazy said simply, \"That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure you fuming. \"Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across her without a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life, right where it'll do the most good!\" Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floating double-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won't \"It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where it sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood laughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. \"Scram,\" he said coldly. \"We've got an ethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid.\" \"So have we,\" Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed, abreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gave back a step, as he saw their intentions. It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each of Queazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. He no asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space. Alone in a space-suit. There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied the against panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He was probably scrawny. And he was hungry! \"I'll starve,\" he thought. \"Or suffocate to death first!\" gasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy's Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from his scattered us far and wide.\" Queazy's broad, normally good-humored face twisted blackly. \"The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died.\" find out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S. Burnside's granddaughter!\" Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. \"Say that again?\" he snapped. \"This is some kind of dirty trick you and it is to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass of nerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid belt find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able gratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floating plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfully meantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?\" days out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth attach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailed faltering. \"The asteroid—\" \"And ruin your whole life,\" he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back to the control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely to He disappeared from the room. \"Queazy!\" he shouted. \" it! \" It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job, end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they had discovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroid on their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of the Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. \"Go to it, Bob!\" scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for the plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. \"What do you damned fools think you're trying to do?\" he roared. \"You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of our \"I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission!\" screamed Saylor. their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for\n\n<question>:\nWhy were Parker and Queazy voyaging on the trip looking for an asteroid?\n\n<options>:\nA The Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co. was in difficult competition with Saylor & Saylor to get to it first.\nB The Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co. had to have it to prove their business was legitimate.\nC From the request of Andrew Burnside to purchase it\nD From the request of Andrew Burnside to destroy it\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nSlate beer-testing team were coping with lagers and trying to see if they could taste the 3-to-1 price difference between the most- and least-expensive brands. (Click for a wrap-up of the first round of beer tasting.) The answer was: They found one beer they really liked, Samuel Adams Boston Lager , and one they really hated, imported Grolsch from Holland. Both were expensive beers--Grolsch was the most expensive in the test--and otherwise the testers had a hard time telling beers apart. The members of the team, as noted in the original article, all hold day jobs at Microsoft, mainly as designers, managers, and coders for Microsoft Word. The point of the second test was not to find the difference between cheap and expensive beers but instead to compare a variety of top-of-the-line beers. Was there one kind the tasters preferred consistently? Could they detect any of the subtleties of brewing style and provenance that microbrew customers pay such attention to when choosing some Doppelbock over a cream ale? Since the tasting panel had left the first round grumbling that cheap lagers were not a fair test of their abilities, this second round of testing was advertised to the panel as a reward. Every beer in Round 2 would be a fancy beer. A microbrew. A \"craft beer.\" A prestigious import. These were the kinds of beer the panel members said they liked--and the ones they said they were most familiar with. One aspect of the reward was that they would presumably enjoy the actual testing more--fewer rueful beer descriptions along the lines of \"urine\" or \"get it away!\" were expected than in the first round. The other aspect of anticipated reward was the panelists' unspoken but obvious assumption that this time they would \"do better\" on the test. Intellectual vanity being what it is, people who had fought for and won jobs at Microsoft and who still must fight every six months for primacy on the employee-ranking scale (which determines--gasp!--how many new stock options they receive) would assume that their skill as tasters was on trial, just as much as the beer was. Of course they were right, which is what made this round as amusing to administer as the first one had been. Here is what happened and what it meant: 1. Procedure. This was similar in most ways to the experimental approach of Round 1. The nine testers who showed up were a subset of the original 12. The missing three dropped out with excuses of \"my wife is sick\" (one person) and \"meeting is running long\" (two). As before, each tester found before him on a table 10 red plastic cups, labeled A through J. Each cup held 3 ounces of one of the beers. The A-to-J labeling scheme was the same for all testers. Instead of saltines for palate-cleansing, this time we had popcorn and nuts. As they began, the tasters were given these and only these clues: that the flight included one \"holdover\" beer from the previous round (Sam Adams) After sampling all beers, the tasters rated them as follows: Overall quality points, from zero to 100, reflecting their personal, subjective fondness for the beer. Descriptions of and comments about each beer's taste--\"smooth and nutty,\" \"too strong,\" etc. If the first ranking was a measure of how good each beer was, this was an attempt to explain what made it good. and b) most lagers are light-colored and weak. The first test was designed to evaluate low-end beers and therefore had to be lager-centric. This one is designed to test fancy beers--but in the spirit of open-mindedness and technical accuracy, it includes a few \"strong\" lagers too. Materials. The 10 test beers were chosen with several goals in mind: To include one holdover from the previous test, as a scientific control on our tasters' preferences. This was Sam Adams , runaway winner of Round 1. Click for pricing information and pre-quaffing evaluations. The beers tasted were: a) Best and Worst. Compared to the lager test, we would expect the range of \"best\" choices to be more varied, since all the tested beers were supposed to be good. This expectation was most dramatically borne out in the \"Best and Worst\" rankings. The nine tasters cast a total of nine Worst votes and 11.5 Best votes. (Tester No. 1 turned in a sheet with three Best selections, or two more than his theoretical quota. Tester No. 4 listed a Best and a Best-minus, which counted as half a vote.) This table shows how the beers performed on \"raw score\"--that is, without the advanced statistical adjustment of throwing out the highest and lowest score each beer received. Next, we have \"corrected average preference points,\" throwing out the high and low marks for each beer. The result is basically the same: d) Taster skill. As members of the tasting panel began to suspect, they themselves were being judged while they judged the beer. One of the tasters, No. 7, decided to live dangerously and give specific brands and breweries for Samples A through J. This man was the only panel member whose job does not involve designing Microsoft Word--and the only one to identify two or more of the beers accurately and specifically. (He spotted Redhook IPA and Redhook ESB.) The fact that the beers correctly identified were the two most popular microbrews in the Seattle area suggests that familiarity is the main ingredient in knowing your beer. Many others were simply lost. Barely half the tasters, five of nine, recognized that Michelob Hefeweizen was a Hefeweizen. Before the test, nine of nine would have said that picking out a Hefe was easy, because of its cloudy look and wheaty flavor. Three tasters thought Sam Adams was an IPA two thought Redhook's IPA was a Hefeweizen. In fairness, six of nine testers identified Pyramid Hefeweizen as a Hefe, and six recognized Full Sail ESB as a bitter. Much in the fashion of blind men describing an elephant, here is a how the testers handled Sam Adams Boston Lager : If we are Gradgrind-like empiricists, living our life for \"welfare maximization\" as described in introductory econ. courses, the conclusion is obvious. We learned from the first experiment to buy either Sam Adams (when we wanted maximum lager enjoyment per bottle) or Busch (for maximum taste and snob appeal per dollar). From this second round we see an even more efficient possibility: Buy Michelob Hefeweizen and nothing else, since on the basis of this test it's the best liked and the cheapest beer. By the way, if there is a single company whose achievements the testing panel honored, it would be Anheuser-Busch . From its brewing tanks came two of the double-crown winners of the taste tests: plain old Busch , the Taste-o-meter and Snob-o-meter victor of Round 1, and Michelob Hefeweizen , the preference-point and Val-u-meter winner this time. Tell the testers ahead of time what beers they will be drinking. Ask them to rank the beers, 1 through 10, based on how well they like them. Then compare the list with the \"revealed preferences\" that come from the blind test. As a variation, show them the list ahead of time and ask them to pick out the beer they know they love and the one they know they hate. Then compare this with the \"after\" list.\n\n<question>:\nHow good were test subjects at labeling the beers in round two?\n\n<options>:\nA Few of them got anything correct\nB None of them could guess any of them\nC Most of them got most things correct\nD Most of them got them perfect\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe Monster Maker By RAY BRADBURY \"Get Gunther,\" the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only Marnagan winced. \"You breathing oxygen or whiskey?\" \"There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete picture of Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's face when you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good an actor are you?\" across the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building that was pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters. He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back. He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination and pushed him into a room where Gunther sat. Hathaway looked at him. \"So you're Gunther?\" he said, calmly. The pirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken, questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds of metal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before he could speak, Hathaway said: \"Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now and we're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand men against your eighty-five.\" Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin hands twitched in his lap. \"You are bluffing,\" he said, finally, with a firm directness. \"A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was the \"Both. The other guy went after the Patrol.\" \"Impossible!\" \"I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther.\" A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, lounging on carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet and started yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one side of his office. He stared, hard. Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysis guns with them in their tight hands. Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air. \"Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!\" Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathaway had to credit them on that. They took it, standing. Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was. His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped him from filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther was throwing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of his fragile, bony legs and their atrophied state. Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. He fired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight. Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaos taking place immediately outside his window. The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. And hands the other side of this rock in two hours.\" Marnagan shook his mop of dusty red hair. \"And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'd capture that Gunther lad!\" His voice stopped and the silence spoke. Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. \"I checked food . And then some way back to Earth.\" Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: \"This is Gunther's work. He's here somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us. Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get back to Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a pirate whose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally wins through to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, by yours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice.\" Click nodded. \"Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish. It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor and the crash this way.\" They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened. \"Gravity should not act this way, Click.\" \"Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! No wonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up! Gunther'd do anything to—did I say anything ?\" funny about something didn't know what. Something about these monsters and Gunther and— \"Which one will you be having?\" asked Irish, casually. \"A red one or a blue one?\" Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. \"Snap me this pose,\" he said. \"I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped, my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peace negotiations betwixt me and these pixies.\" around in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, but had sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts. When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used it up arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him: \"Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we felt back on that ridge, Irish that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So, what's he do he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Space dispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men? Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around. It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikes unseen \"Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in one hunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are part of his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased back into their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothing , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen. In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source, Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters.\" Click attached his camera to his mid-belt. \"Gunther probably thinks we're dead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates they never \"With twenty minutes left, maybe less—\" \"All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?\" Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast. \"All right, put 'em up!\" a new harsh voice cried over a different radio. One of Gunther's guards. Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed. The strange harsh voice said, \"That's better. Don't try and pick that gun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off. How'd you get past the animals?\" Click started running. He switched off his were getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept running and listening to Marnagan's lying voice: \"I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundles and stacked them up to dry, ya louse!\" Marnagan said. \"But, damn you, they killed my partner before he had a chance!\" had his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: \"I think I'll let you stand right there and die,\" he said quietly. \"That what Gunther more than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged. Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and was short-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships to rocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them for\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the meaning of “palaver” in the passage?\n\n<options>:\nA Fuss about Click’s constant filming\nB Rambling, idle talk\nC Unnecessarily elaborate escape plan\nD Peace negotiations with Gunther\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe Game , 1997) is out to bombard you with so much feverish imagery that you have no choice but to succumb to the movie's reeling, punch-drunk worldview. By the end, you might feel as if you, too, have a mouthful of blood. Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets. It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding: They cling to each other and sob. But Jack's idyll is rudely disrupted by--wouldn't you know it?--a woman. A dark-eyed, sepulchral head case named Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) begins showing up at all the same disparate meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote. Jack finds another outlet, though. On a plane, he meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), a cryptic hipster with a penchant for subversive acts both large (he makes high-priced soaps from liposuctioned human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club, in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\" self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says. Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush. The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?) F ight Club could use a few different perspectives: a woman's, obviously, but also an African-American's--someone who'd have a different take on the \"healing\" properties of violence. It's also unclear just what has emasculated Jack: Is it that he's a materialist or that the materials themselves (i.e., IKEA's lacquered particle boards) don't measure up to his fantasies of opulence? Is he motivated by spiritual hunger or envy? Tyler's subsequent idea of confining his group's mayhem to franchise coffee bars and corporate-subsidized art is a witty one--it's like a parody of neo-Nazism as re-enacted by yuppies. It might have been a howl if performed by, say, the troupe of artsy German nihilists in Joel and Ethan Coen's The Big Lebowski (1998). Somehow Brad Pitt doesn't have the same piquancy. Actually, Pitt isn't as terrible as usual: He's playing not a character but a conceit, and he can bask in his movie-idol arrogance, which seems to be the most authentic emotion he has. But the film belongs to Norton. As a ferocious skinhead in last year's American History X , Norton was taut and ropy, his long torso curled into a sneer here, he's skinny and wilting, a quivering pansy. Even when he fights he doesn't transform--he's a raging wimp. The performance is marvelous, and it makes poetic sense in light of the movie's climactic twist. But that twist will annoy more people than it will delight, if only because it shifts the drama from the realm of the sociological to that of the psychoanalytic. The finale, scored with the Pixies' great \"Where Is My Mind?\" comes off facetiously--as if Fincher is throwing the movie away. Until then, however, he has done a fabulous job of keeping it spinning. The most thrilling thing about Fight Club isn't what it says but how Uhls and Fincher pull you into its narrator's head and simulate his adrenalin rushes. A veteran of rock videos, Fincher is one of those filmmakers who helps make the case that MTV--along with digital editing--has transformed cinema for better as well as worse. The syntax has become more intricate. Voice-over narration, once considered uncinematic, is back in style, along with novelistic asides, digressions, fantasies, and flashbacks. To make a point, you can jazzily interject anything--even, as in Three Kings , a shot of a bullet slicing through internal organs. Films like Fight Club might not gel, but they have a breathless, free-associational quality that points to new possibilities in storytelling. Or maybe old possibilities: The language of movies hasn't seemed this unfettered since the pre-sound days of Sergei Eisenstein and Abel Gance.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is Tyler Durden's mission about?\n\n<options>:\nA Self-improvement\nB Self-destruction\nC Masturbation\nD Subversive acts, both large and small\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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382 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nHuman Clones: Why Not? If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it? Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership. The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women. The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer. Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us ! Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate. Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent, rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal. The most upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is hardly the means with which to try and stop them. The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you. Once the fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward. In using an adult cell to create a clone, the \"cellular clock\" that determines the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical twin 40 years my junior. To some, the scientist laboring away to unlock the mysteries of life is a source of evil, never to be trusted. To others, including me, the scientist is the ray of light, illuminating the processes that make the universe work and making us better through that knowledge. Various arguments can be advanced toward either view, but one key statistic is squarely on my side. The vast majority of people, including those who rail against science, owe their very lives to previous medical discoveries. They embody the fruits of science. Don't let the forces of darkness, ignorance, and fear turn us back from research. Instead, let us raise--and yes, even clone--new generations of hapless ingrates, who can whine and rail against the discoveries of the next age.\n\n<question>:\nWhy was human cloning banned?\n\n<options>:\nA It was a preemptive measure. It's too complex to allow it to be explored unregulated.\nB It is objectively immoral and \"evil.\"\nC It was an easy political stance for Bill Clinton to take.\nD There was no real research behind it, so there was no pushback on a bad.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nBY ALEXEI PANSHIN The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I lost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over to me. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. An intelligent runt like me. He said what I expected. \"Mia, do you want to go partners if we can get My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't be We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube and then we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have to leave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot. Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He's the only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't go partners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still that The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contact debate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it was all right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to us kids because they never tell you anything about the place they're going to drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that much because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made me unhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month. Planets make me feel wretched. a piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhere and little grubby things just looking for you thousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go up a level or down a level and be back in civilization. When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over the In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever see Jimmy—if he would get back alive. It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on the nearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may sound like fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive. Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us grow for fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. They do figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the time you're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use to from decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps to keep the population steady. have anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off the bad moment any longer. The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird, and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost the color of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last. II The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having the if it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day in thirty gone. I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had three nothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing from nobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting. I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close to of horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn't identify. could have been substituted but, even if they had, they would have had to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'll made a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and plodded along. and he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. That was why I kept riding. He said, \"What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head? There be escaped Losels in these woods.\" I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought it was that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though. Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't say anything. It seemed smart. One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd been watching us all the while. He called to the hard man. \"He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him at all. We mought as well throw him back again.\" the creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road. I put this episode in the \"file and hold for analysis\" section in my I even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels. III children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck me then—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and I The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot and criminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. The evacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion people wouldn't have died. There wouldn't have been eight billion people. But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything in their path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earth had and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came. I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enough How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method. handkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from her dear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough to night. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to take leave. I never got the chance. shoulder and I was swung around. \"Well, well. Horst, look who we have here,\" he called. It was the one who'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. He was alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast. I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and he I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smelly hand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than a I'll hurt you.\" That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'd threatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of things with it.\" He said, \"Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot of trouble. So don't give me a hard time.\" didn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering. \"The courts won't let you get away with this,\" I said. I'd passed a courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUAL JUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD or something stuffy like that. He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so I knew I'd goofed. \"Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I be taking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go to court and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leaving you your freedom.\" \"Why would they be doing that?\" I asked. I slipped my hand under my that over to me.\" Horst made a disgusted sound. said in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it was natural and mine wasn't, \"The piece be yours.\" Then he tromped on it until it cracked and fell apart. that my ears rang. \"You dirty little punk.\" I said calmly, \"You big louse.\" It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I can remember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of my face and then nothing. Brains are no good if you don't use them.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the name of the first person to talk to Mia on Tintera?\n\n<options>:\nA Jimmy\nB Ninc\nC Horst\nD Losel\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nSILENCE IS—DEADLY Curtis recalled that Nelson and Androka had long conversations together—conversations which they would end abruptly when anyone else came within earshot. And Nelson had always been chummy with the worst always acted as if he had some secret, something to hide. naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! organization—and particularly in modern rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours demolished, in a small, timbered hollow—a well-hidden spot invisible from the air, unless one were flying very low Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his country under the domination of the Nazi gestapo behind. Curtis was studying the wreckage of the wireless station, wondering if this might have been the source of Androka's zone of silence, when Ensign Jack Dillon came up to him. . At other times, the man seemed a genius. Perhaps that was the answer—a mad genius! oilskins, blinking his eyes against the yellow light. Curtis closed the door and nodded toward the bent form of Zukor Androka, with a quizzical grin. \"Old Czech-and-Double-Czech is working hard on his latest invention to pull Hitler's teeth and re-establish the Czech Republic!\" old eyes twinkling behind their thick lenses. \"Go ahead and try it. See how much you can get! It will be no more than Hitler can get when Zukor Androka decrees silence over the German airways! Try it! Try it, I say!\" Bob Curtis stared at him, as if questioning his sanity. Then he hastened to the radio room, with Nelson at his heels, and the Czech still wearing his earphones, and stood staring upward incredulously at the aërial. \"Get us a radio cross-bearing for location at once,\" Curtis said The Czech inventor giggled. Curtis gave him another curious look and thrust himself into the radio room. \"Try again!\" he told the operator. \"See what you can get!\" can enter or leave my zone of radio silence—of refracted radio waves, set up by my little station on one of the neighboring islets!\" There was a long pause, while commander and navigator stared at him. Curtis was the first to speak. \"Your secrecy might well cost the United States navy one of its best light cruisers—and us our lives!\" he said angrily. \"We need that check by radio at once! If you're not talking nonsense, call off your dogs till we learn just where we are!\" Androka held out his palms helplessly. \"I can do nothing. I have given orders to my assistant that he must keep two hours of radio silence! I can get no message to him, for our radio is dead!\" winking at the two officers over Androka's discomfiture, and asked for the bearings. Commander and navigator had both scribbled verifications of the numbers. Ignoring the gibbering Androka, who was wailing his disappointment that messages had penetrated his veil of silence, they wires were alive to the touch and set him to shaking his head at the tingle they sent through his inquiring fingers. Curtis left him at it, and went to rejoin Androka in the cabin. He are other inventions to supplement this one. Put them together, and they will defeat the Nazi hordes which have ravaged my country!\" Curtis was a little shocked by the hatred that gleamed in Androka's eyes, under their bushy brows. There was something of the wild animal \"Those tanks you have below,\" Curtis said, \"have they some connection with this radio silence?\" A far-away look came into Androka's eyes. He did not seem to hear understand—better dead?\" Curtis said: \"I understand.\" \"And if the Nazi agents in America knew of the islet from which my zone of silence is projected—\" Androka paused, his head tilted to one side, as if he were listening to something— On deck, there was shouting and commotion. Curtis rushed out, pulling And then he became aware of a deadly stillness. A vast wall of silence the Maginot Line, and of other forts in Holland and Belgium that had fallen before the early Nazi blitzkrieg, when their defenders found themselves struck numb and helpless by a gas that had been flooded into the inner compartments of their strongholds. shroud of mist and steadied it, so that the cruiser would not be completely at the mercy of the wind and the waves. into the sandbar at the entrance of the inlet. got a neutralizing chemical in one of them tanks of his that'll clear everything up inside half an hour.\" \"I'd rather get along without Androka, if we could!\" Nelson muttered. \"He's nothing but a crackpot!\" \"It was a crackpot who invented the gas we used to break up the World War, he wouldn't have lost his business my mother would still be living. When he joined the Nazi party, the way became clear to use Androka had brought aboard the Comerford That zone of silence cut us off completely.\" Kommander Brandt nodded. \"Goodt! But you got your message giving your \"Yes,\" Nelson said. \"That came through all right. And won't Curtis have a time explaining it!\" \"Hereafter,\" Brandt said solemnly, \"the zone of silence vill be projected from the and ve have another invention of Androka's vich vill be even more useful vhen ve come to cut the Carethusia out of her convoy.\" \"What's the idea?\" capturing a United States navy cruiser.\" \"There are other things Germany needs desperately on board the Carethusia barrels of lard oil for machine-tool lubrication. Our agents have been watching the convoys closely for weeks for just such a cargo as the Carethusia is taking over.\" \"Can we trust Androka?\" Nelson asked, with a sudden note of suspicion in his voice. \"Yes,\" Brandt assured him. \"Of all men—we can trust Androka!\" \"But he's a Czech,\" Nelson argued. \"The gestapo takes care of Czechs and Poles and Frenchmen and other foreigners whom it chooses as its agents,\" Brandt pointed out. \"Androka has a daughter and other relations in Prague. He knows that if anything misfires, if there is the slightest suspicion of treachery on his part, his daughter and the others will suffer. Androka's loyalty is assured!\" Nelson turned to watch the forward fighting top of the Comerford . The masked German seamen were installing some sort of apparatus up there—a strange-looking object that looked something like an old-fashioned trench mortar, and which connected with cables to the room that served as Androka's laboratory and workshop. Another crew was installing radio apparatus in the mizzentop turret. to rid the below-decks atmosphere of the lethal gas that had overcome the Comerford's very purpose. The pieces of the picture fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle—Androka's zone of silence the bearings given by radio Navigating Officer Nelson's queer conduct. They were all part of a never trusted him. Nelson\n\n<question>:\nTo what is the title of the story, “Silence is—Deadly” referring?\n\n<options>:\nA Androka’s zone of silence is used as a deadly tool against the Nazi war effort.\nB Androka’s zone of silence is used as a deadly tool against the Comerford’s crew.\nC Androka’s zone of silence is used as a deadly tool, made in the name of revenging the Czech war effort.\nD Androka’s zone of silence is used as a deadly tool, helping the Americans sneak up on a Nazi Islet.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nNo movie in the last decade has succeeded in psyching out critics and audiences as fully as the powerful, rambling war epic The Thin Red Line , Terrence Malick's return to cinema after 20 years. I've sat through it twice and am still trying to sort out my responses, which run from awe to mockery and back. Like Saving Private Ryan , the picture wallops you in the gut with brilliant, splattery battle montages and Goyaesque images of hell on earth. But Malick, a certified intellectual and the Pynchonesque figure who directed Badlands and Days of Heaven in the 1970s and then disappeared, is in a different philosophical universe from Steven Spielberg. Post-carnage, his sundry characters philosophize about their experiences in drowsy, runic voice-overs that come at you like slow bean balls: \"Why does nature vie with itself? ... Is there an avenging power in nature, not one power but two?\" Or \"This great evil: Where's it come from? What seed, what root did it grow from? Who's doin' this? Who's killin' us, robbin' us of life and light?\" First you get walloped with viscera, then you get beaned by blather. He tells the story solemnly, in three parts, with a big-deal cast (Sean Penn, Nick Nolte, John Cusack) and a few other major stars (John Travolta, Woody Harrelson, George Clooney) dropping by for cameos. After an Edenic prelude, in which a boyishly idealistic absent without leave soldier, Pvt. Witt (Jim Caviezel), swims with native youths to the accompaniment of a heavenly children's choir, the first part sees the arrival of the Allied forces on the island, introduces the principal characters (none of whom amounts to a genuine protagonist), and lays out the movie's geographical and philosophical terrain. The centerpiece--the fighting--goes on for over an hour and features the most frantic and harrowing sequences, chiefly the company's initially unsuccessful frontal assault on a Japanese hilltop bunker. The coda lasts nearly 40 minutes and is mostly talk and cleanup, the rhythms growing more relaxed until a final, incongruous spasm of violence--whereupon the surviving soldiers pack their gear and motor off to another South Pacific battle. In the final shot, a twisted tree grows on the waterline of the beach, the cycle of life beginning anew. The Thin Red Line has a curious sound-scape, as the noise of battle frequently recedes to make room for interior monologues and Hans Zimmer's bump-bump, minimalist New Age music. Pvt. Bell (Ben Chaplin) talks to his curvy, redheaded wife, viewed in deliriously sensual flashbacks. (\"Love: Where does it come from? Who lit this flame in us?\") Lt. Col. Tall (Nolte), a borderline lunatic passed over one too many times for promotion and itching to win a battle no matter what the human cost, worries groggily about how his men perceive him. The dreamer Witt poses folksy questions about whether we're all a part of one big soul. If the movie has a spine, it's his off-and-on dialogue with Sgt. Welsh (Penn), who's increasingly irritated by the private's beatific, almost Billy Budd-like optimism. Says Welsh, \"In this world, a man himself is nothin', and there ain't no world but this one.\" Replies Witt, high cheekbones glinting, \"I seen another world.\" At first it seems as if Witt will indeed be Billy Budd to Welsh's vindictive Claggart. But if Witt is ultimately an ethereal martyr, Welsh turns out to be a Bogart-like romantic who can't stop feeling pain in the face of an absent God. He speaks the movie's epitaph, \"Darkness and light, strife and love: Are they the workings of one mind, the feature of the same face? O my soul, let me be in you now. Look out through my eyes. Look out at the things you made, all things shining.\" Malick puts a lot of shining things on the screen: soldiers, natives, parrots, bats, rodents, visions of Eden by way of National Geographic and of the Fall by way of Alpo. Malick's conception of consciousness distributes it among the animate and inanimate alike almost every object is held up for rapturous contemplation. I could cite hundreds of images: A soldier in a rocking boat hovers over a letter he's writing, which is crammed from top to bottom and side to side with script. (You don't know the man, but you can feel in an instant his need to cram everything in.) A small, white-bearded Melanesian man strolls nonchalantly past a platoon of tensely trudging grunts who can't believe they're encountering this instead of a hail of Japanese bullets. Two shots bring down the first pair of soldiers to advance on the hill a second later, the sun plays mystically over the tall, yellow grass that has swallowed their bodies. John Toll's camera rushes in on a captured Japanese garrison: One Japanese soldier shrieks another, skeletal, laughs and laughs a third weeps over a dying comrade. The face of a Japanese soldier encased in earth speaks from the dead, \"Are you righteous? Know that I was, too.\" Whether or not these pearllike epiphanies are strung is another matter. Malick throws out his overarching theme--is nature two-sided, at war with itself?--in the first few minutes but, for all his startling juxtapositions, he never dramatizes it with anything approaching the clarity of, say, Brian De Palma's Casualties of War (1989). Besides the dialogue between Welsh and Witt, The Thin Red Line 's other organizing story involves a wrenching tug of war between Nolte's ambition-crazed Tall and Capt. Staros (Elias Koteas), who refuses an order to send his men on what will surely be a suicidal--and futile--assault on a bunker. But matters of cause and effect don't really interest Malick. Individual acts of conscience can and do save lives, and heroism can win a war or a battle, he acknowledges. But Staros is ultimately sent packing, and Malick never bothers to trace the effect of his action on the Guadalcanal operation. In fact, the entire battle seems to take place in a crazed void. Tall quotes Homer's \"rosy-fingered dawn\" and orders a meaningless bombardment to \"buck the men up--it'll look like the Japs are catching hell.\" Soldiers shoot at hazy figures, unsure whether they're Japanese or American. Men collide, blow themselves in half with their own mishandled grenades, stab themselves frantically with morphine needles, shove cigarettes up their noses to keep the stench of the dying and the dead at bay. A tiny bird, mortally wounded, flutters in the grass. To the families involved in the Woburn tragedy, the real climax of this story isn't the downbeat ending of the book or the sleight of hand, \"let's call the Environmental Protection Agency,\" upbeat ending of the movie. The climax is the publication of a book that takes the plaintiffs' side and that remains on the best-seller list in hardcover and paperback for years. The climax is the movie starring John Travolta. Beatrice and Grace made out OK legally, but some of us will never use their products again without thinking about Travolta losing his shirt in the name of those wasted-away little kids.\n\n<question>:\nWhich would the author say of both directors?\n\n<options>:\nA they missed a key component in their films\nB there were times when the movies were unclear\nC the films portrayed the real characters poorly\nD the visual imagery was done well\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nwith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zurians \"The Thorabians will lick up the gravy,\" said Singula, whose mind ran rather to matters of financial aspect, \"and leave us the grease.\" By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen, which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were panting was expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of his elders, \"the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in building that ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it it is their only means of transport.\" Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thought about the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the way of metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he could figure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation of his brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, of course, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe. By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strange hence these left much to be desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident. The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world of Zur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of all Zurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, in newspaper, was unknown on Zur. Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously, none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any had tried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there is always an \"anti\" faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowed happily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too. Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of ships arrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur was practically acrawl with Earthmen. Immediately, the Earthmen established what they called say!\" The pretty young wife laughed at him. \"Up to your ears in clay, no wonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmen \"What good is it?\" asked Zotul, interested. \"How will it hold heat, being so light?\" \"The Earthmen don't cook as we do,\" she explained patiently. \"There is a paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will have to design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on.\" \"He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough go back to cooking with your old ones.\" \"The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are so cheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and you hundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in every land. In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth. language—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of the brothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance. Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enough in value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set up \"this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, and especially for the House of Masur.\" Earth. About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—made their appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with the newfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because for everything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade. What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. They destroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was. senile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old man might still have a little wit left that could be helpful. \"Note,\" Koltan announced in a shaky voice, \"that the Earthmen undermine nowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up. \"My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottom of your trouble, but the things of Earth. Think of the telegraph and the newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth. The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of these newspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people are intrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock to from the House of Masur all available space was occupied by the advertisements of the Earthmen. In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, the rest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen had procured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of which in the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, working regions to every major and minor city on Zur. By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the first terrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business in was gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gas at a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except the all in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing a great, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed in ten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know they Earthmen are taking care of that.\" At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselves were constructed. The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plants is the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, and all because of new things coming from Earth.\" Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. \"Why didn't you come and installed in your home.\" \"To receive gifts,\" said Zotul, \"incurs an obligation.\" \"None at all,\" beamed the Earthman cheerily. \"Every item is given to you absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask is that you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not to company.\" Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman, won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarter Earthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on the The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges, served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In the winter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, though \"We will be forty years paying it all off,\" exulted Zotul, \"but meantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?\" But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option. The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. The Earthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own because it was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth's unswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded. maintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earth For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decade and a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on this The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotul designed and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikons were a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and sold them for less. The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy any terrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian men with your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down.\" \"I don't understand. The Earthmen....\" Zotul paused, coloring. \"We are about to lose our plant.\" \"You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant away from you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest and not pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we took them over, just as we are taking you over.\" \"You mean,\" exclaimed Zotul, aghast, \"that you Earthmen own everything\n\n<question>:\nWhat would the average Zur resident say of the Earthmen?\n\n<options>:\nA they were so controlling that it was scary\nB they were afraid to fight the Earthmen\nC they brought about many changes, mostly for the best\nD they would rather be without the items brought by the Earthmen\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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1,596 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nFight Club is silly stuff, sensationalism that mistakes itself for satire, but it's also a brash and transporting piece of moviemaking, like Raging Bull on acid. The film opens with--literally--a surge of adrenalin, which travels through the bloodstream and into the brain of its protagonist, Jack (Edward Norton), who's viewed, as the camera pulls out of his insides, with a gun stuck in his mouth. How'd he get into this pickle? He's going to tell you, breezily, and the director, David Fincher, is going to illustrate his narrative--violently. Fincher ( Seven , 1995 Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets. It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding: They cling to each other and sob. But Jack's idyll is rudely disrupted by--wouldn't you know it?--a woman. A dark-eyed, sepulchral head case named Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) begins showing up at all the same disparate meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote. Jack finds another outlet, though. On a plane, he meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), a cryptic hipster with a penchant for subversive acts both large (he makes high-priced soaps from liposuctioned human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club, in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\" self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says. Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique F ight Club could use a few different perspectives: a woman's, obviously, but also an African-American's--someone who'd have a different take on the \"healing\" properties of violence. It's also unclear just what has emasculated Jack: Is it that he's a materialist or that the materials themselves (i.e., IKEA's lacquered particle boards) don't measure up to his fantasies of opulence? Is he motivated by spiritual hunger or envy? Tyler's subsequent idea of confining his group's mayhem to franchise coffee bars and corporate-subsidized art is a witty one--it's like a parody of neo-Nazism as re-enacted by yuppies. It might have been a howl if performed by, say, the troupe of artsy German nihilists in Joel and Ethan Coen's The Big Lebowski (1998). Somehow Brad Pitt doesn't have the same piquancy. here, he's skinny and wilting, a quivering pansy. Even when he fights he doesn't transform--he's a raging wimp. The performance is marvelous, and it makes poetic sense in light of the movie's climactic twist. But that twist will annoy more people than it will delight, if only because it shifts the drama from the realm of the sociological to that of the psychoanalytic. The finale, scored with the Pixies' great \"Where Is My Mind?\" comes off facetiously--as if Fincher is throwing the movie away. Sarsgaard's performance is a finely chiseled study of how unresolved emotion can suddenly resolve itself into violence. Though harrowing, the second half of Boys Don't Cry isn't as great as the first. The early scenes evoke elation and dread simultaneously, the later ones just dread and the last half-hour is unrelieved torture. What keeps the movie tantalizing is Chloë Sevigny's Lana, who might or might not know that Brandon is a girl but who's entranced by him anyway. With her lank hair, hooded eyes, and air of sleepy sensuality, Sevigny--maybe even more than Swank--embodies the mystery of sex that's at the core of Boys Don't Cry . Everything she does is deliberate, ironic, slightly unreadable--and unyielding. She's could be saying, \"I'm in this world but not of it. ... You'd never dream what's underneath.\" I n brief: If a friend tells you you'll love Happy Texas , rethink the friendship. This clunky mistaken-identity comedy about escaped cons who impersonate gay pageant directors doesn't even make sense on its own low farcical terms it's mostly one lame homo joke after another. The only bright spot is Steve Zahn, who could be the offspring of Michael J. Fox and Crispin Glover if they'd mated on the set of Back to the Future (1985). It's hard to make a serious case for Lawrence Kasdan's Mumford , which has apparently flopped but which you can still catch at second- and third-tier theaters. It looks peculiar--a Norman Rockwell painting with noir shadows. And its tale of a small town healed by a depressive (Loren Dean) posing as a psychologist is full of doddering misconceptions about psychotherapy. I almost don't know why I loved it, but the relaxed pacing and the witty turns by Martin Short, Ted Danson, David Paymer, and Mary McDonnell surely helped. I can't decide if the weirdly affectless Dean is inspired or inept, but my indecision suggests why he works in the role. There's no doubt, however, about his even more depressive love object, Hope Davis, who posseses the cinema's most expressive honking-nasal voice and who slumps through the movie like the world's most lyrical anti-ballerina. Even her puffy cheeks are eloquent: They made me think of Mumford as the home of the psychological mumps.\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Jack stop going to meetings for the terminally ill?\n\n<options>:\nA His apartment explodes, and he must move out of the meeting area.\nB He dies from a terminal illness.\nC Bob, from the testicular cancer group, has become too clingy.\nD A woman, Marla, starts coming to the same meetings. Marla is not terminally ill.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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828 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nand that was the direction of Haron Gorka's place. The fact that in all probability such a man did not exist disturbed Matilda not in the least. She had been known to say that there are over a billion men in the world, a goodly percentage of whom are eligible he had to miss his college reunion. That's all he has to hide. A stuffy Victorian prude and even less of a man than the others.\" . Or, that is, him . Intelligent, somewhat egotistical male who's really been around, whose universal experience can make the average cosmopolite look like a provincial hick, is in need of several female correspondents: must be The name—Haron Gorka: its oddness was somehow beautiful to Matilda. Haron Gorka—the nationality could be anything. And that was it. He had no nationality for all intents and purposes he was an international man, a figure among figures, a paragon.... about the house without her mother knowing about it, and that even his glasses and answer questions grudgingly. \"Hello,\" said Matilda. The stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. Matilda asked him where she could find Haron Gorka. \"I said, where can I find Haron Gorka?\" \"Is that in the United States?\" \"It's not a that it's a he. Where can I find him? Where does he live? What's the quickest way to get there?\" The stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. \"Now take it easy, ma'am. First place, I don't know any Haron Gorka—\" Matilda did, only they didn't know any Haron Gorka, either. It turned random. As far us the gentry of Cedar Falls was concerned, Haron Gorka early. If she could not find Haron Gorka, that was one thing Haron Gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent residence here in Cedar Palls, one couldn't expect that he'd have his librarian would know Mr. Haron Gorka. \"Haron Gorka.\" The librarian nodded. \"How on earth did you know?\" you in the afternoon. I never did trust this Mr. Gorka....\" \"You know him? You know Haron Gorka?\" \"What do you mean?\" \"I mean anyone would like to correspond with Haron Gorka. Or to know him well. To be considered his friend. Haron Gorka....\" The librarian seemed about to soar off into the air someplace, and if \"Um, where can I find Mr. Gorka?\" \"I'm not supposed to do this, you know. We're not permitted to give the addresses of any of our people. Against regulations, my dear.\" \"Sorry. What then?\" \"If I can't enjoy an association with Haron Gorka directly, I still could get the vicarious pleasure of your contact with him. Report to me faithfully and you'll get his address. That's what the other five will of you will tell me about Haron Gorka, sparing no details. You each Haron Gorka lived in what could have been an agrarian estate, except spirits in check. Haron Gorka, the man, was what counted, and the librarian's account of him certainly had been glowing enough. Perhaps he was too busy with his cultural pursuits to pay any real attention to only one with the idea to visit Haron Gorka in person. With half a As it turned out, she wasn't. Not only that, she was welcomed with open arms. Not by Haron Gorka that she really might have liked. Instead, someone she could only regard as a menial met her, and when he asked had she come in response to the advertisement, she nodded eagerly. \"What about Mr. Gorka?\" \"When he wants you, he will send for you. Meanwhile, make yourself to home, lady, and I will tell him you are here.\" her fault if, in his unconcern, Haron Gorka had unwittingly hired a she had a nightmare in which Haron Gorka appeared as a giant with two attributed to coincidence, and the further fact that everything was extremely palatable made her forget all about Haron Gorka's neurotic servant. The feeling did not last long. Standing over her was Haron Gorka's servant, and he said, \"Mr. Gorka will see you now.\" \"Now?\" \"Now. That's what you're here for, isn't it?\" She told the servant so. \"Miss,\" he replied, \"I assure you it will not matter in the least to Haron Gorka. You are here and he is ready to see you and that is all that matters.\" Haron Gorka. Well, then, she must see to it that she impressed him Haron Gorka. It was not that he was homely and unimpressive almost-Roman nose, a petulant mouth with the slight arch of the egotist at each corner. He said, \"Greetings. You have come—\" \"In response to your ad. How do you do, Mr. Gorka?\" She hoped she wasn't being too formal. But, then, there was no sense in man. Well, Haron Gorka obviously had more experience along these lines dinner,\" she told him brightly. \"Eh? What say? Oh, yes, naturally. A combination of telepathy and teleportation. The synthetic cookery is attuned to your mind when you press the buzzer, and the strength of your psychic impulses determines how closely the meal will adjust to your desires. The fact that the Haron Gorka were to talk to her as he saw fit. \"Well, what, Mr. Gorka?\" a merry chase across the frozen surface of D VII. You travel in the Deneb system now and Interstellar Ordinance makes it mandatory to carry flaaks with you. Excellent idea, really excellent.\" that Haron Gorka was mouthing gibberish. But on the other hand she all over that system—\" \"Stop!\" \"What's that? Making fun of you?\" Haron Gorka's voice had been so eager as he spoke, high-pitched, almost like a child's, and now he Haron Gorka turned his back. Haron Gorka's guests to depart. Then Haron Gorka had severed that relationship, too, and now he was all were, of course, two alternatives. Either Haron Gorka was an eccentric who enjoyed this sort of outlandish tomfoolery, or else he was plainly insane. She could still picture him ranting on aimlessly to no one in particular about places which had no existence outside of his mind, his voice high-pitched and eager. in detail. She did this first because it was a promise, and second because she knew it would make her feel better. \"So,\" she finished, \"Haron Gorka is either extremely eccentric or insane. I'm sorry.\" \"He's neither,\" the librarian contradicted. \"Perhaps he is slightly eccentric by your standards, but really, my dear, he is neither.\" \"What do you mean?\" \"Did he leave a message for his wife?\" \"Why, yes. Yes, he did. But how did you know? Oh, I suppose he told the \"I am Mrs. Gorka.\" see, my dear, Haron expects too much. He expects entirely too much.\" anybody, but here she found herself confronted with two. \"We've been tripping for centuries, visiting every habitable star system from our home near Canopus. But Haron is too demanding. He says I am a finicky traveler, that he could do much better alone, the accommodations have to be just right for me, and so forth. When he loses his temper, he tries to convince me that any number of females of the particular planet would be more than thrilled if they were given the opportunity just to listen to him.\n\n<question>:\nWhy does no one on town know who Haron Gorka is?\n\n<options>:\nA Haron Gorka isn’t his real name. Thus, there’s no records of him.\nB He’s not a real resident. He’s using a fake name while he stays in town.\nC He travels so much that the people in town haven’t gotten to know him.\nD He’s not a real resident, but an interstellar visitor.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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940 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\npeople we treat are on one side of the line and we're on the other. If you cross that line, you won't be able to treat people again.\" a wall. How can we really understand the people who come to us, if we hide on our side of the wall?\" that's quite an accomplishment these days.\" Infield whirled and stalked to the desk. \"That's the answer! The whole world is going mad and we are just sitting back watching it hike along. Do you know that what we are doing is really the most primitive medicine in the world? We are treating the symptoms and not the cure anything. Eventually the savage dies—just as all those sick savages out in the street will die unless we can cure the disease, not only the indications.\" to talk like that. We psychiatrists can't turn back the clock. There just aren't enough of us or enough time to give that old-fashioned therapy all are like that. Those Cures for mother complexes aren't even obvious. If anybody does see that button in a patient's ear, it looks like a hearing aid. Yet for a nominal sum, the patient is equipped to everything all right?\" Infield asked intensely. \"Suppose anything over that verbal pablum gushing in his ear.\" Morgan's face stiffened. \"You know as well as I do that those voices with that insidious voice drumming in his head night and day, do you mean to say that man's senses will only be impaired 23 per cent? Why, he'll turn violently schizophrenic sooner or later—and you know it. The only cure we have for that is still a strait jacket, a padded cell direction, shoved back in that direction. Most people in the crowd seemed to be Normals, but you couldn't tell. Many \"Cures\" were not readily apparent. for anything. He had been one of those condemned Normals, more to be scorned than pitied. Perhaps he could really get to understand these people, now that he had taken down the wall. so well. He was thoroughly terrified, heart racing, sweat glands pumping. The impervium cable undulated vulgarly. Some primitive fear stubble-chinned, heavy-shouldered man quivering in the center of a web of impervium cables stuck secure to the walls and windows of buildings disassembled. care about other people's feelings. This is official .\" trying to arrange his feelings into the comfortable, familiar patterns. The young man's eyes almost seemed to narrow, although his face didn't move this , some people still ask me to have a drink.\" This \"It's a cure for alcoholism,\" Price told him. \"It runs a constant blood check to see that the alcohol level doesn't go over the sobriety limit.\" \"What happens if you take one too many?\" Price looked off as if at something not particularly interesting, but more interesting than what he was saying. \"It drives a needle into my temple and kills me.\" The psychiatrist felt cold fury rising in him. The Cures were supposed to save lives, not endanger them. \"What kind of irresponsible idiot could have issued such a device?\" he demanded angrily. \"I did,\" Price said. \"I used to be a psychiatrist. I was always good in shop. This is a pretty effective mechanism, if I say so myself. It can't be removed without causing my death and it's indestructible. himself, Infield knew. The threat of death would keep him constantly shocked sane. Men hide in the comforts of insanity, but when faced with death, they are often forced back to reality. A man can't move his legs learn his Bible lessons to save his father, because it was obvious his father was dead. He would never succeed because there was no reason to do you really think of the Incompletes?\" \"I forgot. You haven't been one of us long. The Incompletes is a truer say but tiring of constant pretense. \"You don't understand. Everyone has some little phobia or fixation. Maybe everyone didn't have one once, but after being told they did have them for generations, everyone who didn't have one developed a defense mechanism and an aberration so they would be normal. If that phobia isn't brought to the surface and Cured, it may arise any time and endanger other people. The only safe, good sound citizens are Cured. Those lacking Cures—the Incompletes— must be dealt with .\" Infield's throat went dry. \"And you're the one to deal with them?\" \"It's my Destiny.\" Price quickly added, \"And yours, too, of course.\" Infield nodded. Price was a demagogue, young, handsome, dynamic, likable, impassioned with his cause, and convinced that it was his divine destiny. He was a psychopathic egotist and a dangerous man. Doubly dangerous to Infield because, even though he was one of the few people who still read books from the old days of therapy to recognize Price for what he was, he nevertheless still liked the young man for the intelligence behind the egotism and the courage behind the fanaticism. \"How are we going to deal with the Incompletes?\" Infield asked. visibly thinking that he shouldn't run that routine into the ground. \"We'll Cure them whether they want to be Cured or not—for their own good.\" imposed upon many ill minds. He could picture an entirely Cured world and he didn't like the view. Every Cure cut down on the mental and physical abilities of the patient as it was, whether Morgan and the others admitted it or not. But if everyone had a crutch to lean on for one phobia, he would develop secondary symptoms. to lean on for one thing and then room enough to develop something else—until everyone would be loaded down with too many Cures to operate. A Cure was a last resort, dope for a malignancy case, euthanasia for the hopeless. Enforced Cures would be a curse for the individual and the race. But Infield let himself relax. How could anyone force a mechanical relief for neurotic or psychopathic symptoms on someone who didn't want or need it? half-humorously, it was surprising to see a Normal—an \"Incomplete.\" \"I don't remember what happened to the baby—it wasn't important. me how you were going to Cure the Incompletes.\" were going to do it. Actually you will play a greater part than I, Cure and eager to Cure others. Very eager.\" Cure is not even thought of—hypochondria. Hundreds of people come to your office for a Cure and you turn them away. Suppose you and the other Cured psychiatrists give unless they were absolutely necessary.\" \"You'll feel differently after you've been Cured for a while yourself. making others fall. They were always trying to make him fall just so they could laugh at him or pounce on him why shouldn't he like to make them fall first? Mrs. Price screamed. \"The Cure! If you get that much liquor in his system, it will kill him!\" She rocked the rag doll in her arms, trying happened. You could find some way to get rid of that Cure.\" Price stared at him as if he were a padded-cell case. \"That's different. I'd be a hopeless drunk without the Cure. Besides, no one ever gets rid of a Cure.\" someone can discard a Cure, would you get rid of that—if I may use the word— so can you.\" \"You can't! Nobody can!\" Price screamed after him. He turned to the others. \"If he reveals us, the Cause is lost. We've got to stop him for good . We've got to go after him.\" was very frightened of the lightning. There is no action without a reason, he knew from the old neglected know what Price and Reggie planned to do when they caught him. He slipped and fell. He would soon find out what they wanted. The rushed. He watched the lightning play its light on the blade of his Cure and he knew that Price was going to kill him in the next moment. stopped being one of the Incompletes. Dangerous people. He would have\n\n<question>:\nWhat is normal about the Incompletes?\n\n<options>:\nA They are only partially cured\nB They still live with a specific fear\nC They do not possess any phobias\nD They are easily manipulated\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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526 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nsinging it for a million years.\" He released her, and opened a wood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside. \"Hold out your hands,\" he told Orison. He filled them with the sand. \"Throw our singers some supper for their song,\" he said. Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled the just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from \"He was a very kind employer,\" Orison said. She tried to keep from \"Beg pardon?\" \"What kinda salary you bucking for?\" he translated, bouncing up and down on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots. \"What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji?\" Orison asked. nodding his head as he listened. \"You blowing real good, kid,\" he said. \"The boss is gonna dig you the most.\" Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read the By lunchtime Orison had finished the Federal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into a Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in the gentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison stepped heart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgment favored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed, lonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book, light coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed, silent, hat-clasping gentlemen. Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day's had her phone tapped. \"Testing,\" a baritone voice muttered. said. \"Testing,\" the male voice repeated. \"One, two, three three, two, one. Do you read me? Over.\" \"Testing,\" the voice repeated. \"What you're testing,\" Orison said in a firm voice, \"is my patience. Who are you?\" establish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time, every day?\" Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to a microphone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. \"That's about it, so far,\" she said. reasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well,\" Orison said. your using it.\" \"Dink?\" she asked. \"And I suppose you're to call me Orison?\" \"That's the drill,\" he said. \"One more question, Orison. Dinner this playing, from the elevator. \"Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember your personnel form correctly.\" He stood, lean, all bone and muscle, Orison finished the . She launched into the Record of the desk, \"and pounce ever so hard.\" She smiled. Opulent, Orison thought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't like Auga Vingt. Auga, to my friends.\" \"So kind of you, darling,\" Auga Vingt said, \"but I shan't have time to \"Thanks,\" Orison said. \"You make it very clear,\" Orison said. \"Now you'd best hurry back to your stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone.\" \"Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding right \"Auga is rather intense,\" the new Mr. Gerding said. \"Yeah, intense,\" Orison said. \"Like a kidney-stone.\" Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. \"Until we meet again?\" \"I'll hold my breath,\" Orison promised. \"The elevator is just behind you. Push a button, will you? And bon voyage .\" Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison with a cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights above fifth floor. First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding. Surely, Orison thought, recovering the from her wastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwestern finished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limits upper floors. Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by the Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg before it out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk, she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs could only fire her. Orison folded the paper and put it in the \"Out\" basket. Someone would its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor were galvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs. and eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together by strands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating with Orison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from the leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orison Into a pair of arms. \"I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall,\" Kraft Gerding said. Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to have her two sumo the earmuffed sumo -wrestlers protested. \"Dink ... Dink!\" Orison shouted. though struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, their faces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly lowering his chest. \"You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turn your brain back on. All right, now?\" \"I....\" Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft's jaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor. \"If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt to recover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.\" Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dink through half-closed eyes. \"No? Then get out of here, all of you. Samma! \" Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, with the merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator. home and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetite for supper.\" \"Strange,\" Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and plucked Orison,\" he said. in the palm of his hand. \"These are Microfabridae, more nearly related to shellfish than to spiders,\" he said. \"They're stone-and-metal Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed the \"He's like a baby crawdad,\" Orison said. process we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off and secret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see.\" \"What's he doing now?\" Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus, comfortably close. \"They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, as children are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison. We'd better get you down where you belong.\" Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearest tank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring. It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. \"Strange, like the sighing of wind in winter trees.\" \"That's the hymn of the Microfabridae,\" Dink said. \"They all sing together while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices.\" He Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening to of breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, the quiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked. \"It's an ancient song,\" Dink said. \"The Microfabridae have been\n\n<question>:\nOrison’s introduction to Auga Vingt could best be described as...\n\n<options>:\nA Friendly\nB Cordial\nC Passive-aggressive\nD Heated\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
267 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nperfection, exquisitely shaped, and the rich promise of her body was exposed to his view. \"Why?\" he thought as he looked at her. \"Why did it have to happen like this?\" The whole thing was still like a dream to him, and as yet he couldn't unattainable, a face to conjure with in erotic dreams, far beyond his ken. A year ago she had been a public idol, the most popular actress of the day. And he had been a nobody, full of a nobody's idle hopes and A thought teased at him. Charles looked at the woman again and decided It had been very pleasant that afternoon. She had given of herself freely, warmly, and Charles had accepted. But then he had known that she would. It was not him, it was the circumstances. Under the circumstances, she would have given herself to any man— \"Why did it have to be her—or me? Why should it have to happen to anybody! Why!\" She would have given herself to any man— His thoughts beat a rapid crescendo, activating emotions, stimulating sensations of angry rage. He wanted to cry, to weep angry tears of attacking his olfactory patch with the retching smell of decaying flesh. Charles ignored it. Even smells had lost their customary \" Maybe I'm not the last! \" The thought struck him with suddenness, promisingly, edged with Charles got up slowly, noticing for the first time that his fingers and dangled from the edge of the bed like a crazy pendulum. Charles cope with the situation. The president of the world-wide Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals committed suicide. Within a year it was obvious to everyone that man was the only animal left on earth. The panic which had begun with the death of the animals was quieted somewhat by the fact that humans seemed immune to the pandemic. But the lakes full of dead fish caused a great stink and residents along the coasts began to move inland. Sales of perfumes and deodorants soared. Then just one year ago, the first human became infected with the strange malady. Within six months, half of the world's population was gone. Less than a month ago no more than a few thousand people remained \"I've got to find out,\" Charles told himself. He meant it, of course, but in a sense he was afraid—afraid that his trip to the Bureau might give him an answer he didn't dare listen to. \"But I've got to try.\" He walked on down the bloody street. Before the plague the Bureau of Vital Statistics had been one of man's human on earth. Compulsory registration and the classification of each individual by means of the discrete patterns of his brain waves had accomplished for four billion inhabitants. Four billion names and addresses, compressed into microprint, a tremendous achievement even for the \"Proud Era.\" In all of his life, Charles had never once glanced at The Index. The average person had little necessity to do so since the Bureau coward, afraid to check the whole world from the start. \"I'll start with New York and work up.\" Charles activated the switches that would flash a schematic map of New Charles was by himself, the last person alive in all of New York City. plague. It's only logical that—\" He stopped. For even as he spoke, the light winked out! The counter clicked again. the so-called \"basic\" drives: hunger, thirst, sex, shelter, warmth, But thinking about \"why\" didn't answer the question itself, Charles The Norm, with no significant departures, all down the line. Church member, but not a good one. Could that be it? Could the most normal be the most perfect? Had he led the best of all possible lives? Was that it? Had God, in His infinite wisdom and mercy, spared his life, saved him, singled him out because he was most nearly a saint, most nearly Christ-like, most nearly.... Lies—His mind snapped back to reality. He half smiled. Saint? Christ? The Second Coming? He was no saint. Charles sighed. What about—? Chance. That was it! The laws of probability, the bell-shaped curve, normal distribution, rectilinear regression. More people per square foot in New York than elsewhere. The first person who died was from New York, so the last person who gave way to the disease should come from here too. Spin the wheel throw the dice toss the coin. So simple to explain by the laws of chance. No need for any underlying assumptions about good and evil, no need for teleological arguments concerning cause and effect. Simply explain it by chance. Somebody had to be the last to go and that was— \"No,\" Charles said, standing up in the quiet of the spring evening. \"No, chance won't do it. No man can reckon with chance. The mind rejects such things. There must be something beyond mere accident. There must be!\" He sighed slowly. Charles was hungry. He got up and started for one of the restaurants Somehow, though, since things were ready and it didn't make too much difference, it seemed to Charles that he'd probably have a long time to wait. \"Maybe it's just a disease, and I'm immune. I was immune to smallpox. The vaccination never took. That's probably it.\" He smiled. Strange, but now he wanted very much to go on living, alone or not. There were things he could do, ways to keep occupied. physical existence. The tantalizing thought of \"why\" puzzled its way back into his mind. But it seemed less pressing now that he had almost come to the conclusion that he would live for a long time. Later, in a few days perhaps, he would think about it. In a little while he'd have plenty of opportunity for hunting down the answer. This seemed good to him, for thought he had seen the solution peering out at him from the recesses of his mind, and he didn't like the expression on its face. Better to almost fell as he stepped from the curb. \"Look at me, nervous as a cat.\" part of his mind clamped down, obscuring the thought, rejecting the concept. first burst of wild pain came as he laid his shoulder against the door to the restaurant. This was the way the plague began, but—His mind quickly repressed the idea. It couldn't be the plague. He was immune! Another burst of pulsating, shattering pain crashed through his body, tearing down the defenses of his mind, putting an end of his thoughts of immunity. Colors flared before his eyes, a persistent, irresistible susurrus flooded his ears. He wanted to protest, but there was no one to listen to him. He appealed to every divinity he knew, all the time knowing it would be useless. His body, out of his voluntary control, tried to run off in all directions at once. Charles struggled to end his body's disorganized responses, to everything else seemed irrelevant: he had to get back to the park, to his hermit's cave, to his long, narrow home. He couldn't die until then. Charles refused to think. Machines, especially half-broken machines, do not think they only work. Sweating, straining, bleeding, retching, he pushed himself towards his goal, trying to add one final touch of grace and custom to the rude irrationalness of it all. He gathered energy from his final reservoirs of strength for one final movement that would throw him headlong into the shallow grave. He Instantly the thought struck him with paralyzing devastation. The answer to it all poked its face out from the recesses of his mind and sapped the last bit of his energy, corroding his nerves and dying muscles. Now he knew, and the knowing was the end of it. \"I know.\" \"Well?\" \"All right, all right. You're so good, see if you can compute the scatter probability.\" THE LAST MAN ON EARTH— CHARLES J. ZZYZST GO TO HELL!\n\n<question>:\nWhat are the four hypotheses Charles has about how he might have survived the plague?\n\n<options>:\nA He’s too strange; he’s a prophet; the odds were against him; he got a vaccine\nB He’s a nice guy; pure chance; he’s a prophet; he received medical treatment.\nC He’s healthier than everybody; pure chance; he knows a good doctor; he wore a mask\nD He’s too normal to get it; pure chance; he’s a saint; immunity\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
1,923 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nUnfortunately , there was only one thing he could bring back from the wonderful future ... and though he didn't want to ... nevertheless he did.... He looked over at Betty and said, almost as though reciting, \"What I need is a vacation.\" \"Providence,\" Simon told her whilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle, \"will provide.\" \"Hm-m-m. But before providing vacations it'd be nice if Providence turned up a missing jewel deal, say. Something where you could deduce I hustled back to the apartment and go?\" \"Lost track,\" Arth said. \"You can come home with me.\" Simon said, enigmatically, \"Now caste whatever the styling. Simon said unenthusiastically, \"Good morning, Mr. Oyster.\" He indicated the client's chair. \"Sit down, sir.\" Simon, said finally, \"You know one exception.\" \"Excellent. Do you believe in time travel?\" Simon continued to say nothing she this marble-missing client came Simon said, \"Let's get to the point, what you wanted to see me about.\" \"I want to hire you to hunt me up some time travelers,\" the old boy said. in.\" She added, irrelevantly, \"Time her proper role of silent secretary. \"Time travelers,\" she said, not Betty was too far in now to maintain the presence in our era of such time obviously with intent to hold the floor for a time. He removed the and then remembered. \"I've got to get my bag. Oh, my head. Where did we spend last night?\" I've got to go to the Bahnhof and of immortality and eternal youth, and it's also my suspicion that he will eventually be able to travel in time. So convinced am I of these possibilities get my luggage.\" Arth didn't put up an argument on that. We said good-by and I could travelers.\" Simon seemed incapable of carrying the ball this morning, so Betty said, \"But ... Mr. Oyster, if the future has developed time travel why don't we ever meet such travelers?\" Simon put in a word. \"The usual portion of my fortune to investigate afford to allow the space-time continuum track to be altered. If, say, a time traveler returned to a period of make heads nor tails of the check then all subsequent history would be changed. In that case, the time traveler himself might never be born. They have to tread mighty carefully.\" Mr. Oyster was pleased. \"I didn't expect you to be so well informed on the subject, young man.\" Simon shrugged and fumbled again with the aspirin bottle. Mr. Oyster went on. \"I've been considering the matter for some time and—\" Simon held up a hand. \"There's I decided the hell with it. I took a cab to the airport, presented my return realize that thus far nobody has succeeded in taking it with him.\" Mr. Oyster returned his glasses to their perch, bug-eyed Simon, but then nodded. Simon said, \"You want to hire me Oktoberfest , and I'd had it. to find a time traveler and in some manner or other—any manner will do—exhort from him the secret of You're willing to pony up a part of this fortune of yours, if I can deliver a bona fide time traveler.\" \"Right!\" evidently. The trip back was as uninteresting have stayed, I told myself. From Idlewild, I came directly to the office rather than going to my as the one over. As the hangover began check in with Betty. I opened the door and there I found Mr. Oyster sitting in the chair he had been occupying four—or was it five—days before when I'd left. Oktoberfest , that's where they'd be!\" He seemed Oktoberfest ,\" he repeated. \"The greatest festival the world has twenty-five years ago and shot Hitler, the last stages of a grand-daddy hangover. \"Came for?\" Mr. Oyster snorted. \"I'm merely waiting for your girl to make out my receipt. I thought you receipt. He didn't speak English and over to my desk and looked down at the calendar. Mr. Oyster was saying something to the effect that if I didn't leave today, it would have to be tomorrow, that he hadn't ponied up that thousand dollars advance for anything less than immediate service. Stuffing his receipt in his wallet, he fussed \"All right,\" Simon said. \"We'll accept Oktoberfest is one whale travelers yet.\" I tried just once more. \"Uh, when did you first see this Mr. Oyster?\" \"Never saw him before in my Oktoberfest . For one thing, a time traveler wouldn't life,\" she said. \"Not until he came be conspicuous. At a festival like this somebody with a strange accent, or Oktoberfest . People would figure they had D.T.'s.\" \"But why would a time traveler want to go to a—\" Betty began. ten minutes ago, were gone about three minutes, and then came back.\" \"See here,\" Mr. Oyster said (interrupting Simon's story), \"did you say this was supposed to be amusing, \"Why not! What better opportunity Simon shrugged, put one hand to more.\" \"I'm not interested in more,\" Mr. Oyster said. \"I suppose your point was to show me how ridiculous the whole idea actually is. Very well, event, both for the sake of actual interest and for protection against being with a considerable fortune and you Simon winced at the noise, took Oktoberfest starts on Friday and continues for sixteen days. You can one way of taking care of a crackpot. But I'm surprised you didn't take his money and enjoy that vacation Simon was shaking his head. \"Not at him. Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself. \"See here, young man, I realize this isn't an ordinary assignment, you've been yearning about.\" Simon Simon nodded, miserably. \"I did,\" Simon groaned. \"Three done.\" \"A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,\" Mr. Oyster said quietly. \"I like the fact that you already seem to have some interest and knowledge time traveler, there might have been—\" \"I keep telling you,\" Simon said ticket, told them I wanted to leave on the first obtainable plane to New York. I'd spent two days at the \"A fifty thousand dollar bonus if you bring me a time traveler.\" \"Out of the question,\" Simon said. \"Just for laughs,\" Simon told the this:\" I got a thousand dollars from Mr. Oyster (Simon began) in the way of an advance, and leaving him with Betty who was making out a receipt, I got more guff there. Something packed a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacation anyway, this was a natural. On the way to Idlewild I stopped off at Simon said wearily, \"There's just one thing you can bring back with you from the future, a hangover compounded hours to get to Gander from Idlewild. I spent the time planning the fun I was going to have. of a gallon or so of Marzenbräu. I could put into my reports to Mr. Oyster. I was going to have to give him some kind of report for his money. Time travel yet! What a laugh! Between Shannon and Munich a was fouled up, some clerk's error, back into place, she glared unbelievingly bag, told me they'd do what they could, and to report back in a few hours. the Munich area, each of them represented by one of the circuslike tents that Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tent contained benches and tables for apartment. I figured I might as well true, you should have gone back again to Munich. If there was one didn't seem to hang together very well. \"My pilgrimage,\" he told me. \"All my life I've been wanting to go back to an Oktoberfest mass . \"I'll help you,\" I told him. \"Very noble endeavor. Name is Simon.\"\n\n<question>:\nHow has Simon manipulated Mr. Oyster?\n\n<options>:\nA He has traveled back in time thrice to attempt to bring back a time traveler\nB He has taken over $50,000 of Mr. Oyster's money based on unfulfilled investigations\nC He has discovered that Mr. Oyster is actually Arth from several decades ago\nD He has used the opportunity to travel to Oktoberfest on vacation, and never intended to grant Mr. Oyster's request\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
1,170 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nsociology good for?\" Wilton Caswell, Ph.D., was head of my Sociology Department, and right then he was mad enough to chew nails. On the office wall behind him to see to it that the university made money. I had a job to do, and I meant to do it. He bit off each word with great restraint: \"Sociology is the study of social institutions, Mr. Halloway.\" collecting Wheaties in a stamp album. We can't appeal to them that way. Come on now.\" I smiled condescendingly, knowing it would irritate him. \"What are you doing that's worth anything?\" He glared at me, his white hair bristling and his nostrils dilated like a war horse about to whinny. I can say one thing for them—these scientists and professors always keep themselves well under control. He had a book in his hand and I was expecting him to throw it, but he spoke instead: position, and ran his eyes over the titles of the books that lined his office walls. \"Well, sociology has been valuable to business in initiating worker efficiency and group motivation studies, which they now use in I stopped him with both raised hands. \"Please, Professor Caswell! That would hardly be a recommendation. Washington, the New Deal and the present Administration are somewhat touchy subjects to the men I have to deal with. They consider its value debatable, if you know what I mean. If they got the idea that sociology professors are giving advice recognize its value.\" Prof. Caswell smiled back tightly. He knew his department was at stake. The other departments were popular with donors and pulled in gift money by scholarships and fellowships, and supported their professors and graduate students by research contracts with the government popular—or else. I couldn't fire him directly, of course, but there are ways of doing it indirectly. \"Institutions—organizations, that is—\" his voice became more resonant like most professors, when he had to explain something he instinctively slipped into his platform lecture mannerisms, and began to deliver an essay—\"have certain tendencies built into the way they happen to have been organized, which cause them to expand or contract to men that a simple organization—such as a church to worship in, or a delegation of weapons to a warrior class merely for defense against an outside enemy—will either grow insensately and extend its problem, I found that the mathematics of open system, as introduced to biology by Ludwig von Bertalanffy and George Kreezer, could be used as a base that would enable me to develop a specifically social mathematics, expressing the human factors of intermeshing authority and motives in simple formulas. something to show that it works, that's all.\" He looked away from me thoughtfully, picked up the book and began to \"Could we discuss this over lunch?\" he asked. \"I wouldn't mind hearing more, but I'm having lunch with some executors of a millionaire's will. They have to be convinced that by, 'furtherance of research into human ills,' he meant that the money should go to research fellowships for postgraduate biologists at the afternoon, Mr. Halloway. I'm glad we had this talk.\" I shook hands and left him standing there, sure of his place in the progress of science and the respect of his colleagues, yet seething inside because I, the president and dean, had boorishly demanded that an annual ceremony in a silly costume, I spend the rest of the year going hat in hand, asking politely for money at everyone's door, like a well-dressed panhandler, and trying to manage the university on the dribble I get. As far as I was concerned, a department had to support itself or be cut down to what student tuition pays for, which is a handful of over-crowded courses taught by an assistant lecturer. But the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to hear what he was going to do for a demonstration. At lunch, three days later, while we were waiting for our order, he opened a small notebook. \"Ever hear of feedback effects?\" \"Not enough to have it clear.\" \"Well, now—\" He wrote a short line of symbols on a blank page and It was a row of little symbols arranged like an algebra equation. One He was deep in the symbology of human motives and the equations of into organization.\" \"How about a good selfish reason for the ins to drag others into the group—some sort of bounty on new members, a cut of their membership fee?\" I suggested uncertainly, feeling slightly foolish. \"And maybe a \"The first is the chain letter principle,\" he nodded. \"I've got equation. \"That's it.\" \"This demonstration has got to be convincing. We'd better pick a little group that no one in his right mind would expect to grow.\" \"There should be a suitable club—\" Picture Professor Caswell, head of the Department of Sociology, and with him the President of the University, leaning across the table toward each other, sipping coffee and talking in conspiratorial tones over something they were writing in a notebook. Circle. \"Today we have guests.\" She signaled for us to rise, and we stood up, bowing to polite applause and smiles. \"Professor Caswell, and Professor Smith.\" (My alias.) \"They are making a survey of the methods and repairing second hand clothing for charity with the same endless boring parliamentary formality. I pointed out to Caswell the member I thought would be the natural I nudged Caswell and murmured, \"Did you fix it so that a shover has a better chance of getting into office than a non-shover?\" she can be trusted with initiating the change. Just mention all the personal advantages an unscrupulous person could have.\" He nodded, keeping a straight and sober face as if we were exchanging admiring remarks about the techniques of clothes repairing, instead of conspiring. After the meeting, Caswell drew the tall woman in the green suit \"But I'm curious. Could I get in touch with that woman—what's her name?\" After the phone had rung in the distance for a long time, a servant answered with a bored drawl: through the first slow move to fire him. His professional pride would be shattered, sunk without a trace. I remembered what he said about shooting himself. It had seemed funny to both of us at the time, that would make for the university. why the club had disbanded. Perhaps it had not just died. I called back. \"This is Professor Smith,\" I said, giving the alias I hand on the speaker's stand with each word for emphasis. \" All we need is more members. Now get out there and recruit! \" of being pulled in with them, ideas, ambitions and all. I chuckled while reading the next page of the paper, on which a local politician was reported as having addressed the club with a long flowery oration on their enterprise, charity, and civic spirit. He had been made an honorary member. If he allowed himself to be made a full member with its contractual obligations and its lures, if the sense to see where his bread was buttered. A businessman is constantly dealing with organizations, including his own, and finding them either inert, cantankerous, or both. Caswell's formula could be a handle to grasp them with. Gratitude alone would bring money into the university in carload lots. ! I can use this Watashaw thing to get you so many fellowships and scholarships and grants for your department that you'll think it's snowing money!\" He answered somewhat disinterestedly, \"I've been busy working with Watashaw business at all, I'm afraid. You say the demonstration went well and you're satisfied?\" He was definitely putting on a chill. We were friends now, but obviously he was still peeved whenever he was reminded that I had doubted that his theory could work. And he was using its success to string of degrees after his name is just as human as anyone else. I had needled him pretty hard that first time. \"I'm satisfied,\" I acknowledged. \"I was wrong. The formulas work tether and die of old age.\" \"When will that be?\" in his own mind. Then he laughed weakly. \"Well, you asked me for a demonstration.\" That was as good an answer as any. We got together and had lunch in a hook or by crook, by seduction or by bribery or by propaganda or by\n\n<question>:\nWhat was the initial goal of the protagonist?\n\n<options>:\nA To collect more money\nB To increase his personal reputation\nC To improve his institution's reputation\nD To befriend his colleague\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
461 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was—their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh.\" \"What?\" said Capt. Lawler. \" Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position. He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incredibly lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The \"There went the air,\" Capt. Lawler commented. \"Boom! Boom!\" said Major Winship in exasperation. \"The one that doesn't speak English.\" \"He's done it deliberately,\" said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four Americans. \"How are we going to know when it's over?\" for several minutes. \"Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can't tell a thing that's going on.\" In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A Perspiration was trickling down his face. \"Let's all go in,\" said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. \"It's probably over by now.\" Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. \"This is it,\" he said. \"I'm going in.\" \"Let's all—\" \"No. I've got to cool off.\" closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and the temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper moment when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward, off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside \"Charlie! Charlie!\" There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their breath. They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as though it were breathing and then it ruptured. Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which \"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads.\" There was a splatter of static. \"Damn!\" Major Winship said, \"they should have made these things more flexible.\" to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the floor. \"Come on in,\" he said dryly. They huddled over the instruction sheet. \"Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before service.\" Major Winship said dryly, \"Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins cursed twice during the operation. \"I'd hate to live in this thing for any period.\" sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the They roused Earth. \"This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the Leak? \"... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!\" Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle. \"Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to \"However,\" he continued, \"we did experience a minor leak in the dome, destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave the conversation a tone of deliberation. Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the transmitter. to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle. minute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left, nickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you, III Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. \"What is \"About this drum,\" Capt. Wilkins said. \"Well, like I said, it's this way,\" Lt. Chandler resumed. \"I told him we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mix up. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have to combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little scale—\" surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little scales.\" \"Well, anyway,\" Lt. Chandler continued, \"he told us just to mix up the of calking compound. Those people are insane.\" \"The question is,\" Capt. Lawler said, \"'How are we going to mix it?' It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly.\" They thought over the problem for a while. we could....\" It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer. Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated. the mixer out there.\" It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was interposing itself. Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. \"Damn these suits,\" he said. Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring. \"No!\" Major Winship snapped. With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing attachment. \"I feel crowded,\" he said. \"Cozy's the word.\" \"Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!\" \"Sorry.\" At length the mixer was in operation in the drum. \"Works perfectly,\" said Capt. Wilkins proudly. \"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English.\" \"You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area thoroughly around the leak.\" the drum. \"We don't have any sandpaper.\" \"It's been a long day,\" Capt. Wilkins said. \"Mix it thoroughly,\" Lt. Chandler mused. \"I guess that means let it mix for about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service in just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe.\" \"I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air.\" \"No,\" Capt. Lawler said. \"It sets by some kind of chemical action. General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind of plastic.\" \"Larry,\" said Major Winship, \"I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curing epoxy resin from—\" \"Hey!\" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. \"The mixer's stopped.\" He bent forward and touched the drum. He jerked back. \"Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's harder than a rock! It an epoxy! Let's get out of here.\" \"Out! Out!\" He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms and legs. The table remained untouched. When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, \"Get to one side, it may go off like shrapnel.\" They obeyed.\n\n<question>:\nWhat caused the explosion that resulted in the loss of air on Freedom 19?\n\n<options>:\nA The room became too hot from overcrowding\nB The calking mixture leaked onto the air tank.\nC The compound mixture became too hot because of the lack of the air reconditioner\nD The compound mixture was mixed too quickly.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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593 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nsinging it for a million years.\" He released her, and opened a wood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside. \"Throw our singers some supper for their song,\" he said. Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled the mineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from the liquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air. \"They're so very strange,\" Orison said. At the bottom of the tank she \"He was a very kind employer,\" Orison said. She tried to keep from staring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair of three, two, one. Do you read me? Over.\" little family.\" \"I'm Orison McCall,\" she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight? So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three? still so young. \"We've hardly met,\" she said. \"But we're on a first-name basis already,\" he pointed out. \"Dance?\" Small bows, true just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding. thought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't like Street Journal into a club and standing. \"Darling.\" \"So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here. You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts of annoyance. Understand me, darling?\" you. Push a button, will you? And bon voyage .\" clutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you see him, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?\" seven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, and the landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. There was a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within the fringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound. and eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together by strands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating with pink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was half full of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a moment liquid. Then she screamed. The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light from the spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millions upon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed crawling, leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orison put her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward the Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to have her wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elder Gerding. \"It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders,\" he said. \"Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Were we to toss you into one of these tanks....\" Orison struggled against sumo -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers by some quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from the floor. \"... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and darted all around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Of course, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton of calcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted within -wrestlers protested. \"Elder Compassion has no rank,\" Kraft Gerding said. \"Miss McCall, you must tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders.\" \"Dink ... Dink!\" Orison shouted. \"My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue of damsels in distress,\" Kraft said. \"Someone, after all, has to mind the bank.\" \"Something about escudo green. Put me down!\" Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor as though struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, their faces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly lowering himself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Without questions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his arms around Orison. your brain back on. All right, now?\" \"All right,\" she said, still trembling. \"They were going to throw me to the spiders.\" \"Kraft told you that?\" Dink Gerding released her and turned to the kneeling man. \"Stand up, Elder Brother.\" \"Have you read the story of Bluebeard?\" Orison asked. She stood close to Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. \"I had to see what it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I was forbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking for that the escudo green is pale.\" \"You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless,\" Dink said. \"Now, what is this thing you have about spiders?\" \"I've always been terrified of them,\" Orison said. \"When I was a little girl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was a spider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad came home and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetite for supper.\" \"Strange,\" Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and plucked one of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. \"This is no spider, Orison,\" he said. She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cupped in the palm of his hand. \"These are Microfabridae, more nearly related to shellfish than to spiders,\" he said. \"They're stone-and-metal eaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison.\" He extended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature, flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling around the bowl of his hand. \"Pretty little fellow, isn't he?\" Dink asked. \"Here. You hold him.\" Microfabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, like unfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm. \"He's like a baby crawdad,\" Orison said. \"A sort of crustacean,\" Dink agreed. \"We use them in a commercial process we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off and secret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see.\" \"What do they do?\" Orison asked. \"That's still a secret,\" Dink said, smiling. \"I can't tell even you that, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary.\" \"What's he doing now?\" Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus, perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratching against her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae. \"They like gold,\" Dink explained, peering across her shoulder, thought I heard music,\" she said. \"I heard it when I came in. Something like the sighing of wind in winter trees.\" \"That's the hymn of the Microfabridae,\" Dink said. \"They all sing together while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices.\" He took her arm. \"If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song these little workers sing the most beautiful music in the world.\" Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening to quiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked. \"It's an ancient song,\" Dink said. \"The Microfabridae have been\n\n<question>:\nWhat are Microfabridae?\n\n<options>:\nA tiny crustaceans that eat calcium and metals\nB tiny crustaceans that they're breeding for profit\nC tiny spiders that eat people\nD tiny spiders that create tiny webs\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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2,412 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nthe entire problem all but whipped. It is not difficult to understand why. houlihan's equation that the small people with their quick eyes and clever fingers could The working model and the fact I must again. I had known precisely such \"Here is your equation,\" I said. \"It That morning I had been trying to work out an equation to give the \"you will not be forgotten by the leprechauns. If we ever meet again, upon another world perchance, you'll find our friendship always workable equation when we set Without this coefficient to give I see I shall have to explain this, although I had hoped to get right \"I'll not be needing the gold,\" I \"What's this now?\" \"I'll not be needing it,\" I repeated. \"I don't feel it would be right to take it for a service of this sort.\" \"Well,\" said Keech in surprise, and in some awe, too, \"well, now, musha Lord help us! 'Tis the first of nuclear explosion—which is what the drive amounts to despite the fact that it is simply water in which nuclear salts have been previously from a mortal.\" He turned to his time I ever heard such a speech and structure— Oh, there is so much of this that if you're not a nuclear engineer yourself it's certain to weary you. Perhaps you had better take my word for it that without this equation—correctly stated, mind you—mankind would be well advised not to make a first trip to the moon. And all this talk of coefficients and how I had gotten the best of the slowly and chuckled to myself at named Kevin Francis Houlihan. had given them the wrong equation, But I am, after all, a scientist. If I had not been a specialist in my field later, if they tried to spy out the I would hardly have found myself of course. They would never get their spaceship to work now, and in eerily mysterious fashion with a of the trees, not wanting to deprive done so quickly without those sessions his working model. It would go down in scientific literature now, I suppose, as Houlihan's Equation, and that was honor There was no sense in cheating him out of the gold to boot, for leprechauns are most clever in matters of this sort and he would have had it back soon enough—or else Indeed, I had done a piece of work greatly to my advantage, and also to the advantage of humankind, and when a man can do the first and include the second as a fortunate byproduct become convinced they could For if I had shown the little people how to make a spaceship they would have left our world. And \"Come along now, people!\" said this crotchety one, looking straight for us to believe in every now and then? Transcriber's Note: Oh, it was good to hear the rich old tongue again. I smiled, and the foreman of the leprechauns—if that's what he was—saw me smile and became stiff and alert for a moment, as though suspecting that perhaps know he can't see nor hear us!\" typographical errors have been corrected without note. deeming such a thing impossible. said, \"What? What's that, now?\" \"Ohhh!\" he said and put his palms to his cheekbones. \"Saints be with us! He's a believer! Run everybody—run for your lives!\" And they all began running, in They continued to scurry. I knew what it was they feared. you!\" I said. \"Come back, you daft But the glade was silent, and they had all disappeared. They thought I wanted their crock of gold, of course. I'd be entitled to it if I could catch one and keep him. Or so the legends affirmed, though I've wondered even if I had latched on to a fine job of work for almost shamefully generous pay. You see, in a place as full of science as the nuclear propulsion almost miraculously complete Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans. I am descended from King Niall himself—or so at least my father used to say! Come on out Then I waited, but they didn't answer. The little people always a decision in so many words I knew satisfactory conclusion. I heard only the leaves rustling The glade remained deathly silent. \"Two!\" as if a small, brittle twig had suddenly appeared. The leader—he seemed more drawing a kind of peppered dignity up about himself, \"in such matters I am never fully convinced. After living for many centuries I am all too acutely aware of the perversity of human nature.\" \"Yes,\" I said. \"Well, as you will quickly see, all I want to do is all he wants,\" wondering how you guessed it was \"And why wouldn't I know a \"It just so happens I'm a doctor of science.\" \"A doctor of science, now,\" said Keech. \"Invited by the American government \"I'll make no apologies for it,\" I \"Oh, there's no need for apology,\" said Keech. \"Though in truth we prefer poets to scientists. But it has just now crossed my mind, Mr. Houlihan that you, being a scientist, might be of help to us.\" \"How?\" I asked. \"But continue.\" \"We had to come here,\" said Keech, \"to learn how to make a adopting some of the old manner. \"Leprechauns are not really mechanically inclined,\" said Keech. \"Their major passions are music and laughter and mischief, as anyone knows.\" \"Myself included,\" I agreed. \"Then why do you need a spaceship?\" \"Well, if I may use an old expression, we've had a feelin' lately that we're not long for this world. Or let me put it this way. We feel the world isn't long for itself.\" would a man unravel a statement \"It's very simple. With all the super weapons you mortals have developed, there's the distinct possibility \"Well, then, as I say,\" said Keech, \"the little people have decided to leave the planet in a spaceship. Which we're buildin' here and now. We've spied upon you and how to do it. We haven't learned yet how to control the power—\" I was inclined to suggest the construction. Naturally, we didn't understand all of your high-flyin' science, but some of our people are pretty clever at gettin' up replicas of things.\" thought it was by the Russians. path. It may be you can only see us when you're thinkin' of us, and of course truly believin' in us. I don't know—'tis a thing of the mind, and not important at the moment. has crossed my mind. That's why I'm wastin' all this time with you, sir. You say you are a scientist.\" \"Help you?\" to know at any instant exactly out exactly as it does on paper.\" \"You're referring to the necessity \"Whatever it might be named,\" said Keech, shrugging. \"'Tis the one thing we lack. I suppose eventually \"And you want me to help you finally, \"why should I help you?\" \"Ha!\" said Keech, grinning, but not with humor, \"the avarice of humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan, I'll give you reason enough. The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!\" \"The one at the end of the rainbow?\" That's a grandmother's tale. Nor is it actually in an earthen crock. But there's gold, all right, enough to make you rich for the the aid of diagrams, as engineers I came back again the next day—and but Keech and his people made a canopy of boughs and leaves and I was comfortable enough. Every once or the center itself would pass by, and stop to watch me. But of course they wouldn't see the leprechauns or anything the leprechauns had made, not being believers. I would halt work, pass the time of day, and then, in subtle fashion,\n\n<question>:\nWhy didn't the narrator provide the leprechauns with the correct equation?\n\n<options>:\nA He knows that the leprechauns are preventing humans from destroying the Earth\nB He wants to take credit for the equation and is concerned they will try to get credit first\nC In swearing their allegiance to him, they are bound to him for eternity\nD He believes humans need to believe in things like leprechauns in order to sustain their own race\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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516 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nRed Witch of Mercury By EMMETT McDOWELL Death was Jaro Moynahan's stock in trade, and Mercury, he was selling his guns into the weirdest of all his exploits—gambling his life against the soft touch of a woman's lips. down about her face. There was perspiration on her upper lip and temples. Her crimson mouth wore a fixed smile. Her eyes were frightened. The man, who had accompanied the singer on the piano, sat at the foot \"So,\" said the red-head locate Karfial Hodes. Don't look at me that way, Jaro. You frighten me. I'm telling the truth. We can't find him. That's why we called you. You've got to find him, Jaro. He's stirring up all Mercury.\" \"Who's putting up the money?\" \"I can't tell you.\" \"Why? What makes you think that?\" to lose most in case of a revolution? The answer seemed obvious enough. so, he suspected that they had caught a tartar. The Red Witch had the reputation of being able to take care of herself. He beckoned a waiter, paid his bill. As the Mercurian started to leave, \"What became of the red-headed singer?\" engineered it in the dark and the Mercurians were a clannish lot. Back on the narrow alley-like street Jaro Moynahan headed for his followers. Once back in his room, Jaro Moynahan stripped off his clothes, unbuckled a shoulder holster containing a compressed air slug gun, stepped under the shower. His body was lean and brown as his face stretching out on the bed began to contemplate his toes with singular interest. He had, he supposed, killed rather a lot of men. He had fought in was little doubt but that he had killed quite a number of men. But this business of hunting a man through the rat-runs beneath the city was out Jaro still said nothing. Miss Mikail must be the red-headed singer, Mikail's abduction fifteen minutes after the fact.\" Jaro raised his eyebrows. \"Perhaps then you know where she is?\" Mr. Peet shook his head. \"No. Karfial Hodes' men abducted her.\" \"They told me Mr. Peet was here,\" he said. \"It's for you,\" said Jaro over his shoulder. Mr. Peet came to the door. \"Hello, Stanley. I thought Hodes had you? Where's Miss Mikail?\" \"I got away. Look, Mr. Peet, I got to see you alone.\" seldom shot to kill, it stopped a man like a well placed mule's hoof. He adjusted the gun lightly in its holster in order that it wouldn't stick if he were called upon to use it in a hurry. Then he went out then quite clearly he heard Albert Peet say in a high girlish tone: \"Stanley, I thought I left you in the native quarter. Why did you follow me? How many times have I told you never to come here?\" The reply was unintelligible. Then the pale-faced young man came Moynahan he froze. \"What're you sneaking around here for?\" The youth's black eyes were hot as coals, his fingers twitching. His hands began to creep upward. \"You dirty ...\" he began, but he got no further. Jaro Moynahan shot him in the shoulder. The compressed air slug gun had seemed to leap into Jaro's hand. The hurled him against the wall. Jaro vaulted the rail, deftly relieved him of two poisoned needle guns. \"I'll get you for this,\" said Stanley, his mouth twisted in pain. \"You've broken my shoulder. I'll kill you.\" The door to the inner sanctum swung open. \"What's happened?\" cried Albert Peet in distress. \"What's wrong with you, Stanley?\" \"This dirty slob shot me in the shoulder.\" \"But how badly?\" Peet was wringing his hands. \"Stanley,\" said Mr. Peet. \"You're bleeding all over my carpet. Why can't you go in the washroom. There's a tile floor in there. If you hadn't disobeyed this wouldn't have happened. You and your fights. Has anyone called a doctor? Where's Miss Webb? Miss Webb! Oh, Miss Webb! That girl. Miss Webb!\" Stanley climbed to his feet, swayed a moment drunkenly, then wobbled out a door on the left just as a tall brunette hurried in from the right. She had straight black hair which hung not quite to her \"You trollop.\" Mr. Peet regarded Jaro Moynahan with distress. \"Really, Mr. Moynahan, was it necessary to shoot Stanley? Isn't that—ah—a little extreme? I'm afraid it might incapacitate him, and I had a job for him.\" \"Oh,\" cried Miss Webb, her brown eyes crackling. \"Did you shoot that poor boy? Aren't you the big brave man?\" Miss Webb's eyes grew round as marbles. \"I wouldn't touch one of those nasty little contraptions for all the Latonka on Mercury.\" \"Here, I'll take them,\" said Stanley coming back into the room. He had staunched the flow of blood. His face was even whiter, if possible. Jaro eyed him coldly as with his good hand the youth dropped the dart \"Act like you want to use those and I'll put a slug in your head next time.\" \"Now, Mr. Moynahan.\" Mr. Peet licked his lips nervously. \"Stanley, go into my office. The doctor will be here in a moment. Miss Webb, you may go home. I'll have no more work for you today.\" Albert Peet led Stanley through the door. Jaro and Miss Webb were alone. With his eye on the door, Jaro said: \"When you go out, turn left toward the native quarter. Wait for me in As the door closed behind the girl, Albert Peet licked his lips, said: \"Mr. Moynahan, I suppose my disappearance back at your room requires some explanation. But the fact is that Stanley brought an important bit of news.\" He paused. Jaro said nothing. \"You might be interested to know that Miss Mikail is quite safe. Karfial Hodes has her, but Stanley assures me she will be quite safe.\" Again he paused. As Jaro remained silent, his neck mottled up pinkly. \"The fact is, Mr. Moynahan, that we won't need you after all. I realize \"but I've got a date. I'm late now.\" He started to leave. \"Stanley!\" called Albert Peet. The pale-faced young man appeared in the doorway, the dart gun in his good hand. Jaro Moynahan dropped on his face, jerking out his slug gun Jaro got up, keeping an eye on Albert Peet, brushed off his knees. \"You've killed him,\" said Peet. \"If I were you, Mr. Moynahan, I would Without answering, Jaro backed watchfully from the room. Once Jaro Moynahan had regained the street, he mopped his forehead with A native waiter, attracted no doubt by her scream, came over and took Jaro's order. calling me Joan. You make me feel downright ancient.\" \"Well then,\" he said. \"In the first place, I just killed that baby-faced gunman your boss had in his office.\" \" Awk! \" said Joan, choking on the Latonka. \"It was self-defense,\" he hastened to assure her. \"He took a pot shot at me with that poisoned dart gun.\" \"But the police!\" she cried, as she caught her breath. \"There'll never be an investigation. Albert Peet will see to that. I was called here on what I supposed was a legitimate revolution. Instead I was offered ten thousand Earth notes to assassinate the leader of the induce a Mercurian to kill, even in self-protection. That's why Albert first thing the Mercurians will do, will be to boot out the Latonka\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Moynihan shoot Stanley?\n\n<options>:\nA It was an accident.\nB Stanley tried to poison him.\nC Stanley was protecting Albert Peet.\nD He was hired to shoot Stanley.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
52 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nBy LU KELLA From Venus to Earth, and all the way between, it was a hell of a world for men ... and Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailed mouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Rielly saw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands of until she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an age where no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as a \"Venus dames,\" O'Rielly said dreamily, \"don't boss anything, do they?\" Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant. \"O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?\" \"Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guys got one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So then \"Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild cats with knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venus dames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small to pick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus ones back where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot on Earth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with an electron microscope. \"Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funny notions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in an atom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys. light years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up a deal. \"No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guys stay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leave Venus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caught around a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everything at bargain basement prices.\" 'em. \"Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, when a crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation. put your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't high on vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do we feed the Old Woman?\" was saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save her Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through this Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the more No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. Old Woman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edge onto her own words. \"Facilities of the Captain's quarters are more Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! And \"Trillium,\" O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, \"why do you have to keep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you?\" Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladly drowned himself if he could. \"There are rewards,\" the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness of outer space, \"for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and for her leaving her planet.\" back to his planet, \"that I am the Personal Ambassador of the President of Venus and this thing can mean war!\" \"Yes! War in which people will actually die!\" As His Excellency paled at that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth at \"Presidents of Earth and Venus, please,\" the Old Woman stated evenly. \"Interplanetary emergency.\" Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonally efforts.\" Old Woman sighed through her teeth. \"Venus woman aboard this ship. Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.\" The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by a Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. \"The facts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody.\" The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features, that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. \"Trillium! My own granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly,\" Mr. President roared at his Earth out of the universe. \"My grandchild was kidnapped by men under your official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?\" \"No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bring our cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will only stop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on your wars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries!\" have to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobody around here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. But nobody on Venus dies from the things any more.\" \"But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war they haven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatal Venus manhood laying down the law. \"That's the way things have been on Venus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can't change it!\" \"I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during these conversations,\" Madame President said crisply. \"Earth is terminating all trade agreements with Venus as of this instant.\" \"What?\" Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. \"It's not legal! You can't get away with this!\" the panel too. \"From now on I'm doing the deciding.\" \"Nonsense! You're only my wife!\" \"And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.\" \"Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet into another Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!\" \"Take him away, girls,\" Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse was Venus women had our own men in our power.\" \"Those crewmen there,\" Grandmamma President said, \"seem to be proof enough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth's tranquility.\" Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden. \"Hmmmm, yes,\" Madame President of Earth observed. \"Reactions agree perfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have been conducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. Madame President of Venus, congratulations on your victory! \"Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted to receive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliest grin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary. \"You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago,\" O'Rielly said in sudden thought. \"If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, why did Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?\" \"Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time,\" Callahan mumbled, like to himself, \"they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep, guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live. Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be one much longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselves but didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizing to take over Venus, I guess.\" O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trillium before her revolution. \"All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leave\n\n<question>:\nHad Trillium known the outcome of her stowing away, would she have likely still stowed away?\n\n<options>:\nA Yes, because she was able to accomplish her mission.\nB Yes, because she had already shown that she was selfish and lonely.\nC No, because she was jeopardizing being condemned to a Uranus moon.\nD No, because she wasn't able to prove her point and was sent back to Venus.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWhen he began his talk with \"You got your health, don't you?\" it touched those spots inside me. That was when I did it. Why couldn't what he said have been \"The best things in life are free, Not if you believe me. The first thing I can remember, the start of all this, was when I was and I was left there in the dark. Being four or five, I didn't know any better, so I thought Dad made it dark to add to my punishment. But I learned he didn't know the light him about the light as soon as I could talk again, but he said I was lying. him. Because they were real, I talked about them as if they were real, and I almost earned a bunk in the home for retarded children until I got others got money from home to buy the things they needed—razor blades, candy, sticks of tea. I got a letter from Mom or Dad every now and then before they were killed, saying they had sent money or that it was It was two or three years later that I skulked into Brother Partridge's Partridge didn't seem to notice me, but I knew that was an act. I knew people were always watching every move I made. He braced his red-furred hands on the sides of his auctioneer's stand and leaned his splotched eagle beak toward us. \"Brothers, this being Thanksgiving, I pray the good Lord that we all are truly thankful for all that we have received. Amen.\" Some skin-and-bones character I didn't know struggled out of his seat, amening. I could see he had a lot to be thankful for—somewhere he had \"Brothers,\" Partridge went on after enjoying the interruption with a beaming smile, \"you shall all be entitled to a bowl of turkey soup prepared by Sister Partridge, a generous supply of sweet rolls and The Stars and Stripes Forever send one to the chef that they were going to think I was rich, and some that Frankie the Pig sells three for a quarter. room into the kitchen. Even Partridge made his way down from the auctioneer's stand like a vulture with a busted wing and darted through leave a fifty or even a hundred. A hundred! Yes, it felt new, crisp. It had to be a hundred. A single would be While keeping a lookout for Partridge and somebody stepping out of the time, a Western Union clock high up at the back of the hall. Just as I seen it for the first time, the electricity wound the spring motor inside like a chicken having its neck wrung. The next time I glanced at the clock, it said ten minutes had gone by. My hand still wasn't free and I hadn't budged the box. \"This,\" Brother Partridge said, \"is one of the most profound experiences of my life.\" My head hinged until it lined my eyes up with Brother Partridge. The the preacher explained in wonderment. I nodded. \"Swimming right in there with the dead duck.\" \"Cold turkey,\" he corrected. \"Are you scoffing at a miracle?\" \"People are always watching me, Brother,\" I said. \"So now they do it even when they aren't around. I should have known it would come to that.\" wasn't dumb enough to murder. Somebody, somewhere, would be a witness \"I may be able to help you,\" Brother Partridge said, \"if you have faith Brother Partridge regarded me solemnly. \"There must be something special.\" Partridge prodded me with his bony fingers as if making sure I was As long as it stalled off the cops, I'd talk to Partridge. We took a couple of camp chairs and I told him the story of my life, or of that turkey soup. Then again I was glad I hadn't. Something always happened to me when I thought back over my life. The same thing. After some time Sister Partridge bustled in and snapped on the overhead \"Remarkable,\" Partridge finally said when I got so hoarse I had to take a break. \"One is almost— almost —reminded of Job. William, you are being punished for some great sin. Of that, I'm sure.\" \"Punished for a sin? But, Brother, I've always had it like this, as long as I can remember. What kind of a sin could I have committed when I was fresh out of my crib?\" \"William, all I can tell you is that time means nothing in Heaven. Do you deny the transmigration of souls?\" \"Well,\" I said, \"I've had no personal experience—\" \"Of course you have, William! Say you don't remember. Say you don't want to remember. But don't say you have no personal experience!\" \"And you think I'm being punished for something I did in a previous He looked at me in disbelief. \"What else could it be?\" this life.\" \"William, if you atone for this sin, perhaps the horde of locusts will lift from you.\" It wasn't much of a chance, but I was unused to having any at all. I shook off the dizziness of it. \"By the Lord Harry, Brother, I'm going to give it a try!\" I cried. \"I believe you,\" Partridge said, surprised at himself. \"Perhaps this will help in your atonement,\" he said. Brother Partridge's money, I killed a man. It was all an accident, but killing somebody is reason enough to get \"What do you do, Jack?\" the fatter one asked. and do something permanent squirmed away across the rubbish like a polite mouse. News brains out. looking at it like that. But there was nothing to be said for telling Brother Partridge about the accident, or murder, or whatever had happened that day. Searching myself after I left Brother Partridge, I finally found a matches dropping down on the floor next to his tennis shoes, and even a from spilling more from the spoon. News of the stacks. The cases of books, row after row, smelled good. Like old leather and good pipe tobacco. I had been here before. In this world, it's the man with education who makes the money. I had been reading the Funk & Wagnalls Encyclopedia. So far I knew a lot about Mark Antony, Atomic Energy, Boron, Brussels, Catapults, Demons, and Divans. News and left me alone with double-breasted in Executive Suite while Walter Pidgeon and the rest had sleep on Thanksgiving, bracing up for trying the lift at Brother Partridge's. Let's see, it was daylight outside again, so this was the day after Thanksgiving. But it had only been sixteen or twenty hours think you're yellow.\" He turned slowly, his jaw moving further away from his brain. I winked. \"It was just a bet for me to say that to you. I won two bucks. Half of it is yours.\" I held out the bill to him. \"I still always did. I ran. Harold R. Thompkins, 49, vice-president of Baysinger's, was found dead behind the store last night. His skull had been crushed by a the ad card readers, the girl watchers as the neat little carbon-copy eyebrow. They couldn't do anything worse to the small man than they had done to the young boy. It was sort of nostalgic watching them, but same kill over and over. Like watching the Saturday night string of began to dose. The shrieks woke me up. For the first time, I could hear the shrieks of the monster's victim and listen to their obscene droolings. For the very first time in my life. Always before it had been all pantomime, like Charlie Chaplin. Now I heard the sounds of it all. They say it's a bad sign when you start hearing voices. I nearly panicked, but I held myself in the seat and forced myself to be rational about it. My own voice was always saying things everybody be the only one who could hear other things I never said. I was as sane as I ever was. There was no doubt about that. But a new thought suddenly impressed itself on me. Whatever was punishing me for my sin was determined that I turn back\n\n<question>:\nWhat does Brother Partridge think after William shares his life story?\n\n<options>:\nA He believes William is being punished for his former sins\nB He believes William is a criminal\nC He believes William is going to murder him\nD He believes William is the second coming\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIt's lunchtime at Glasgow Chambers in late November, and Councillor George Redmond is getting worked up at the prospect a Glasgow Pound. \"We would be Glasgow-centric about it,\" he says conspiratorially, as though there is any other way to be. \"Can you imagine having the face of Billy Connolly on our local currency? Or Alex Ferguson, or Kenny Dalglish?\" The pound has been trading at its lowest level since 1985 since the UK voted to leave the European Union and there are fears that it could dip further as Brexit ensues. Timebanks, local exchange trading systems (LETS) and digital inventions like bitcoin can provide alternative ways for people to pay for goods and services when mainstream currencies hit crises. But they will only work if Britons are ready to accept that they have the power to invent their own currency. \"At the moment, if the pound stops working for us, the whole economy grinds to a halt because there aren't alternatives,\" Duncan McCann, a researcher at the New Economics Foundation, tells those gathered in a gilded room at Glasgow Chambers to discuss the Glasgow Pound. McCann is a long-time advocate of alternative means of exchange. He is behind the ScotPound, a proposal for a new national currency for Scotland that emerged after the referendum on Scottish independence. It's an idea he no longer thinks will work, because the debate, since Brexit, has shifted from the currency issue back to ideas about Scottish independence. Today, he's preaching to the converted. Alex Walker, the chairman of the 250-person Ekopia community in Northern Scotland, listens at the back. The Eko has been the main means of buying everything from beer to bananas in Ekopia since Walker founded it 20 years ago. On an adjacent table, Tracy Duff, a community learning and development worker from Clackmannanshire Council, digs out some papers. She runs the Clacks Youth Timebank, a scheme where 12- to 15-year-olds can earn credit for volunteering. Taking notes up front is Ailie Rutherford, one of the people who organised the meeting. Rutherford runs the People's Bank of Govanhill, a currency that changes value depending on the income of the user. \"I don't see any reason why we shouldn't invent our own currency and play with it,\" she says. Everyone has gathered to decide what a Glasgow Pound might look like at a time when many are asking if local currencies can work at all. Councillor Redmond says Glasgow has been closely watching existing alternative currencies like the Brixton Pound in London, which was introduced in 2011. In Britain, there are now schemes in Totnes, Lewes, Brixton, Bristol and Exeter. Hull has its own local digital currency that can be earned from volunteering and used to pay council tax. Kingston, Birmingham and Liverpool have schemes underway. Glasgow could be next. But the working group has some serious questions to answer first, not least: do complementary currencies actually work? \"People don't understand money,\" Molly Scott Cato, Green MEP for the South West of England and Gibraltar, says over the phone. Scott Cato says the fish-in-water problem – the idea that sterling is so ubiquitous, it is never questioned – is the biggest challenge for complementary currencies. She knows all about it as a founder of the Stroud Pound in 2010, a currency that has since gone out of circulation. The Bristol Pound (£B) entered into circulation in September 2012. By June 2015, 1m £B had been issued, with £B700,000 of that still in circulation. In a population of some 450,000 people, that's the equivalent of each Bristolian carrying less than £B2 in change in their pocket. \"The small scale is a problem and a strength,\" says Stephen Clarke, chief financial officer of the Bristol Pound. \"The benefit comes from the fact that local currencies are trusted organisations: we're a Community Interest Company limited by guarantee.\" That means assets owned by the the Bristol Pound have to be used for the good of the community, rather than purely for profit. Without enough currency in circulation, it ceases to work. Scott-Cato says Stroud's size meant meant the Stroud Pound was never viable: \"We couldn't get the velocity of circulation right, which contrasts with the Bristol Pound.\" Clarke also says the small scale of local currencies means they are \"always scrabbling around looking for money\". One way founders of the Bristol Pound have addressed his is by setting up an umbrella organisation, the Guild of Independent Currencies, to share information between local currencies in the UK and help new organisations. \"At the moment we're all reinventing the wheel every time,\" Clarke says. Technology might also have a solution. Peter Ferry, a commercial director, travels to Glasgow to tell those working on the Glasgow Pound that that his company Wallet has come up with a way to use the blockchain, the technology behind bitcoin, to make it easier for people to use multiple types of currency. \"There might be many currencies around the country that people want to use. We need to make it simple for them to do that and also to make it simple to earn these currencies in many ways,\" he says. \"Bristol is seen as a quirky, individualistic kind of place,\" Clarke says. \"When we first produced the Bristol Pound note, people were really proud of it. It got through to people not just sat around coffee shops. I'm not sure a London Pound would work, because people identify with their local area in London rather than the city as a whole.\" Bristol Pound users don't have high incomes necessarily, but surveys show they are engaged with their local community and they have a higher educational attainment than average. In the years since the financial crisis, as local authority budgets have shrunk, some areas have relied heavily on engaged communities to fill in gaps in public services. By contrast, deprived areas where people cannot afford time and money to put into their community have become more deprived, making them even harder for local currencies to reach. \"It is difficult to get into more disadvantaged areas,\" Stephen Clarke says. \"We have a ten-year life expectancy gap between different parts of the city. When you go to disadvantaged areas with the Bristol Pound hat on you realise there aren't independent shops there, there's an Aldi and Lidl and that's it.\" When Scott-Cato and her colleagues wrote about the experience of setting up the Stroud Pound, they said it was telling that complementary currencies have been accused of being a game for middle-class people, rather than a genuine economic solution. Ciaran Mundy, CEO of the Bristol Pound, says it is important to think of the systemic impact rather than looking for targeted treatment of symptoms of economic deprivation. \"Poverty has many causes,\" he says. \"One of these is how the economy is structured in terms of how money flows out of poor areas due to high dependence on larger national and international companies paying lower wages and using offshore accounts to hide the money from the tax man.\" Every time a Brixton Pound transaction is made, 1.5 per cent goes into a Brixton Fund. This is used to give micro-grants of between a few hundred and £2000 to local projects and community groups. \"We aim to target projects that aren't large enough to apply for more formal grant funding,\" says Lucy Çava, project manager at the Brixton Pound. Meanwhile, the people behind the Bristol Pound are readying a mutual credit network called Bristol Prospects. Through this network, businesses in Bristol can exchange credit in the form of loans that are neutralised within the network, helping one another to grow without relying on the high rates of commercial lenders. \"We know from research that a number of small businesses in Bristol are struggling to get money on reasonable terms,\" says Clarke, \"and that banks are not interested in smaller loans to businesses. So we think there is a strength in the Bristol Pound network to start something like this that is linked, but separate.\"\n\n<question>:\nWho is the CFO of the Bristol Pound\n\n<options>:\nA Stephen Clarke\nB Molly Scott Cato\nC Duncan McCann\nD Ciaran Mundy\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThat said, the movie's approach makes for juicy melodrama. The tone of Elizabeth comes nearer to the nihilistic relish of Jacobeans such as John Ford and John Webster than to the more sorrowful horror of the Elizabethan dramatists Ben Jonson and William Shakespeare. It's even closer to a Jacobean drama of our own age: The Godfather (1972), which it emulates by cutting back-and-forth between queen and courtiers in prayer and the roundup and slaughter of Catholics on their privies, in bed with their mistresses, and so on. Their severed heads look on, wide-eyed, as Elizabeth directs her hair to be shorn--images of her girlhood flashing by as her locks rain down--and then walks weightily to her throne, now a chalk-faced gorgon. With all due respect to Blanchett, Bette Davis, and Glenda Jackson, my favorite Elizabeth I remains Miranda Richardson's capricious, baby-talking psychopath on the BBC comedy Blackadder II . (Casting about for a new lord high executioner, she mews to Rowan Atkinson, \"There are thousands of Catholics simply dying to have their heads sneaked off --and there's no one to organize it.\") But Blanchett comes in a close second, pulling off the transition from hapless young woman to coolly ruthless monarch with uncommon subtlety. Gradually expunging all empathy from her moist, pink eyes and permitting her visage to ossify, she gives this carnival of carnage an awe-inspiring center. A more subversive sort of queen is on display in Velvet Goldmine , Todd Haynes' musical fantasia on the early '70s era of \"glam\" or \"glitter\" rock. Here the monarch is a David Bowie-esque singer called Brian Slade (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) and his spidery, space-age alter ego, Maxwell Demon. The movie opens with a spaceship depositing an infant Oscar Wilde on the stoop of a Dublin townhouse. Then it skips ahead to track a jade pin (it signifies hedonistic liberation) from the custody of a young Wilde to a swishy fringe creature called Jack Fairy to the regal Slade, a bisexual superstar who carries the news to all the young dudes. After that, we're in an Orwellian 1984 that's presided over by a vaguely fascist president and by arena rockers who serve as propagandists for a repressively conformist state. Whatever happened to Brian Slade, the glitter kids, the visionary exhibitionists and gleeful poseurs? Borrowing its framework from Citizen Kane , the movie follows a reporter (Christian Bale) assigned to reconstruct Slade's life and solve the mystery of his whereabouts. Whatever you make of Velvet Goldmine (opinions have ranged from rapturous to casually dismissive), it's like no other musical ever made. It's determinedly swirling, discursive, elliptical. Now the story is told by an omniscient narrator, now a TV reporter, now a participant. Now it's flashing back, now forward. Every other line of dialogue is a cue for one of its dazzling numbers, largely covers of songs by Brian Eno, Bryan Ferry, and T. Rex. The narrative is a challenge to keep up with, but then, great artists often invent their own syntax. In the '80s, Haynes employed Barbie dolls to depict the rise and wasting away from anorexia of the singer Karen Carpenter. Lucky audiences who caught Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story (it was shelved when Richard Carpenter served the producers with an order to cease and desist exhibition) began by laughing at this elaborately posed, soft-rock femme, only to discover by the climax that the cultural forces that were eating at her (and that kept her from eating) had grown heartbreakingly palpable. Poison (1991), Haynes' Genêt-inspired exploration of transgression, didn't overcome its own artiness. But Safe (1995), the story of a Reagan-era housewife (Julianne Moore) convinced that her environment is poisoning her, is an entrancing meditation on the power of culture to crush the individual. Despite its ironic detachment, the film draws you into its heroine's sickly state: Breathing oxygen from a canister inside a high-tech igloo, she dwindles to nearly nothing, the modern incarnation of the Incredible Shrinking Man. In Velvet Goldmine , Haynes sets out to demonstrate the power of popular music to change people's lives--to tell them it's OK to fashion themselves into anything they please. The core of the movie turns out not to be the Bowie figure but the journalist, Arthur Stuart, who was a witness to the events he's now reconstructing. Bale is such an expressive performer that Stuart's remembrance of things past attains a Proustian intensity. To him, Slade was a sexual messiah. I've never seen a more vivid distillation of rock's allure than the scene in which he reverently opens the new Brian Slade album--its centerfold image is a lithe, naked, green-tinged Maxwell Demon--slips the vinyl out of its paper jacket and, after gingerly setting the LP on the turntable, props a chair under the doorknob to keep the uncomprehending world at bay. Is Brad Pitt the worst actor on earth? The case could be made, and Meet Joe Black could serve as Exhibit A. Pitt plays two roles in this seven course schlockfest. He's (briefly) a slick but wholesome yuppie and then (interminably) Death, who takes over the young man's body when he's thumped by a couple of cars in the movie's most promising moment. Bleached so blond that he looks like an irradiated android, Pitt expels all expression from his face and all tone from his voice. He speaks very, very slowly. The stunt half-works, at least until he's supposed to undergo an inner transformation and acquire human emotions--whereupon his face remains just as blank. Pitt's conception of the role is an idée fixe by someone who doesn't appear to have an idée in his head. Martin Brest, the director, is known for shooting a ton of footage and then \"finding\" his films in the editing room. What do you suppose he \"found\" when he scrutinized these miles of celluloid with Pitt doing nothing and taking his sweet time doing it? The first adaptation of this story (originally a play) was the 1934 Death Takes a Holiday , which came in at a perky 78 minutes. A conceit this fragile needs to whiz along to keep our disbelief in suspension, but Meet Joe Black grinds on for three hours (longer than either Beloved or Saving Private Ryan ), and Pitt acts as if he has leased the screen by the year. Anthony Hopkins plays the zillionaire communications baron whom Death enlists in the hope of understanding the human condition--an odd choice for a tour guide, since most people's condition doesn't involve personal helicopters, sprawling mansions on Long Island Sound, or Manhattan apartments that sport Olympic-size swimming pools. Four screenwriters, among them the great Bo Goldman ( Melvin and Howard , 1980 Shoot the Moon , 1982), labored on this moldy script, which features characters who ask questions that begin \"Am I to understand that ...?\" and a corporate villain who directs another character to \"wake up and smell the thorns.\" It apparently never occurred to even one of these overpaid scribes to eliminate Hopkins' rueful realization that he'd \"never write the great American novel\"--no kidding, given his flagrantly Welsh accent.\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the author seem to value the most in films?\n\n<options>:\nA the theme represented in the film\nB the clarity of the story line\nC the length of the film\nD the quality of acting\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWhere it all started: Paul Krugman's \"The Legend of Arthur.\" 2) Krugman wrote: \"Cassidy's article tells the story of how Stanford Professor Brian Arthur came up with the idea of increasing returns.\" I wrote no such thing, and Arthur has never, to my knowledge, claimed any such thing. The notion of increasing returns has been around since Adam Smith, and it was written about at length by Alfred Marshall in 1890. What I did say in my article was that increasing returns was largely ignored by mainstream economists for much of the postwar era, a claim that simply isn't controversial. (As Krugman notes, one reason for this was technical, not ideological. Allowing for the possibility of increasing returns tends to rob economic models of two properties that economists cherish: simplicity and determinism. As long ago as 1939, Sir John Hicks, one of the founders of modern economics, noted that increasing returns, if tolerated, could lead to the \"wreckage\" of a large part of economic theory.) 3) Pace Krugman, I also did not claim that Arthur bears principal responsibility for the rediscovery of increasing returns by economists in the 1970s and 1980s. As Krugman notes, several scholars (himself included) who were working in the fields of game theory and international trade published articles incorporating increasing returns before Arthur did. My claim was simply that Arthur applied increasing returns to high-technology markets, and that his work influenced how other economists and government officials think about these markets. Krugman apart, virtually every economist I have spoken to, including Daniel Rubinfeld, a former Berkeley professor who is now the chief economist at the Justice Department's antitrust division, told me this was the case. (Rubinfeld also mentioned several other economists who did influential work, and I cited three of them in the article.) 4) Krugman appears to suggest that I made up some quotes, a charge that, if it came from a more objective source, I would consider to be a serious matter. In effect, he is accusing Brian Arthur, a man he calls a \"nice guy,\" of being a fabricator or a liar. The quotes in question came from Arthur, and they were based on his recollections of two meetings that he attended some years ago. After Krugman's article appeared, the Santa Fe professor called me to say that he still recalled the meetings in question as I described them. Krugman, as he admits, wasn't present at either of the meetings. Paul Krugman's attack on Brian Arthur (\"The Legend of Arthur\") requires a correction of its misrepresentations of fact. Arthur is a reputable and significant scholar whose work is indeed having influence in the field of industrial organization and in particular public policy toward antitrust policy in high-tech industries. Krugman admits that he wrote the article because he was \"just pissed off,\" not a very good state for a judicious statement of facts, as his column shows. His theme is stated in his first paragraph: \"Cassidy's article [in The New Yorker of Jan. 12] tells the story of how Stanford Professor Brian Arthur came up with the idea of increasing returns.\" Cassidy, however, said nothing of the sort. The concept of increasing returns is indeed very old, and Cassidy at no point attributed that idea to Arthur. Indeed, the phrase \"increasing returns\" appears just once in Cassidy's article and then merely to say that Arthur had used the term while others refer to network externalities. Further, Arthur has never made any such preposterous claim at any other time. On the contrary, his papers have fully cited the history of the field and made references to the previous papers, including those of Paul Krugman. (See Arthur's papers collected in the volume Increasing Returns and Path Dependence in the Economy, especially his preface and my foreword for longer comments on Arthur's work in historic perspective. Click to see the foreword.) Hence, Krugman's whole attack is directed at a statement made neither by Arthur nor by Cassidy. Krugman has not read Cassidy's piece with any care nor has he bothered to review what Arthur has in fact said. What Cassidy in fact did in his article was to trace a line of influence between one of Arthur's early articles and the current claims of the Department of Justice against Microsoft. It appears that Cassidy based his article on several interviews, not just one. The point that Arthur has emphasized and which is influential in the current debates about antitrust policy is the dynamic implication of increasing returns. It is the concept of path-dependence, that small events, whether random or the result of corporate strategic choice, may have large consequences because of increasing returns of various kinds. Initial small advantages become magnified, for example, by creating a large installed base, and direct the future, possibly in an inefficient direction. Techniques of production may be locked in at an early stage. Similar considerations apply to regional development and learning. Letter from M. Mitchell Waldrop: Thanks to Paul Krugman for his lament about credulous reporters who refuse to let facts stand in the way of a good story (\"The Legend of Arthur\"). As a professional journalist, I found his points well taken--even when he cites my own book, Complexity as a classic example of the gullibility genre. After reading Paul Krugman vent his spleen against fellow economist Brian Arthur in \"The Legend of Arthur,\" I couldn't help wondering whose reputation he was out to trash, Arthur's or his own. Krugman seems to fear a plot to deny economists their intellectual due. If one exists, Arthur is not a likely suspect. In a series of long interviews with me a year ago (for Worth magazine), I tried, vainly, to get Arthur to tell me how his ideas about increasing returns have encouraged a new strain of economic investigations. Despite much prodding, Arthur obliged only by placing himself in a long line of theorists dating back to Adam Smith and Alfred Marshall. I also found him disarmingly generous in giving credit to the biologists, physicists, and fellow economists who have helped advance his own thinking. Savvy to the journalist's quest for heroes, Arthur urged me to focus on his ideas, not his rank among his peers. Krugman has made a career out of telling other economists to pay better attention to the facts, yet as a chronicler of Arthur's career and inner life, Krugman seems to have listened only to his own demons. Among many other things, Complexity tells the story of the Irish-born economist Brian Arthur and how he came to champion a principle known as \"increasing returns.\" The recent New Yorker article explains how that principle has since become the intellectual foundation of the Clinton administration's antitrust case against Microsoft. Krugman's complaint is that the popular press--including Complexity and The New Yorker --is now hailing Brian Arthur as the originator of increasing returns, even though Krugman and many others had worked on the idea long before Arthur did. --Ted C. Fishman (For additional background on the history of \"increasing returns\" and Brian Arthur's standing in the field, click for David Warsh's July 3, 1994, Boston Globe article on Brian Arthur)\n\n<question>:\nWhat seems to be Krugman's biggest issue with Arthur?\n\n<options>:\nA Arthur allows too many people to misquote him.\nB Arthur received too much credit for increasing returns.\nC Arthur provided inaccurate information.\nD Arthur didn't do enough research on increasing returns.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n?\" Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stared \"And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth has made us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The only habitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the least Broderick smiled gently. \"Zur will grow. Our people will intermarry with yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zurians nor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.\" had the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet could have been yours alone.\" He stopped in alarm. \"Or am I suggesting an idea that didn't occur to you?\" \"No,\" said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained with memory. \"We know the history of conquest all too well. Our method causes more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and more \"It is a damned imposition,\" agreed Morvan, ignoring his father's philosophical attitude. \"They could have landed just as easily here in Lor.\" \"The Thorabians will lick up the gravy,\" said Singula, whose mind ran rather to matters of financial aspect, \"and leave us the grease.\" By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen, it is their only means of transport.\" Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secret conclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it. The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan. \"Listen to the boy,\" said the aged father. \"There is more wisdom in his head than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only of the clay.\" their desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and they did. Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thought his brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, of course, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe. hence these left much to be desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident. The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world of for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him a whaling for it. Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously, none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any had tried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there is always an \"anti\" faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowed happily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too. \"Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend my substance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, I say!\" \"Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a new type of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why do you need a whole new stove for one little pot?\" said so.\" \"He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough go back to cooking with your old ones.\" \"The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are so cheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and you will have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to use them.\" was wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I am sorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend to do well by us.\" it in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on its scanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome by unthinkable impertinence. It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that their their business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots from Earth. About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—made their appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with the newfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because for sells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of their eyes, we can be ruined.\" nowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up. \"My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottom of your trouble, but the things at a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except the brothers Masur. natural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—with commercials. Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time or Earthmen are taking care of that.\" At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselves better look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individual Masur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greater reward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh and bones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how prone Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. \"Why didn't you come to me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has, we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always to do right by the customer.\" \"Divinity witness,\" Zorin said, \"that we ask only compensation for Broderick shook his head. \"It is not possible to replace an immense the music,\" he explained. \"I cannot afford the other things.\" Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford the bargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed. \"To receive gifts,\" said Zotul, \"incurs an obligation.\" \"None at all,\" beamed the Earthman cheerily. \"Every item is given to make profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout the Galaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working out the full program takes time.\" He chuckled deeply. \"We of Earth have a saying about one of our extremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise, but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with the Broderick told him. \"It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of the \"Just sign this paper,\" said Broderick, \"and you become part of our wrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won. \"I will talk it over with them,\" he said. \"Give me the total so I will have the figures.\" The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotul pointed this out politely. \"I have a surprise for you,\" smiled Broderick. \"Here is a contract. You These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears. The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but the Earthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on the Earthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own because it was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth's unswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded. Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. money and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but television kept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for the pangs of impoverishment. \"You got us into this,\" they said, emphasizing their bitterness with fists. \"Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have some contracts to continue operating.\" Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him. Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick, about to lose our plant.\" \"You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant away from you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest and \"What do you mean?\" \"Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We have bought you out.\" not pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we took them over, just as we are taking you over.\" \"You mean,\" exclaimed Zotul, aghast, \"that you Earthmen own everything \"But why\n\n<question>:\nWhat word doesn't describe Broderick?\n\n<options>:\nA manipulative\nB patient\nC intelligent\nD selfish\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nUnmade Beds , Nicholas Barker's \" 'real life' feature film,\" has proudly worn its mongrel status as a \"directed\" documentary of single life in the big city, employing, in the face of criticism, what amounts to a cackling-punk defiance. The movie tracks four aging New Yorkers--two men, two women--through their lonely dating rituals, in the process depicting a universe of lusty, coupled-up haves and downcast, excluded have-nots, all viewed Rear Window -style through rectangular openings in the massive apartment houses in which they reside. Michael turns out to be the film's most sympathetic subject--by a wide margin. At least he's not Mikey, a paunchy 54-year-old who writes but can't sell screenplays and who always flees blind dates, because the women he gets fixed up with are \"mutts.\" Sounding like one of the low-level gangsters who posture like kingpins in Donnie Brasco , Mikey talks a lot about mutts. He also reminisces about that 24 hour period in the '70s when he managed to sleep with three different beautiful women, whose pictures he shows off. These days, all he meets are mutts. He comes off as a pathetic little loser--a mutt. Aimee, on the other hand, is a pathetic big loser, weighing in at 225 pounds. Determined to get married before she turns 30, she generally is filmed beside bags of groceries and assorted junk foods. She cries about her situation to her thin friend, Laurie, who, in one scene, gently mentions Aimee's weight. Clearly the scene is scripted, but Aimee does a good job acting taken aback. She has always been fat--and she's \"OK with it,\" and a man just has to accept it. This is followed by more talk about how you attract men. Will they respect you if you call them back? If you express too much interest? \"Or,\" the viewer thinks, \"if you're 225 pounds?\" The only natural performer here is Brenda, a garrulous exhibitionist who blossoms with the camera on her--she could have a career as a Penny Marshall-style character actress. Divorced and aging, Brenda needs money and is willing to charge for her sexual services. It shouldn't be too difficult, because men are always showing her their dicks (\"I'm up to two dicks a day\"). They meet her and, a few minutes later, they show her their dicks. Weird, huh? What Barker leaves out (it's in a New York Observer article) is that Brenda, a former lap dancer, works in marketing at a strip joint. Presumably, men standing next to her in line at McDonald's don't show her their dicks. Nor, presumably, does she show them her breasts--although she bares them for Barker's camera, jabbering about her body while she doffs her clothes and steps into the shower and soaps up. Barker might have crafted his subjects' monologues from their own words, but he has robbed them of their spontaneity--and, thus, of their essence. They aren't thinking or trying to come to grips with their situations in front of your eyes, because they already know what they're going to say: They've been fixed like butterflies on the ends of pins and held up for voyeuristic inspection. The scenes with friends and confidantes have a crude, programmatic purpose. You can imagine the director composing a shot (the shots are tightly composed and elaborately lighted) and reminding them, \"In this scene she points out that you should lose weight and you get shocked and defensive. Ready ... Action.\" Call me square, but I find this antithetical to the documentary spirit. An Englishman who trained as an anthropologist before going to work for BBC Television, Barker clearly made up his mind about his material before his cameras began to roll--so it's no surprise that it feels prechewed and predigested. When reality interfered (Brenda apparently did not go through with a marriage to an immigrant in search of a green card for $10,000, as she does on-screen), Barker brushed the truth aside as immaterial, following her up the steps of City Hall in her wedding dress because it was \"true to her character.\" But what separates documentary from fiction is that real people are often more complicated, and more conflicted, than finished characters--as Brenda proved to be more (or, at least, other) than the sum of her parts. That's the kind of truth that reveals itself to documentary filmmakers after the fact, when they go over footage and discover unexpected patterns, dissonances, glimmers of a universe that's richer and messier than the one they set out to portray. Unmade Beds might make a good date movie. There's little to argue about in its subjects' personalities--both males and females will find them repulsive--and the picture the film paints of single life in the big city is so bleak that you'll probably want to jump into bed with whoever is sitting next to you. Anything to keep from turning into one of those people. The Slums of Beverly Hills also walks a line between two genres, in this case coming-of-age sex comedy and autobiographical monologue. Tamara Jenkins, the writer and first-time director, has an eye for absurd juxtapositions that was obviously sharpened by the pain of her nomadic upbringing. Her protagonist (Natasha Lyonne) spends her teen-age years being shuttled with her two brothers from one cheap dive to another in the 90210 ZIP code, all because her egregiously unsuccessful father (Alan Arkin) wants them to be educated in the best schools. (\"Furniture's temporary education is permanent.\") It's a major omission, then, that we never see those schools or the kids' interaction with their stable, well-to-do Beverly Hills counterparts. We can't tell if the father is, on some weird level, justified in his fervor, or whether he's screwing up his children--subjecting them to humiliation and robbing them of a sense of permanence--for no reason. Jenkins hasn't quite figured out how to shape her narrative, which is full of episodes that are there because they actually happened but that don't have a payoff. I almost wish she'd included more voice-over narration, more commentary on the things that, as a filmmaker, she hasn't learned to bring out. The Slums of Beverly Hills never gels, but it has a likable spirit, and it's exceedingly easy on the eye, with lots of pretty girls and wry evocations of '70s fashions and decor. The father, to obtain financial support from his wealthy brother (Carl Reiner), volunteers to take in his vaguely schizzy, dipsomaniacal niece (Marisa Tomei). She and her cousin compare breasts, play with vibrators, and talk in pig Latinish gibberish, but Jenkins never lets the proceedings get too sentimental: The whimsy is always cut with an acidic awareness of the family's desperation. \"Are we middle-class now?\" ask the children, hopefully, before another crisis sends them back into their van, cruising past the movie stars' mansions, in the mean streets of Beverly Hills.\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the author think would have improved The Slums of Beverly Hills?\n\n<options>:\nA a more realistic plot\nB more episodes to explain the situation\nC a more experienced director\nD more attractive actors\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nMy 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because he can do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch with somebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody, everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, \"Why the letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in different handwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says. India, China, England, everywhere. with fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but got no response. What could have diminished your powers of articulate wave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages and the not-world calls \"mail\" till we meet. For this purpose I must inadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you. reports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasury of facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be free of the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed in your task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when we return again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city of Bombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it. Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exact lies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child in order that I might destroy the not-people completely. Dear Joe: Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you, I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there are no terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you in not-language what I had to go through during the first moments of my (Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw up their hands and left. I learned the following day that the opposite component of my standing by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind. He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable of speech. produced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world. are now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted sounded low-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must have jarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from the but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings! cleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a reply indeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats. From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping the qualifying preface except where comparisons must be made between this alleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitive time classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to the inevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror of the not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand your vibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then I establish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without his knowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes my letter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what he has done. My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of an individual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, but I fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tell you about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I have accomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent. In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind of uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out. impressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioning for me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficient mechanism I inhabit. where is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him.\" That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to this oversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressions must feel each, become accustomed to it. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information I have been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe. What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission is impaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can write you with more enlightenment. Glmpauszn It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up with the correct variant of the slang term \"buck.\" Is it possible that you are powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live in this inferior world? Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardized They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selves into ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to force Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passages \"revolting\" are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they are Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed in our catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reed bending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bent indeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is known even the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon me of symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon me again. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangely wonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body. There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into this I can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports today outlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we must finally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experiments yet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation of ends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets these impulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in the and tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses. This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn, wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he would Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. I had not found love. asleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called gin is activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation. result of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in these not-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the reality of not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is only half over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling all my powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even become invisible any more. I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly. Quickly! This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pick failure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formula that is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms were the not-men, curse them. Dear Joe: I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury's niggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a form of mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that, transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end will be swift and fatal. First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart. Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose. Absolutely nothing.\n\n<question>:\nThe speaker sometimes writes in gibberish. Why is this?\n\n<options>:\nA Glmpauszn sometimes forgets his own words.\nB It's when there are no words for whatever alien equivalent he means.\nC It's a gag. Whoever is writing this is doing so throw off the reader.\nD The person writing is incapable of replicating it.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nNo movie in the last decade has succeeded in psyching out critics and audiences as fully as the powerful, rambling war epic The Thin Red Line , Terrence Malick's return to cinema after 20 years. I've sat through it twice and am still trying to sort out my responses, which run from awe to mockery and back. Like Saving Private Ryan , the picture wallops you in the gut with brilliant, splattery battle montages and Goyaesque images of hell on earth. But Malick, a certified intellectual and the Pynchonesque figure who directed Badlands and Days of Heaven in the 1970s and then disappeared, is in a different philosophical universe from Steven Spielberg. Post-carnage, his sundry characters philosophize about their experiences in drowsy, runic voice-overs that come at you like slow bean balls: \"Why does nature vie with itself? ... Is there an avenging power in nature, not one power but two?\" Or \"This great evil: Where's it come from? What seed, what root did it grow from? Who's doin' this? Who's killin' us, robbin' us of life and light?\" First you get walloped with viscera, then you get beaned by blather. Those existential speculations don't derive from the screenplay's source, an archetypal but otherwise down-to-earth 1962 novel by James Jones (who also wrote From Here to Eternity ) about the American invasion of the South Pacific island of Guadalcanal. They're central to Malick's vision of the story, however, and not specious. In the combat genre, the phrase \"war is hell\" usually means nothing more than that it's a bummer to lose a limb or two, or to see your buddy get his head blown off. A true work of art owes us more than literal horrors, and Malick obliges by making his theater of war the setting for nothing less than a meditation on the existence of God. almost every object is held up for rapturous contemplation. I could cite hundreds of images: A soldier in a rocking boat hovers over a letter he's writing, which is crammed from top to bottom and side to side with script. (You don't know the man, but you can feel in an instant his need to cram everything in.) A small, white-bearded Melanesian man strolls nonchalantly past a platoon of tensely trudging grunts who can't believe they're encountering this instead of a hail of Japanese bullets. Two shots bring down the first pair of soldiers to advance on the hill another, skeletal, laughs and laughs a third weeps over a dying comrade. The face of a Japanese soldier encased in earth speaks from the dead, \"Are you righteous? Know that I was, too.\" Whether or not these pearllike epiphanies are strung is another matter. Malick throws out his overarching theme--is nature two-sided, at war with itself?--in the first few minutes but, for all his startling juxtapositions, he never dramatizes it with anything approaching the clarity of, say, Brian De Palma's Casualties of War (1989). Besides the dialogue between Welsh and Witt, The Thin Red Line 's other organizing story involves a wrenching tug of war between Nolte's ambition-crazed Tall and Capt. Staros (Elias Koteas), who refuses an order to send his men on what will surely be a suicidal--and futile--assault on a bunker. But matters of cause and effect don't really interest Malick. Individual acts of conscience can and do save lives, and heroism can win a war or a battle, he acknowledges. But Staros is ultimately sent packing, and Malick never bothers to trace the effect of his action on the Guadalcanal operation. In fact, the entire battle seems to take place in a crazed void. Tall quotes Homer's \"rosy-fingered dawn\" and orders a meaningless bombardment to \"buck the men up--it'll look like the Japs are catching hell.\" Soldiers shoot at hazy figures, unsure whether they're Japanese or American. Men collide, blow themselves in half with their own mishandled grenades, stab themselves frantically with morphine needles, shove cigarettes up their noses to keep the stench of the dying and the dead at bay. A tiny bird, mortally wounded, flutters in the grass. Malick is convincing--at times overwhelming--on the subject of chaos. It's when he tries to ruminate on order that he gets gummed up, retreating to one of his gaseous multiple mouthpieces: \"Where is it that we were together? Who is it that I lived with? Walked with? The brother. ... The friend. ... One mind.\" I think I'd have an easier time with Malick's metaphysical speculations if I had a sense of some concomitant geopolitical ones--central to any larger musings on forces of nature as viewed through the prism of war. Couldn't it be that the German and Japanese fascist orders were profoundly anti-natural, and that the Allies' cause was part of a violent but natural correction? You don't have to buy into Spielberg's Lincolnesque pieties in Saving Private Ryan to believe that there's a difference between World War II and Vietnam (or, for that matter, World War II and the invasion of Grenada or our spats with Iraq). While he was at Harvard, Malick might have peeled himself off the lap of his pointy-headed mentor, Stanley Cavell, the philosopher and film theorist, and checked out a few of Michael Waltzer's lectures on just and unjust wars. Maybe then he'd view Guadalcanal not in an absurdist vacuum (the soldiers come, they kill and are killed, they leave) but in the larger context of a war that was among the most rational (in its aims, if not its methods) fought in the last several centuries. For all his visionary filmmaking, Malick's Zen neutrality sometimes seems like a cultivated--and pretentious--brand of fatuousness. Zaillian is at his most assured when he cuts back and forth between Facher's Harvard Law School lectures on what not to do in court and Schlichtmann's fumbling prosecution. The sequence has the extra dimension of good journalism: It dramatizes and comments simultaneously. Plus, it gives Duvall a splendid platform for impish understatement. (Duvall has become more fun to watch than just about anyone in movies.) Elsewhere, Zaillian takes a more surface approach, sticking to legal minutiae and rarely digging for the deeper evil. As in his Searching for Bobby Fischer (1993), the outcome of every scene is predictable, but how Zaillian gets from beat to beat is surprisingly fresh. He also gets sterling bit performances from Sydney Pollack as the spookily sanguine Grace CEO, William H. Macy as Schlichtmann's rabbity accountant, and Kathleen Quinlan as the mother of one of the victims. Quinlan knows that when you're playing a woman who has lost a child you don't need to emote--you reveal the emotion by trying not to emote. To the families involved in the Woburn tragedy, the real climax of this story isn't the downbeat ending of the book or the sleight of hand, \"let's call the Environmental Protection Agency,\" upbeat ending of the movie. The climax is the publication of a book that takes the plaintiffs' side and that remains on the best-seller list in hardcover and paperback for years. The climax is the movie starring John Travolta. Beatrice and Grace made out OK legally, but some of us will never use their products again without thinking about Travolta losing his shirt in the name of those wasted-away little kids.\n\n<question>:\nWhen discussing these films, which word best describes the author?\n\n<options>:\nA vague\nB optimistic\nC knowledgeable\nD biased\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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2,455 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nZeckler frowned. \"And how do they regard the—the biggest liar? I mean, how do they feel toward him?\" Zeckler was on his feet, his eyes suddenly bright with excitement. Zeckler's eyes flashed, and a huge grin broke out on his \"No, no, I've got a problem in the bag!\" Zeckler's cheeks and the judge banged the gavel for silence. As soon as Zeckler gaunt face of the prisoner. Zeckler's face was dark with a The judge stared down at Zeckler as if he were a bug on a Zeckler looked sharply around the hushed room. \"You want to convict me,\" he said softly, \"in the worst sort of way. Isn't Zeckler's eyes widened. \"What do you mean, fool? So I to set me up for life!\" \"Really,\" said Harry Zeckler loftily, \"it was so obvious I'm You've committed a crime here—a major crime. The Altairians are sore about it. And the Terran Consulate isn't willing to sell all the trading possibilities here down the river just to get you out of a mess. You're going to stand trial—and these Zeckler stood up shakily. \"You can't believe anything the Earthmen in exactly the same class, too.\" \"So what's honor among thieves? I got off, didn't I?\" \"You've committed the most heinous crime these creatures can a trading alliance with Altair I, and that includes uranium, too. Smart people don't gamble with loaded dice. You scared them so badly they don't want anything to do with us.\" Zeckler fished in the other man's pocket, extracted a cigarette, \"Ah, well. After all, the Trading Alliance was Zeckler's grin broadened, and he leaned back luxuriously. your outlook, wasn't it? What a pity!\" He clucked his tongue sadly. \"Me, I've got a fortune in credits sitting back at the consulate waiting for me—enough to keep me on silk for quite a while, I might say. I think I'll just take a nice, long vacation.\" to keep you from botching things up still worse for the Trading Commission, that's all. I wouldn't get tangled up in a mess oblige. They wanted to execute you outright. Thought a trial Zeckler went white. \"But that money was in banking custody!\" count. Trading brought scalpers it was almost inevitable that A choking sound came from Zeckler's throat. \" where rich and unexploited trading ground was uncovered, it from Terra with the first wave of exploration—the slick, fast-talking \"Oh, yes. Didn't I tell you? Conspiring to undermine the would first fall prey to the fast-trading boys. They spread out planets. The first men in were the richest out, and through some curious quirk of the Terrestrial mind, they knew they could count on Terran protection, however crooked and Zeckler spluttered. \"There's no evidence—you've got nothing underhand their methods. social practices of the alien victims made it unwise to tamper with them. Altair I had been recognized at once by the Trading Commission as a commercial prize of tremendous value, but early reports had warned of the danger of wildcat trading on the little, musty, jungle-like planet with its shaggy, three-eyed inhabitants—warned specifically against the confidence tactics But occasionally a situation arose where the civilization and Zeckler puffed nervously on his cigarette, his narrow face credits, pulled a little fast business.\" He shrugged eloquently, spreading his hands. \"Everybody's doing it. They do it to each Zeckler shrugged again. \"The simplest, tiredest, moldiest these critters didn't want bridges. They wanted land—this gooey, slimy swamp they call 'farm land.' So I gave them what they wanted. I just sold them some land.\" in their economy, not money nothing but land. To get land, it's every man for himself, and the loser starves, and their entire legal and monetary system revolves on that principle. barter and trade imaginable, aimed at individual survival, with land as the value behind the credit. That explains the lying—of con-men who could work new territories unfettered by they're pathological! Only a fool would tell the truth when his life depended on his being a better liar than the next guy! Zeckler snorted. \"But how could they the legal restrictions that soon closed down the more established \" sold it to a dozen separate, self-centered, half-starved natives! Encroachment on private property is legal grounds for murder on this planet, and twelve of them descended on the same authority of the Terran Trading Commission. Serious charge, Zeckler was visibly shaken. \"Look,\" he said weakly, \"so I you know. Yes, I think we'll take a nice long vacation together, straight back to Terra. And there I think you'll face a jury with seats facing the bench. Zeckler followed the shaggy-haired Altairians attempted to push through the door at once. Zeckler prosecutor eyed Zeckler with cold malevolence, then turned down at Zeckler with all three eyes, and pounded the bench top judge's voice roared out, \"against one Harry Zeckler—\" he Goddess Zermat, Queen of the Harvest. Conspiracy with the and bribery—\" The judge pounded the bench for order—\"Espionage with the accursed scum of Altair II in preparation for interplanetary invasion.\" \" Zeckler was on his feet, wild-eyed. Zeckler leaned over, his face ashen. \"These charges,\" he Zeckler's face, another on the prosecutor, and closing the third Zeckler—\"stopped me in my tracks with a vicious cry. He had \"Objection!\" Zeckler squealed plaintively, jumping to his The witness glowered at Zeckler. \"As I was saying before \"I never saw him before in my life,\" Zeckler moaned to pogrom, it seemed, had been accomplished by an energy It's stupid, to them, silly, a mark of Zeckler jerked around abruptly as he heard his name bellowed \"Do I have—\" Zeckler was across the room in a flash, his \"Your lives, your land, everything you hold dear,\" Zeckler to be perfectly true. But in every instance, I was working with heart and soul, risking my life, for the welfare of your beautiful planet.\" There was a loud hiss from the back of the court. Zeckler a grave mistake, but as it turned out, a very fortunate error. Because in attempting to arrange trading in that frightful place, I made certain contacts.\" His voice trembled, and sank lower. planet, at the hands of those barbarians. The conspiracy is theirs, not mine. They have bribed your Goddess, flattered her and lied to her, coerced her all-powerful goodness to their own evil interests, preparing for the day when they could persuade guffawed, until the rising tide of racket drowned out Zeckler's Zeckler grew paler. \"But—perhaps they were very clever—\" Somehow, Zeckler managed to stumble from the witness Zeckler puffed hungrily on a cigarette, and looked up at Zeckler sat in silence for a moment. \"This lying business,\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat motivates people like Zeckler to commit such crimes as he committed?\n\n<options>:\nA New interplanetary laws created more incentive to commit crimes in vulnerable areas than they offered protection from such crimes.\nB Representatives from the Trading Commission set up an operation to hire and arrest con men in order to secure resources without being indicted.\nC The interplanetary laws made it easy for wealthy corporations and entities to prey upon those they considered less civilized and intelligent.\nD The Trading Commission offered monetary compensation for whoever was willing to secure unexploited trading ground on neighboring planets.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
302 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with cards and dice. Never played for money, though.\" every other man is a mechanic of some sort.\" \"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials,\" Magnan snapped. \"There must be nothing to connect you with the Corps.\" \"They'll never guess,\" Retief said. \"I'll pose as a gentleman.\" \"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out.\" He rolled a cold eye at Retief as he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared. \"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?\" he barked. \"Never mind! Clear out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting.\" \"Too bad,\" Retief said. \"Finders keepers.\" \"You nuts?\" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. \"I said it's Mr. Tony's room.\" \"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters.\" \"We'll see about you, mister.\" The man turned and went out. Retief sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted, \"That's him, sure.\" \"I'm captain of this vessel,\" the first man said. \"You've got two minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster.\" That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in interplanetary commerce.\" \"A space lawyer.\" The captain turned. \"Throw him out, boys.\" Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief. stepped forward, then hesitated. \"Hey,\" he said. \"This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?\" \"That's him,\" the thick-necked man called. \"Spilled Mr. Tony's possessions right on the deck.\" \"Deal me out,\" the bouncer said. \"He can stay put as long as he wants \"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain,\" Retief said. \"We're due to lift in twenty minutes.\" The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The Captain's voice prevailed. against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional \"I'm Chip,\" the chef said. \"I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties, would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against. Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table. As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth. The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing. went down. Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed. \"You can take your playmates away now, Tony,\" he said. \"And don't bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough.\" Mr. Tony found his voice. \"Take him, Marbles!\" he growled. The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a from his shoulder holster. \"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you,\" Retief said. \"Go on, burn him!\" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared, white-faced. \"Put that away, you!\" he yelled. \"What kind of—\" \"Shut up,\" Mr. Tony said. \"Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum later.\" \"Not on this vessel, you won't,\" the captain said shakily. \"I got my the man on the floor. \"Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the slob.\" He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came those long days.\" \"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin,\" Chip said. \"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They won't mess with me.\" \"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?\" Retief asked. \"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more smoked turkey?\" aboard for Jorgensen's?\" Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously. \"Yo' papiss,\" the alien rasped. \"Who's your friend, Captain?\" Retief said. \"Never mind just do like he tells you.\" \"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and I'm tempted to test it.\" \"Don't start anything with Skaw aboard, don't bother to call.\" \"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!\" the captain gasped, staring at the figure flopping on the floor. \"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back. We know their secret now.\" \"What secret? I—\" \"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n,\" Chip said. \"Sweaties die easy that's the secret.\" \"Maybe you got a point,\" the captain said, looking at Retief. \"All they gingerly into the hall. \"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti,\" the captain said, looking back from the door. \"But I'll be back to see you later.\" \"You don't scare us, Cap'n,\" Chip said. \"Him and Mr. Tony and all his goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket.\" \"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your getting involved in my problems.\" \"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?\" \"That's right, Chip.\" \"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give some orders to the Mate.\" Retief sat up and reached for a cigar. \"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?\" \"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a gun?\" looked up from his desk, then jumped up. \"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?\" \"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain.\" \"You've got damn big ears.\" \"You do, huh?\" the captain sat down. \"I'm in command of this vessel,\" he said. \"I'm changing course for Alabaster.\" \"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster,\" Retief said. \"So \"Power Section, this is the captain,\" he said. Retief reached across the desk, gripped the captain's wrist. \"And one to go,\" Retief said. \"Tell him.\" \"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!\" \"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley hoods.\" \"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper he's slippery.\" \"What are you going to do?\" the captain demanded.\n\n<question>:\nWhy are the Soetti allowed to board the ship?\n\n<options>:\nA They need transport to Jorgenson’s Worlds as well.\nB They need to check the papers of each passenger, so the caption allows them to do so.\nC The Soetti aren’t - the captain fears them and they are illegally boarding.\nD The captain and Mr. Tony are in business with them.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
2,467 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nprepared for the more humbling facts of life. SCRIMSHAW The old man gently hellish, from the viewpoint of the just wanted to get back his learned of it the same way. Pop didn't memory—and the methods he used were Pop Young was the one known fully in his desperate writings back to Earth. Pop matter-of-factly tended the surface of the Moon's far side, and, ghastly head-wound to explain his ability. One man partly guessed the secret, but only partly. His name was in pursuit of his own private objective. torment. By night—lunar night, of course, and lunar day—it was frigidity and horror. Once in two weeks Pop received the stores and Pop didn't even ask. no strictly lunar material which gaping rocky fault which stretches nine hundred miles, jaggedly, over the side of the Moon that Earth The reason for Pop was something else. Pop continued to search absorbedly Early one lunar morning he was heat of day. Pop lived in it all alone, industriously at recovering some missing portions of his life that Sattell had managed to take away from him. of Lunar City. Which was more on the Moon. In the Moon's slight gravity, so easily. He knew about Pop, away from Pop, and Pop was just Pop made his way toward it in those kinks— The first men to leave the colony had to be knocked cold and shipped on the far side of the Moon. sky. Pop waded through moondust, rocketship if Pop put a tarpaulin to see the sky. In any case Pop was didn't come from Lunar City, but thought of Pop, and Pop rather Pop had come back to consciousness Pop reached the rocketship. He who he was, and as gently as possible what had happened to his wife and children. They'd been murdered after he was seemingly killed defending them. But he didn't remember open, and Pop reached up and gave Pop eagerly tried to ask him grinned savagely at Pop. He held a Pop's middle. \"And I don't give a damn about how you are. This isn't social. It's business!\" Pop simply gaped. He couldn't quite take it in. \"This,\" snapped the red-headed man abruptly, \"is a stickup!\" Nowadays, by the Big Crack, Pop Pop gazed at the plastic, a rocketship from Lunar City got snarling. He slashed Pop and Pop got into a vacuum-suit weapon. It drew blood. It was wanton, savage brutality. \"Pay attention!\" snarled the red-headed man. \"A stickup, I said! Get Pop said numbly: \"What the again. He was nerve-racked, and, therefore, he wanted to hurt. \"Move!\" he rasped. \"I want the from Lunar City! Bring 'em!\" Pop nerve-racked. But any man would be quivering if he wasn't used to space the Moon. He panted: At such times Pop hardly thought to his wife and children, but it was hearsay only. He had no memory the lost memories. At first Pop followed We didn't come here for nothing!\" He twitched all over. Then he struck cruelly again at Pop Young's absorbedly from city to city, to recover the years that had been face. He seemed filled with fury, at beginning—produced. It was meaningless savagery due to terror. But, of course, Pop was helpless to resent fled to another continent, Pop followed memories of his wife—and the way Pop had come to remember both his he'd felt about her—and some fugitive up for Lunar City, Pop tracked killed his family. If so, Sattell had profited by less than two days' pay for wiping out everything that Pop Outrushing air tugged at Pop. After possessed. But Pop wanted it back. side of the Moon, Pop Young had on the Moon Pop kept a waiting cannister a woman and two children and think he'd killed a man for no more than a hundred dollars, what enormity Lunar City ship that would be due and Pop and the colony together. \"I'd guess,\" said Pop painstakingly, the nagging sensation of one-sixth gravity—tended to lose all confidence in the stability of things. Most men dead and the shacks smashed and But not Pop. He'd come to the the cable burnt through, they'll be back on Earth long before a new emptiness and grew sharp and clear. He found that he loved them very dearly. And when he was near Sattell memories of them every day. He hadn't yet remembered the crime which lost them to him. Until he did—and the fact possessed a certain grisly humor—Pop didn't even hate Otherwise, he was wholly matter-of-fact—certainly Pop regarded his drawings meditatively. of the Moon. He was a rather fussy satisfaction. \"That'll do it!\" stress. On the Moon, it was not desirable often Pop tapped the pipe where the oxygen used to keep his breathing-air in balance. He poured the frigid, craters complained of the bombardment from space that had made them. scarce, but he spent most of the time new memory. On their first wedding anniversary, so long ago, his partly-remembered wife. In time—he had plenty—it became a really truthful likeness. The sun rose, and baked the abomination of desolation which was the moonscape. Pop Young meticulously Pop reflected hungrily that it was something else to be made permanent for the Lunar City ships. They glittered year for proof. permanent and to extend it— If it had not been for his vacuum suit and the cannister he carried, Pop from the lunar plain. Monstrous, extended the memory of a chair that had been in his forgotten home. shook and trembled. Pop said sketching, save that he'd lost all his young manhood through a senseless crime. He wanted his youth back. He \"Yeah,\" said Pop. to the lunar state of things. the crime Pop Young hadn't yet recalled. He considered that Pop had made no overt attempt to revenge himself because he planned some retaliation so horrible and lingering that it was worth waiting for. He came to hate Pop with an insane ferocity. And fear. In his mind the need to escape became an obsession normal to a Moon-colonist. leave. There was Pop. He couldn't kill Pop. He had no chance—and he thing he could do was write letters back to Earth. He did that. He wrote with the desperate, impassioned, frantic blend of persuasion nothing. The Moon swung in vast swung sedately about the Sun. The to the Moon's surface. On the Moon, Pop didn't wait. He searched bore directly upon Pop Young and Sattell and Pop Young's missing Moon. It looked like a perfect set-up. shaking voice from the mining-colony \"We felt a shock! What happened? What do we do?\" \"Don't do a thing,\" advised Pop. rich. Guided tours to Lunar! The panted: Moon's far side and trips through Lunar City and a landing in Aristarchus, to do with Pop or with Sattell. But in order to recover memories of them. But the passengers who paid so highly, expected to be pleasantly thrilled and shielded from all reasons for alarm. And they couldn't be. Something happens when a self-centered and complacent individual unsuspectingly looks out of a spaceship port and sees the cosmos unshielded by mists or clouds or other aids to blindness against reality. It is shattering. A millionaire cut his throat when he saw Earth dwindled to a mere that he wouldn't get that back until he'd recovered all the rest. Gloating, it was amusing to remember what people used to call disembarked even for Lunar face of immensity. Not one passenger City. Most of them cowered in their not endure his own smallness in the that! THE END Transcriber's Note: catatonic withdrawal and neither saw nor heard nor moved. Two other passengers sobbed in improvised to do. Workers for the lunar mines pleasure-passengers. They weren't\n\n<question>:\nWhich term best describes Pop's attitude toward his lunar occupation?\n\n<options>:\nA methodical\nB unselfish\nC passionate\nD resentful\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
1,340 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nwhat would happen?\" \"I know one thing—I wouldn't be there holding your ankle while you found out.\" Don Cort, stranded on that rising town, was beginning to suspect that But after a couple of weeks of floating around, it began to be obvious that the professor had no idea how to get them down. So then it was up to Cort: either find a way to anchor Superior, or spend the rest of his like it here?\" \"If you mean don't I like you, the answer is yes, of course I do. But if I don't get out of this handcuff soon so I can take a bath and get into clean clothes, you're not going to like me.\" she said, \"before you deteriorate.\" They were in the midst of an extremely pleasant kiss when the brief case at the end of Don's handcuff began to talk to him. confirmed that the town undoubtedly was missing. They put in a call to the National Guard. The guard surrounded the area with troops—more than a thousand were needed—to keep people from falling into the pit. A pilot who flew over it reported that it looked as if a great ice-cream scoop had bitten into the witching hour. Somebody else said nonsense, they'd better check for radiation. A civil defense official brought up a Geiger counter, but no matter how he shook it and rapped on it, it refused to click. A National Guard officer volunteered to take a jeep down into the pit, having found a spot that seemed navigable. He was gone a long time but had been over the state. Washington said no. The Pentagon and the Atomic Energy Commission denied that they had been conducting secret experiments. Nor had there been any defense plants in Superior that might have blown course to avoid it. He noted with only minimum satisfaction that his \" Cold up here!\" Don Cort had been dozing in what passed for the club car on the Buckeye wasn't Columbus. All he could see were some lanterns jogging as trainmen hurried along the tracks. Don had taken a passing interest earlier in the evening asked, \"Why did The girl's hair was a subtle red, but false. When Don had entered the his teeth and nibbling at it thoughtfully. But it was likely that all she noticed then was the brief case he carried, attached by a chain to a handcuff on his left wrist. \"Will we be here long?\" Don asked the conductor. He didn't want to miss his plane at Columbus. The sooner he got to Washington, the sooner he'd get rid of the brief case. The handcuff it was attached to was one reason why his interest in the redhead had been only passing. \"Can't say,\" the conductor told him. He let the door close again and Don hesitated, shrugged at the redhead, said, \"Excuse me,\" and followed sat in the dark, hissing steam. Don made his way up to the locomotive Don saw two men who must have been the engineer and the fireman talking The engineer was exasperated. He turned to the fireman. \"You look. Humor the old man. Then let's go.\" The bearded man—he called himself Professor Garet—went off with the fireman. Don followed them. They had tramped a quarter of a mile along Don Cort and the fireman walked cautiously toward the edge while the Standing on tiptoe and repressing a touch of giddiness, Don looked over Don looked at the fireman, who had an unbelieving expression on his Don Cort, sitting in the back seat of the car with the redhead from the \"Washington?\" Don said. \"That's where I'm going. I mean where I \"Not everybody. Me, for instance.\" \"No?\" she said. \"Judging by that satchel you're handcuffed to, I'd have thought you were a courier for the Pentagon. Or maybe State.\" He laughed quickly and loudly because she was getting uncomfortably to sleep,\" she corrected. She looked angry. \"Of course,\" Don said, puzzled by her emphasis. \"Come on. Where they put you, you'll probably be surrounded by co-eds, even if I could get out of this cuff.\" He took her bag in his free hand and they were met by a gray-haired woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Garet. \"We'll try to make you Don Cort had slept, but not well. He had tried to fold the brief case to pull it through his sleeve so he could take his coat off, but whatever was inside the brief case was too big. Cavalier had given him a room to himself at one end of a dormitory and he'd taken his pants off but had had to sleep with his coat and shirt on. He got up, feeling gritty, and did what little dressing was necessary. others had gone from their unmade beds. He shivered as he stepped outdoors. It was crisp, if not freezing, and his breath came out visibly. First he'd eat, he decided, so he'd be strong enough to go take \"You're Mr. Cort,\" she said. \"Won't you join me?\" \"Thanks,\" he said, unloading his tray. \"How did you know?\" \"The mystery man with the handcuff. You'd be hard to miss. I'm Alis—that's A-l-i-s, not A-l-i-c-e—Garet. Are you with the FBI? Or did you escape from jail?\" I'm duty-bound to represent the second generation at the nut factory.\" \"Nut factory? You mean Cavalier?\" Don struggled to manipulate knife and \"I didn't know there were any.\" \"Actually there's only one, the Superior Sentry Don blinked at the headline: Don read the story, which seemed to him a capricious treatment of an (b) lacks space to publish and which (it being atrociously \"On such short notice?\" Don was intrigued. Last night the redhead from They walked south from the campus and came to the railroad track. The except for the conductor, who had dutifully spent the night aboard. stopped I thought it was running alongside a creek for a while.\" \"South Creek,\" Alis said. \"That's right. It's just over there.\" Let's go look at the creek.\" They found it coursing along between the banks. Creek surging along, then nothing. In the distance a clump of trees, \"Where is the water going?\" Don asked. \"I can't make it out.\" \"I should think it'd be all dried up by now. I'm going to have a look.\" \"Don't! You'll fall off!\" \"I'll be careful.\" He walked cautiously toward the edge. Alis followed topographer's map, far below. Don took another wary step, then sat down. \"I still can't see where the water goes,\" Don said. He stretched out on ankle and held it tight. \"Just in case a high wind comes along,\" she said. \"I have a compact.\" She took it out of her bag with her free hand and tossed it to him. It rolled and Don had to grab to keep it from going over the edge. Alis gave a little shriek. Don was momentarily unnerved and had to put his head back on the ground. \"Sorry,\" she said. Don opened the compact and carefully transferred it to his right hand. \"Why? How?\" \"I can't see too well, but that's my impression. Hold on now. I'm coming back.\" He inched away from the edge, then got up and brushed himself off. He returned her compact. \"I guess you know where we go next.\" \"The other end of the creek?\" South Creek did not bisect Superior, as Don thought it might, but flowed go, past South Creek Bridge—which used to lead to Ladenburg, Alis the creek, they found a wire fence at the spot. \"This is new,\" Alis so they could see the mouth of the creek. The water flowed from under Protecting mouth of South Creek, one of . \"What's the other source, besides the faucet in your bathroom?\" Don to swim.\" \"If it were on the edge, and if I took a rowboat out on it, I wonder\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Don want to walk by the creek?\n\n<options>:\nA to see if they could get off of Superior via the creek\nB to learn more about the levitating town\nC to get to know Alis better\nD to help get rid of the handcuff\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
881 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWhen he began his talk with \"You got your health, don't you?\" it touched those spots inside me. That was when I did it. Why couldn't what he said have been \"The best things in life are free, punishment, except that when Dad closed the door, the light turned off and I was left there in the dark. Being four or five, I didn't know any better, so I thought Dad made it dark to add to my punishment. But I learned he didn't know the light went out. It came back on when he unlocked the door. Every time I told lying. One day, to prove me a liar, he opened and closed the door a few times from outside. The light winked off and on, off and on, always shining inside, and the light stayed on, no matter how hard he slammed the door. I stayed in the dark longer for lying about the light. Alone in the dark, I wouldn't have had it so bad if it wasn't for the things that came to me. They were real to me. They never touched me, but they had a little boy. He looked the way I did in the mirror. They did unpleasant things to him. Because they were real, I talked about them as if they were real, and I almost earned a bunk in the home for retarded children until I got wasn't in my line. If you believe any of this at all, you'll see why it couldn't be me who did the stealing. There was reason for me to steal, if I could have got away with it. The others got money from home to buy the things they needed—razor blades, candy, sticks of tea. I got a letter from Mom or Dad every now and then before they were killed, saying they had sent money or that it was enclosed, but somehow I never got a dime of it. that Frankie the Pig sells three for a quarter. I was marching. Man, was I ever marching, but the secret of it was I his private door. I was alone, marking time behind the closed half of double doors. One good breath and I raced past the open door and flattened myself to the every move, but a man's luck has to change sometime, doesn't it? all along it would be there. I tried to read the numbers on the bill with my fingertips, but I couldn't. It had to be a one. Who drops anything but a one into a Skid My hand still wasn't free and I hadn't budged the box. \"This,\" Brother Partridge said, \"is one of the most profound experiences of my life.\" My head hinged until it lined my eyes up with Brother Partridge. The pipe hung heavy in my pocket, but he was too far from me. the preacher explained in wonderment. I nodded. \"Swimming right in there with the dead duck.\" \"Cold turkey,\" he corrected. \"Are you scoffing at a miracle?\" \"People are always watching me, Brother,\" I said. \"So now they do it even when they aren't around. I should have known it would come to The pipe was suddenly a weight I wanted off me. I would try robbing a collection box, knowing positively that I would get caught, but I wasn't dumb enough to murder. Somebody, somewhere, would be a witness to it. I had never got away with anything in my life. I was too smart to even try anything but the little things. \"I always get apprehended somehow, Brother,\" I said. \"I'm pretty special.\" \"Your name?\" As long as it stalled off the cops, I'd talk to Partridge. We took a couple of camp chairs and I told him the story of my life, or most of it. It was hard work on an empty stomach —reminded of Job. William, you are \"William, all I can tell you is that time means nothing in Heaven. Do \"Well,\" I said, \"I've had no personal experience—\" \"Of course you have, William! Say you don't remember. Say you don't He looked at me in disbelief. \"What else could it be?\" \"I don't know,\" I confessed. \"I certainly haven't done anything that bad in this life.\" \"William, if you atone for this sin, perhaps the horde of locusts will lift from you.\" It wasn't much of a chance, but I was unused to having any at all. I \"Perhaps this will help in your atonement,\" he said. I crumpled it into my pocket fast. Not meaning to sound ungrateful, I'm There was something I forgot to mention so far. During the year between when I got out of the reformatory and the one when I tried to steal Brother Partridge's money, I killed a man. It was all an accident, but killing somebody is reason enough to get punished. It didn't have to be a sin in some previous life, you see. I had gotten my first job in too long, stacking boxes at the freight their faces. After that, I just let them go. I know how to take a beating. That's one thing I knew. Then lying there, bleeding to myself, I heard them talking. I heard noises like make an example of him do something permanent News . There was a pick-up slip from the warehouse under the fingers of one hand, and somebody had beaten his brains out. The police figured it was part of some labor dispute, I guess, and they never got to me. I suppose I was to blame anyway. If I hadn't been alive, if I hadn't been there to get beaten up, it wouldn't have happened. I could see the point in making me suffer for it. There was a lot to be said for looking at it like that. But there was nothing to be said for telling Brother Partridge about the accident, or murder, or whatever had happened that day. Searching myself after I left Brother Partridge, I finally found a books on or not, so I took the volume for last year and laid it on the floor. That was the cleanest floor I ever saw. It didn't take me long to find the story. The victim was a big man, because the story was on the second page of the Nov. 4 edition. I started to tear the page out, then only memorized the name and home think you're yellow.\" He turned slowly, his jaw moving further away from his brain. I winked. \"It was just a bet for me to say that to you. I won two bucks. Half of it is yours.\" I held out the bill to him. His paw closed over the money and punched me on the biceps. Too hard. He winked back. \"It's okay.\" I rubbed my shoulder, marching off fast, and I counted my money. With my luck, I might have given the counterman's friend the five instead of I ran. Harold R. Thompkins, 49, vice-president of Baysinger's, was found dead behind the store last night. His skull had been crushed by a vicious beating with a heavy implement, Coroner McClain announced in preliminary verdict. Tompkins, who resided at 1467 Claremont, Edgeway, had been active in seeking labor-management peace in the recent Except this was a man, scaled down to child's size. He had sort of an ugly, worried, tired, stupid look and he wore a shiny suit with a piece of a welcome mat or something for a necktie. Yeah, it was me. I really knew it all the time. eyebrow. They couldn't do anything worse to the small man than they had done to the young boy. It was sort of nostalgic watching them, but I really got bored with all that violence and killing and killing the same kill over and over. Like watching the Saturday night string of westerns in a bar. began to dose. The shrieks woke me up. For the first time, I could hear the shrieks of the monster's victim and listen to their obscene droolings. For the very first time in my life. Always before it had been all pantomime, like Charlie Chaplin. Now I heard the sounds of it all. But a new thought suddenly impressed itself on me.\n\n<question>:\nWhat new discovery does William make at the end of the story?\n\n<options>:\nA He is experiencing auditory hallucinations\nB He is reliving the same traumatic experience each day\nC The man he murdered was actually his father\nD The man he thought he murdered never died\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
1,257 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n?\" \"It is an outrage,\" said Koltan of the House of Masur, \"that the Earthmen land among the Thorabians!\" \"And after that?\" was in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur. At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in his nor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.\" Broderick smiled gently. \"Zur will grow. Our people will intermarry dotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to the \"No,\" said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained with the rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design. \"Behold, my sons,\" said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. \"What are these Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strength and our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen may come and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, the fame and fortune of the House of Masur.\" \"It is a damned imposition,\" agreed Morvan, ignoring his father's philosophical attitude. \"They could have landed just as easily here in Lor.\" Zotul's eyes widened. \"And that is why my brothers did not beat me when I failed!\" \"Listen to the boy,\" said the aged father. \"There is more wisdom in his head than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only of the clay.\" Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned him a beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enough about the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the way By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strange The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world of effect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered, for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him a whaling for it. tried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there is happily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too. practically acrawl with Earthmen. Immediately, the Earthmen established what they called pottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing an aluminum pot at him. substance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, I say!\" The pretty young wife laughed at him. \"Up to your ears in clay, no wonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmen are selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old clay said so.\" \"He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough go back to cooking with your old ones.\" \"The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are so them.\" Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every major \"this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, and especially for the House of Masur.\" \"You didn't think so at first,\" Zotul pointed out, and was immediately unthinkable impertinence. It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that their production of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two per cent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stoves everything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade. What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. They destroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was. The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale of called an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of his \"Note,\" Koltan announced in a shaky voice, \"that the Earthmen undermine Father Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they got \"My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottom newspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people are In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, the brothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, several things had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortal rest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen had at a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except the brothers Masur. commercials. Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time or they would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay. \"I think,\" the governor told them, \"that you gentlemen have not At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselves that they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for houses All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for the purpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, they had to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help. with something called \"blacktop\" and jammed with an array of glittering new automobiles. An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, now Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook hands occasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner. Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had been made upon the business of the Pottery of Masur. \"Once,\" he said formally, \"the Masur fortune was the greatest in the world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous Kalrab Masur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greater reward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh and bones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how prone is the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, and bargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed. \"None at all,\" beamed the Earthman cheerily. \"Every item is given to \"Impossible,\" said Zotul drably. \"Not I and all my brothers together have so much money any more.\" all there is to it.\" It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotul wrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won. \"I will talk it over with them,\" he said. \"Give me the total so I will company.\" Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman, won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarter interest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth. These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears. The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but the Earthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on the fans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth could possibly sell them. \"We will be forty years paying it all off,\" exulted Zotul, \"but meantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?\" But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option. Earthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own because it was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth's Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. and a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on this money and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but television kept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for the pangs of impoverishment. The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotul designed and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikons somewhat comforted. was remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the female the Earthman. \"I don't understand. The Earthmen....\" Zotul paused, coloring. \"We are \"You mean,\" exclaimed Zotul, aghast, \"that you Earthmen own everything \"But why\n\n<question>:\nWas Kalrab correct in how he felt about the Earthmen?\n\n<options>:\nA Kind of - he was right when he said the Earthmen weren't something to worry about, but he was wrong about clay lasting forever\nB No - he said clay and their fortune would last forever, and he was wrong\nC Yes - he said the Earthmen weren't something to worry about, and he was right\nD Yes - he said clay and their fortune would last forever, and he was right\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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1,441 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIs < A NAME= Gambling's would-be federal regulators--the National Gambling Impact Study Commission--went to Las Vegas this week to hold hearings. In today's dispatch, we learn how gambling's foes seek to demonize wagering as a pernicious tobaccolike vice. In yesterday's dispatch, gambling's foes learn the folly of having brought their anti-sin crusade to an adult Disneyland. Tuesday's overpowering show of force by the Nevada gambling aristocracy has had at least one audible effect on the National Gambling Impact Study Commission. Wednesday, even commission Chair Kay Coles James, a gambling skeptic, succumbs to the hideous Vegas euphemism: She begins referring to the \"gaming industry.\" After Tuesday's casino triumphalism, Wednesday is a comedown, eight hours of policy panels on teen gambling, compulsive gambling, gambling regulation, gambling marketing, and gambling credit practices. It is tough slogging, but for the first time I sense that this commission--though divided, underfunded, timid, and without any power beyond exhortation--isn't entirely useless. It may finally settle this question: Is gambling Hollywood or tobacco? Entertainment or vice? It is starting to become clear what that report will say. The commission won't (and can't) take any grand stand against gambling. Instead it will opt for small, targeted policies, concentrating on compulsive gambling. It will probably propose that casinos and state lotteries fund gambling-addiction research and that casinos take much stronger measures to bar problem gamblers from wagering. The commission may recommend that gaming taxes be used to underwrite treatment of pathological gamblers and that insurance companies be encouraged to cover gambling addiction. Similarly, the commission will try to reduce gamblers' access to cash by limiting the size of ATM advances and prodding casinos to remove the machines from their floors. The commission will also push the industry to do more to prevent kids from gambling. It will call for heavier regulation of Indian gambling and will probably try to ban or severely regulate Internet gambling, perhaps by forbidding gambling companies from running online casinos. It will rebuke state lotteries for their deceptive marketing and will try to force them to post odds and stop targeting the poor. In short, it will treat gambling as a tobaccolike vice. If the comments of the pro-industry commissioners can be believed, the industry will happily endorse such a report. Gamblers don't quite accept the cigarette analogy--though commission member Bill Bible, a former chief of the Nevada Gaming Commission, did concede that gambling was like alcohol--but they're happy to sign on to the specific measures. The casino industry is even trying to get ahead of the commission. It has already established a (mostly) independent center to fund research into pathological gambling. I suspect that the industry will not only agree to the commission's recommendations but will become their strongest advocate. Casino owners will avidly lobby Congress and state legislatures to enact the recommendations into law. Why should the pro-gamblers cooperate with a critical study? Because it provides superb cover for them. It medicalizes the problem of compulsive gambling, blaming it on psychological abnormality rather than industry machination. Likewise, cracking down on compulsives is also politically cost-effective. In exchange for losing a few compulsive gamblers, the casinos will (falsely) appear more concerned with the health of their customers than with profits. The cigarette agenda will also distract the commission and the public from the true reasons for worry. A few years ago, gambling was confined to Las Vegas and Atlantic City. It is now thriving in 48 states, and there is no sign that anyone can stop it. In this election, gambling interests dropped $100 million on a single California ballot initiative, toppled governors in two states, and bought senators and representatives by the crate. What the commission ought to be investigating is whether the gambling industry has become so powerful that it's politically untouchable. But it can't, because the gambling industry has become so powerful that it's politically untouchable. The gambling industry did everything in its power to stop the establishment of this commission two years ago, but Congress and a fervent grassroots anti-gambling group eventually foisted it on the industry. The nine member blue-ribbon panel was charged with assessing the social and economic impact of gambling, and it will issue a final report to Congress and the president in June 1999. Even though the panel was carefully balanced between pro- and anti-gambling leaders, it was supposed to be Vegas' nemesis. The industry and Las Vegas' pro-gambling media quaked in anticipation of the onerous regulations and taxes the commission might recommend. But they quake no more. Whatever national momentum the anti-gamblers had dissolved in last week's elections. The industry routed opponents in state after state. Missouri voters passed a ballot initiative to allow boat casinos. Californians voted to expand Indian casinos. In South Carolina and Alabama, voters expelled anti-lottery, anti-gambling Republican governors and replaced them with pro-lottery Democrats. The gambling industry spent more than $100 million on political contributions and issue ads. It has never been fatter, happier, or more secure. \"My goodness, no politician can withstand their resources,\" Focus on the Family's James Dobson, the commission's leading gambling opponent, tells me. The industry's political clout has emasculated the commission, Dobson continues: \"Our report won't be acted on by the president or Congress. They are too heavily influenced by gambling money. Almost all the leaders of Congress are on the dole.\" It has also become obvious that the commission has too many pro-gambling members to produce a report that recommends taxes or other real penalties on the industry. Later in the day, Nevada's senators and both its congressmen appear to chew out the commission for even thinking that Nevada might have a dark side. They pay tribute to Nevada's sophisticated gambling industry, especially its regulation (much stricter than other gambling states) and its use of gambling taxes to fund state services. It is one of the ironies of Nevada politics that its Republican congressmen (Jim Gibbons and John Ensign) end up crediting their state's success to government regulation and corporate taxation. There are also a fair share of gleeful gambling regulators, bookmakers, and casino employees among the panels of expert witnesses the commission hears from. Critics who gripe about the perils of sports gambling and the evils of convenience store slot machines leaven the pro-gambling folks. Everyone, including the gambling industry shills, agrees that Internet gambling is evil and should be destroyed. Everyone agrees to this because no one in Las Vegas is making any money off Internet gambling. If they were, you can be sure they would explain why it's as American as nickel slots and scratch-off games. Pro-Vegas forces are also perfectly happy to take shots at Indian gambling, the chief economic threat to Nevada's prosperity. The expansion of Indian casinos resulting from last week's California voter initiative will slam Las Vegas, cutting its gambling revenues by $400 million a year. So the Vegans repeatedly swing at casinos in \"Indian country\" (that's Nevada Sen. Richard Bryan's term--I'm not joking) for being insufficiently regulated and taxed. One tribal chief I spoke to calls this \"red baiting.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is not something the article mentioned?\n\n<options>:\nA internet gambling is something the commission may regulate heavier\nB the gambling industry is funding political campaigns\nC states are allowing more methods of gambling to happen\nD the commission's research on the benefits of gambling taxes\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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367 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully because of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped across the mouth and neck of the stranger.... going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out of his subconscious. Yet he \"Hey!\" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the road. \"What's the trouble?\" stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of wears he might be Thig.\" \"Thig will be this creature!\" announced Torp. \"With a psychic relay we will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use of our limbs so.\" \"Do not question the word of your commander,\" growled Torp, swelling knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet. \"There is nothing more to learn,\" he informed his impassive comrades. primitive impulses of barbarism so he was incapable of understanding the emotions that swept through his acquired memory. trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked achingly up into his throat. to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would, for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever, who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son of Ellen and the man he had destroyed. Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better \"Hurry home, dear,\" she said. \"I'll have a bite ready in about an hour.\" He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound. Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the lived no longer. He mentally titled it: \"Rustlers' Riot\" and blocked in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never \"You have done well,\" announced Torp when Thig had completed his report \"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for \"Only the good of the Horde matters!\" shouted Torp angrily. \"Shall a forgotten.\" \"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam,\" ordered Torp shortly. \"His words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. it tore free from the feeble must eliminate for the good of the Horde.\" Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way. His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed him with those savage blows upon the head. Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his ancestors at times but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his unconscious body. Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove. The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of the Orthan. the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that victory had given him to drive him along. He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent Already I feel the insidious virus of.... And there his writing ended abruptly. Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message. hull, and cut free from the mother vessel. that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that crowded his mind. He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be\n\n<question>:\nWhat ultimately brings Torp down?\n\n<options>:\nA He went mad from the same disease that's afflicting Thip.\nB Thip shoots him with a blaster before he can comprehend what happened.\nC His own madness. His overly trained mind can't handle the new circumstances.\nD He was never trained for a situation like this. He's not able to keep up with Thip.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
319 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nBy the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line. The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate. Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs. East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking, into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression. There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular. Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles scene of disaster. \"No one here has ever seen anything like it.\" And the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault. Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded several small tremors everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps. As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down, down. They danced \"like sand in a sieve\" dry, they boiled into rubble. Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared. Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the President declared a national emergency. By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north, death toll had risen above 1,000. Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous. Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska. The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking. On the actual scene of the disaster (or the Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd eastward. State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to be done in an orderly way. And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its inexorable descent. as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church second phase of the national disaster was beginning. was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the before the town disappeared forever. One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma. By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge. Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as The ocean had come to New Mexico. The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota. The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the new sea. Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring, into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what had been dusty farmland, cities and towns. along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives. No one could even estimate the damage to property of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was. remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing\n\n<question>:\nWhat major change happened to the country's landscape as the tragedy continued?\n\n<options>:\nA State lines were made to be different after the upsets by the earthquakes.\nB Much of the landscape is upset by the earthquakes, throwing dirt and dust everywhere.\nC Several states totally sink, and water takes its place.\nD New cliffs and fault lines continued to form.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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841 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe Dwindling words about whatever was the He didn’t expect to be last—but neither did he anticipate the horror of being the first! Years the first suspicion of his trouble, something inside him had been forcing him to make this decision. years of habit carried the Maybe the ship would fail. But thirty years was a number a man could risk. If he made it, though.... And maybe it would do no good. It wasn’t going right. He could feel it. Some of the panic symptoms were returning was no telling what might turn had sworn the shot would cure any allergy or asthma. can’t see any other explanation. You’ve got a slight case of angina—nothing serious, but quite definite—as well as other signs of aging. I’m afraid the treatment didn’t take fully. It might have been some unconscious block on your part, some infection not and it seemed to cut through some of the thickness in his head. “I guess I’m getting old, Amanda.” She smiled dutifully at the time-worn joke, but he knew she diagnosed at the time, or even a fault in the treatment. That’s pretty rare, but we can’t neglect better than he knew himself—which the possibility.” was more important. It hadn’t been a joke about his growing old, after all. But now, in a few days, he’d be his old—no, of course was waiting for him, but this tried to shave. His normal thinness had looked almost gaunt face and circles under his eyes. Even his hair had seemed thinner, though that, of course, was He resented every second of it. It was as if the almost forgotten specter of age stood beside him, counting the seconds. But at last the doctor studied it. “My sixteenth.” basket. “Mostly drugs for that, and the fact that the mind could effect physical changes in the body. Even such things as every conceivable device to make slowly. The belligerence ran out could be reached far below the conscious level and forced to operate. There had been impossible faith cures for millenia—cataracts the first hope they’d found that might be ended and he should have been filled with excitement the brain removed from blinded eyes within minutes, even—but finding bringing it under control had the mechanism in the brain after the treatment! to happen. It had been no fault of his ... he was sure of that ... his He came out of it without fatigue on the operator’s face told him it had been a long and difficult with the eternal unconscious expectation that he would find himself suddenly young again. But that, of course, was ridiculous. over that which had finally Oddly enough, the message in description and a plea for his of his profession. “We haven’t lost a patient in two hundred He had no desire to spend years, to my knowledge.” he should give up his work. The discovery that men could live practically forever had put an end to most family ties sentiment wore thin in half a century—which wasn’t much time now, though it had once seemed It was then he realized for the never would. It was an evasion meant to give such an impression. The worry nagged at him all the way back. Word had already gone around the club that he’d had some kind of attack and there were endless questions that kept it on his mind. And even richness of living now. he’d never regretted it. But tonight real reason. Certainly they weren’t various nostrums, giving him no peace. Constant questions about of worry—until he’d been ready to yell at the boy. In fact, he had. the discussions after the dinner, except for one about the he’d developed through new thinking. There was a measure of truth in it, unfortunately. He gave it up and went to bed—to “They’ll slow up when their the years helped to add to the was no escaping it. Something about the years—or was it days—dwindling down to something the Earth fit for our longevity. or other. down? Suppose he couldn’t rejuvenate We can wait. We’ll have to.” THE YOUNGER man stared days. We can have the secret of they could only bring him back to reduce the slice of eternity that rejuvenation meant? And what had happened to Sol? Or suppose it wasn’t rejuvenation, after all suppose something it. Even with Sirius expecting the know life can stand the trip. The the other was proposing, only family life again would give him have minds that could show any long it had been. Nor why. “In the spring, a young man’s fancy,” he quoted to himself, and then shuddered. It hadn’t been that kind of spring for him—not this rejuvenation nor the last, nor the one until he reached the doctor’s office. Then it was no longer necessary to frighten himself. The wrongness was too strong, no matter not—his young self again! rest of your life rather than waiting a couple more centuries until we know it’s safe? If you do, I’ll the doctor’s technical jargon. Now that he knew there was reason for his fear, it seemed to vanish, leaving a coldness that numbed him. “I’d rather know the whole answer. NO SANE man would risk a chance for near eternity The rejuvenation...?” truth,” he said. His voice sounded dead in his ears. “The worst first. those who knew their days were of him. He looked sick, for he had no wish I hadn’t.” His voice ran down and he gathered himself together by an effort. “It’s a shock to simplify it, no memory is perfect—even plan for short-term benefits. Usually loses a little each time. And the asymptotic curve—the further it goes, the steeper the curve. And—well, effect is cumulative. It’s like an and the sight of the solid, time-enduring supposed to tell you, of course. the city beyond consolation. We’ve got a longer eons. For everybody, not just It was no consolation. Giles “Thirty years, maybe. But we can make them better. Geriatric rest. You’ll be in good physical condition, better than your grandfather—” “And then....” Giles couldn’t pronounce the words. He’d grown old and he’d grow older. And eventually he’d die! An immortal man had suddenly found death hovering on his trail. The years had dwindled and he meant it. The man had done saved him the suspense of growing doubt and horrible eventual discovery. OUTSIDE ON the street, he eternity was no longer a part of numbed, and began driving mechanically, no longer wondering about the dangers that might possibly and a long drink in his hand. The alcohol combined with the reaction from his panic to leave him almost himself again. After all, there was nothing to worry about much now. For a man who had thought of living almost forever, thirty years was too short a time to count. and he drove on. What else was morose man the last few times he’d seen him, but that could hardly explain his taking a twenty-year slim reason. It was no concern of its finish. It would be cold comfort but it that the years were gone for him. Automatic habit carried him He finished the drink, feeling “As all right as I’ll ever be,” he told her. “They tell me I’m just growing old.” This time her laugh was heartier. He caught himself before he instead of the treasures he could Oddly, it still tasted good to build inside himself for the future childish! Yet he relished the feeling of or not. He snapped the switch and as so many others had, for even with modern safety measures so strict, there was always a small chance of some accident and nobody had any desire to spend the long future as a cripple. It was almost too much consideration. a family, rather than a mere better, realizing it wouldn’t be It didn’t matter, but it would explain Then abruptly the line finished out his story. Halfway through, itself. “The years dwindle down to a precious few....” he remembered. “A precious few.” that was forbidden. The years seemed precious to the old man age? Let’s see it.” He inspected it and began making tests. Some were older\n\n<question>:\nWhat could the moral of the story be?\n\n<options>:\nA People will make sacrifices like the one Giles made at the end for the greater good.\nB Mortality is crucial to enjoy life to the fullest.\nC Given the chance, humans will chase after immortality.\nD Fear of aging is normal, but aging is unavoidable.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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494 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIf you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it? Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership. The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us ! Adifferent scare scenario is a world filled with copies of famous people only. We'll treat celebrity DNA like designer clothes, hankering for Michael Jordan's genes the way we covet his Nike sneakers today. But even celebrity infatuation has its limits. People are not more taken with celebrities than they are with themselves. Besides, such a trend would correct itself in a generation or two, because celebrity is closely linked to rarity. The world seems amused by one Howard Stern, but give us a hundred or a million of them, and they'll seem a lot less endearing. Clones already exist. About one in every 1,000 births results in a pair of babies with the same DNA. We know them as identical twins. Scientific studies on such twins--reared together or apart--show that they share many characteristics. Just how many they share is a contentious topic in human biology. But genetic determinism is largely irrelevant to the cloning issue. Despite how many or how few individual characteristics twins--or other clones--have in common, they are different people in the most fundamental sense . They have their own identities, their own thoughts, and their own rights. Should you be confused on this point, just ask a twin. One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success? Remember that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point? There's not exactly a shortage of them. What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say, we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as Great Leader, Version 2.0. The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother. Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate. The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you.\n\n<question>:\nFrom the passage, are we able to infer that the author is for or against cloning and why?\n\n<options>:\nA Against, because he says humans have no right to reproduce themselves\nB Against, because he fears the cloned warriors\nC For, because he says that humans have the right to reproduce how they see fit.\nD For, because he hopes for the cloned warriors\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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2,218 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nrealist. He was here. The thing was to adapt. REYNOLDS Joe Prantera called California looked much the same as it had in his own time. Oceans, mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts, are fairly permanent even whole vicinity. From the air, Southern It was while he was flying with Brett-James on the second day that Joe said, \"How about Mexico? Could I make the get to Mexico?\" The physicist looked at him questioningly. comfortable, \"Get?\" he said. Joe Prantera said impatiently, \"The Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on the run, don't I?\" \"I see.\" Brett-James cleared his throat. \"Mexico is no longer a separate nation, Mr. Prantera. All North America has been united into one Joe Prantera said softly, \"Big Louis in the world.\" \"Where's the nearest?\" \"South America.\" \"That's a helluva long way to go on a get.\" doubling and twisting and twitching of every muscle and nerve. unit. Today, there are only eight nations He was in, he thought, a hospital and his first reaction was to think, This here California. Everything different. Then his second thought was Something went wrong. Big Louis, he \"Mr. Prantera, this will probably be difficult for you to comprehend, but there are no police in this some guy in stir?\" \"If I understand your idiom correctly, you mean prison. There are no prisons in this era, Mr. Prantera.\" way that Joe had never seen a door operate before. This here California. softly, \"Al.\" The pleasurable, and writes fluently but has little occasion to practice vocally. \"You have recovered?\" Joe Prantera looked at the other where's this guy Temple-Tracy you want knocked off?\" Reston-Farrell and Brett-James were both present. The three of them where does he reside? Why, here in Reston-Farrell. If I am not mistaken, Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's you are Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\" Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi's house, see? He lets me know every Wednesday night, eight o'clock, Al leaves the house all by hisself. O.K., so I can make plans, like, to give it to him.\" Joe Prantera wound it up to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah, Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily \"Who's it?\" he growled. crackpot hospital?\" Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid, Mr. Salviati-Prantera, that these are building? Where's my get car parked? Where do I hide out? Where do I sent me, Al.\" upon a wide boulevard of what was obviously a populous city. And for a moment again, Joe Prantera I imagine,\" Reston-Farrell told him, \"but, you see, we no longer punish glass. \"We were afraid first realization would be a shock to you,\" it to everybody else.\" \"The motivation for crime has been removed, Mr. Prantera,\" Reston-Farrell of medical care. And, consequently, receives it.\" \"You mean, like, if I steal a car or something, they just take me to a doctor?\" Joe Prantera was unbelieving. institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy is the last man you will over again, what'd'ya wanta give it to this guy for?\" the other day, Mr. Prantera. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy is a dangerous, atavistic, evil genius. We are afraid for our institutions if his plans are allowed to mature.\" of the question. \"Mr. Prantera, Homo \"What's it all about, huh?\" Warren Brett-James said soothingly, \"Prepare yourself for somewhat of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no longer in Los Angeles—\" \"Ya think I'm stupid? I can see that.\" \"I was about to say, Los Angeles of 1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you to Nuevo Los Angeles.\" \"Ta where?\" \"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to Temple-Tracy is aware of this and the year—\" Brett-James looked at his companion. \"What is the date, Old A.D. they would say.\" Joe Prantera looked from one of us, what will you do? Mr. Prantera, are you guys talking about?\" Warren Brett-James said softly, \"Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in the year 1960, you are now in the you do not even speak the language.\" them to the other, scowling. \"What for one hundred and seventy years, Mr. Prantera.\" say, from your own era to ours.\" Joe Prantera had never been exposed to the concept of time travel. He had simply never associated with Reston-Farrell said, \"Suffice to say, you are now one hundred and seventy-three years after the last memory you have.\" Joe Prantera's mind suddenly reverted to those last memories and his out. He knew it wouldn't have taken much for them to cancel the you guys better let me in on what's this all about.\" Reston-Farrell said, \"Mr. Prantera, we have brought you from your era to perform a task for us.\" suddenly at bay. He said, \"Maybe American, eh?\" Warren Brett-James said, \"Quite \"That is correct.\" \"Like hell you do. You think I'm Joe Prantera came abruptly to his feet. \"I'm gettin' outta here.\" For the second time, Reston-Farrell again, as abruptly as he'd arisen. \"Let's start all over again. I got this O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks like out that window—\" The real by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy. arrival, without bothering to look at Big Louis.\" \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera. Their children are all dead, and their grandchildren.\" him more than glancingly. Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion. Finally he said, \"What's this bit to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\" something. Joe said, \"Joseph Salviati-Prantera Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a remember that at the point when we ... transported Citizen Temple-Tracy said, \"What Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon. there are no professional assassins in Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy of Big Louis. said, \"We have tried, but it is simply not in us, Mr. Prantera.\" \"You mean you're yella?\" of a fellow man.\" Joe snapped: \"Everything you guys say sounds crazy. Let's start all over two.\" THE END December 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. Transcriber's Note: again.\" with national and international, problems. Just as we are today and just as nations were a century or a millennium ago.\" The heavy-set man paused a moment. \"Yes, like that,\" he repeated. awoke to the fact that he had achieved to the point where it was possible to minimum of toil. Overnight, for all practical purposes, the whole world was industrialized, automated. The by revolutionary changes in almost every field, certainly in every never dreamed of in your own era.\" \"O.K., O.K.,\" Joe Prantera growled. \"So everybody's got it made. What I wanta know is what's all this about five times. Then I woulda took the plane back to Chi.\" street just at that moment to arrest Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended. As I understand Californian law of the period, your life would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera.\" Joe winced. It didn't occur to him to doubt their word. Reston-Farrell said, \"As to reward, Mr. Prantera, we have already told into present day society. Competent psychiatric therapy will soon remove again. \"I am afraid there is no return, Mr. Prantera. Time travel works but in one direction, with to do with the process that had enabled them to bring Joe from the\n\n<question>:\nWhat city is Temple-Tracy in?\n\n<options>:\nA Los Angeles\nB New New Mexico\nC New New York\nD Nuevo Los Angeles\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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1,172 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe Snowball Effect Come on now.\" I smiled condescendingly, knowing it would irritate him. \"What are you doing that's worth anything?\" open system mathematics, has been recognized as an outstanding and valuable contribution to—\" The words were impressive, whatever they meant, but this still didn't management decisions. And, of course, since the depression, Washington has been using sociological studies of employment, labor and standards of living as a basis for its general policies of—\" would hardly be a recommendation. Washington, the New Deal and the present Administration are somewhat touchy subjects to the men I have to deal with. They consider its value debatable, if you know what I and industry. Caswell had to show a way to make his own department are ways of doing it indirectly. He laid down his book and ran a hand over his ruffled hair. \"Institutions—organizations, that is—\" his voice became more resonant to deliver an essay—\"have certain tendencies built into the way they happen to have been organized, which cause them to expand or contract against an outside enemy—will either grow insensately and extend its control until it is a tyranny over their whole lives, or, like other organizations set up to serve a vital need, will tend to repeatedly dwindle and vanish, and have to be painfully rebuilt. \"The reason can be traced to little quirks in the way they were simple questions as, 'Is there a way a holder of authority in this organization can use the power available to him to increase his power?' provide the key. But it still could not be handled until the complex questions of interacting motives and long-range accumulations of minor effects could somehow be simplified and formulated. In working on the mathematics, expressing the human factors of intermeshing authority and motives in simple formulas. \"By these formulations, it is possible to determine automatically the amount of growth and period of life of any organization. The UN, to choose an unfortunate example, is a shrinker type organization. Its monetary support is not in the hands of those who personally benefit by its governmental activities, but, instead, in the hands of those who would personally lose by any extension and encroachment of its authority on their own. Yet by the use of formula analysis—\" \"That's theory,\" I said. \"How about proof?\" \"My equations are already being used in the study of limited-size Federal corporations. Washington—\" \"I see you have your problems, too,\" Caswell said, conceding me he produce something tangible. I frankly didn't give a hoot if he blew his lid. My job isn't easy. For a crumb of favorable publicity and respect in the newspapers and going hat in hand, asking politely for money at everyone's door, like a well-dressed panhandler, and trying to manage the university Caswell had to make it work or get out. I hadn't expected to understand the equation, but it was almost as clear as a sentence. I was impressed and slightly intimidated by it. He had already explained enough so that I knew that, if he was right, He was deep in the symbology of human motives and the equations of snowball, and decided to run the test by making something grow. \"You add the motives,\" he said, \"and the equation will translate them manipulation so that a special grouping appeared in the middle of the equation. \"That's it.\" Since I seemed to have the right idea, I suggested some more, and he added some, and juggled them around in different patterns. We threw out a few that would have made the organization too complicated, and finally worked out an idyllically simple and deadly little organization setup where joining had all the temptation of buying a sweepstakes ticket, going in deeper was as easy as hanging around a race track, and already. We can pick a suitable group from that.\" \"This demonstration has got to be convincing. We'd better pick a little group that no one in his right mind would expect to grow.\" I pointed out to Caswell the member I thought would be the natural half doze while Caswell stayed awake beside me and wrote in his better chance of getting into office than a non-shover?\" \"I think there's a way they could find for it,\" Caswell whispered back, and went to work on his equation again. \"Yes, several ways to bias the elections.\" \"Good. Point them out tactfully to the one you select. Not as if she'd use such methods, but just as an example of the reason why only can be trusted with initiating the change. Just mention all the personal advantages an unscrupulous person could have.\" conspiring. After the meeting, Caswell drew the tall woman in the green suit If Caswell's equations meant anything at all, we had given that sewing how the test was coming along. Passing Caswell's office, I put my head \"Caswell, about that sewing club business—I'm beginning to feel the suspense. Could I get an advance report on how it's coming?\" \"Would that change the results?\" Poor Caswell. The bet between us was ironclad. He wouldn't let me And what if Caswell asked me what I had found out in the meantime? I copies to make sure there'll be enough to last.\" The tall woman on the platform had been making a driving, forceful \"With a bright and glorious future—potentially without poor and without uncared-for ill—potentially with no ugliness, no vistas which hand on the speaker's stand with each word for emphasis. \" All we need is more members. Now get out there and recruit! \" fusion, but keeping the same constitution—the constitution with the bright promise of advantages as long as there were always new members being brought in. for attracting some new industries to the town, industries which had the form of a rise in the price of building sites and a boom in the building industry. The profit distributing arrangement was the same one that had been built into the organization plan for the distribution of the small profits of membership fees and honorary promotions. It politicians went into this, too.... I laughed, filing the newspaper with the other documents on the Watashaw test. These proofs would fascinate any businessman with the sense to see where his bread was buttered. A businessman is constantly dealing with organizations, including his own, and finding them either inert, cantankerous, or both. Caswell's formula could be a handle to grasp them with. Gratitude alone would bring money into the university were spectacular. Caswell's formulas were proven to the hilt. \"Perfect, Wilt, perfect ! I can use this Watashaw thing to get you so obviously he was still peeved whenever he was reminded that I had doubted that his theory could work. And he was using its success to string of degrees after his name is just as human as anyone else. I had needled him pretty hard that first time. \"I'm satisfied,\" I acknowledged. \"I was wrong. The formulas work beautifully. Come over and see my file of documents on it if you want a boost for your ego. Now let's see the formula for stopping it.\" He sounded cheerful again. \"I didn't complicate that organization with negatives. I wanted it to . It falls apart naturally when it stops growing for more than two months. It's like the great stock boom before an economic crash. Everyone in it is prosperous as long as the prices just keep going up and new buyers come into the market, but The graph on the desk before me began to look sinister. Surely Caswell must have made some provision for— \"You underestimate their ingenuity,\" I said into the phone. \"Since they wanted to expand, they didn't stick to sewing. They went from general charity to social welfare schemes to something that's pretty close to contractual, open to all. That social dividend sounds like a Technocrat climbed on the band wagon, eh?\" growing more rapidly with each increase. \"Leaving out practical limitations for a moment, where does the formula There was a long silence while Caswell probably drew the same graph bar, if you can call it lunch. The movement we started will expand by hook or by crook, by seduction or by bribery or by propaganda or by conquest, but it will expand. And maybe a total world government will\n\n<question>:\nWhat did Caswell's theories help predict?\n\n<options>:\nA How to collect the most money for personal gain as fast as possible\nB How to fundraise the most money for an institution as fast as possible\nC How to expand an organization and increase its power\nD How to win an election while creating as few political promises as possible\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
1,368 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"I can get you out of this cheap.\" \" How cheap?\" Gorb grinned rakishly. \"Five thousand in cash plus a contract as a specimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of a lot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it?\" and smell them with ease. My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwise them eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarre beings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the old ever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand, giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition. happy wherever I go. the contract. Otherwise, nothing.\" Gorb shrugged. \"What have I to lose?\" Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridim a contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand and 2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and riches can be yours! applicant is ready to see you, sir.\" \"Send him, her or it in.\" The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me on nervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of a big basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs and one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth. His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. \"You are Mr. Corrigan?\" \"That's right.\" I reached for a data blank. \"Before we begin, I'll need certain information about—\" \"I am a being of Regulus II,\" came the grave, booming reply, even I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quick cough. \"Let me have that again, please?\" \"And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses and transportation.\" The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clapping on one side, two on the other. \"Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! I accept the terms!\" four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a couple of his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, being 400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't see how we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but their He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He was tall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, and though he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby look \"A scientific institute. I stand corrected.\" There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. I guess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out on \"I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, just the kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translate back to colloquial speech.\" these days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb.\" He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, \"You're making a big mistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of a hitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect! attraction. I'll—\" \" Good-by, Mr. Gorb! \" it over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give you another chance.\" officially. He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high, and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his three stocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture, and growled, \"I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign me immediately to a contract.\" \"Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks.\" \"You will grant me a contract!\" \"Will you please sit down?\" He said sulkily, \"I will remain standing.\" sometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointed this one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering his body. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanket of fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of his warlike race. because—\" \"You will hire me or trouble I will make!\" I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were already carrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty. the noble Clan Gursdrinn!\" At the key-word I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, and one of the most important of those principles is that I never let myself be bullied by anyone. \"I deeply regret having unintentionally insulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies?\" He glared at me in silence. I went on, \"Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliest possible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire another as a vacancy—\" \"No. You will hire me now.\" \"It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick to it.\" \"You will rue! I will take drastic measures!\" \"Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'll get in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for another They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led him away. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knocked out in the hall. I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the next came running in—\" \"Please, please,\" squeaked the little alien pitifully. \"I must see you, honored sir!\" fifty ahead of him.\" \"All right,\" I said tiredly. \"As long as he's in here already, I might tail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even at full volume. \"Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am a The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. \"It is she! It is she!\" and my love.\" \"Funny,\" I said. \"When we signed her three years ago, she said she was single. It's right here on the chart.\" must take me to Earth!\" \"Well—\" \"Of course not.\" I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam right He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping. uneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about to commit suicide on my account. tell you that I am \"—you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second. Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yours is . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How many \"You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead. I've been living in the outworlds half my life I know all there is to came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glittering metalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wielding with a roar. \"Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn!\" Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready to let him have it at the first sight of actual violence. Heraal boomed, \"You are responsible for what is to happen now. I have at the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me. \"You are J. F. Corrigan?\" the leader asked. \"Y-yes.\" I'm responsible?\" I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackers going down the drain. \"Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself! He's—\" I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than a full-bodied laugh. \"Funny,\" I said. \"What is?\" asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian. himself , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek and\n\n<question>:\nWhich word least describes the narrator?\n\n<options>:\nA experienced\nB jealous\nC clever\nD confident\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
950 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nunconcerned. \"How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis?\" she asked, an oblique smile narrowing her eyes. \"I know we can't.\" imitation of speech. \"Yes, I've heard the legend.\" \"It's more than a legend,\" said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction was not unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenient speculation and nothing more. \"There are at least a hundred kinds of humans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as many widely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout the ages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreed with a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of a feel that attraction to her? \"Try Emmer,\" he suggested tiredly. \"He'll find you irresistible, and distasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to my species.\" \"It is impressive,\" admitted Taphetta. \"But I find it mildly \"That's because you're unique,\" said Halden. \"Outside of your own exception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it's accidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of human development. Emmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside of the physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—what Emmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle. advantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that, a corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able to breed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile with The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was not completely her fault. Besides.... Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superior children—and they might be his. unbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.\" \"You're thinking of Earth,\" said Halden. \"Humans require a certain kind Meredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility may extend to Kelburn.\" of planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on a \"But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before the Stone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to conclude found. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughout this section of the Milky Way.\" \"And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed across thousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,\" commented Taphetta dryly. \"It seems an unnecessary simplification.\" \"Can you think of a better explanation?\" asked Kelburn. \"Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not the result of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races are involved, and only the human race.\" \"I can't think of a better explanation.\" Taphetta rearranged his ribbons. \"Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theories It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerous that humans who can mate with each other were once physically close. We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetary \"To the best of our knowledge,\" said Kelburn. \"And whereas there are humans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always mate with those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago !\" \"The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,\" murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. \"Is that the only era that satisfies the calculations?\" better ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition.\" Halden flushed differences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn't as great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained in the fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher or respect. The Ribboneer shifted his attention. \"Aside from the sudden illness of world, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, and that's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the sole an equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking his eyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in the mating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet had been inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware of his place in the human hierarchy. Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter, wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just how much thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easy to see why. And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There's nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with the \"More than a man?\" Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failed Halden took a deep breath. \"Seems all right to me.\" higher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet he less complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higher humans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren't prepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon's reaction was quite typical. wanted her. Halden. \"Do anything you can to give it to him.\" Halden glowered at the man. \"How long has this been going on?\" \"Tell me what you know about it,\" said Halden. Halden started. So she Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn't said it. It didn't help the situation at all. Halden shrugged. \"We've got to have better air. It might work.\" \"Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it!\" \"Neither do we.\" The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. \"What kind of creatures are they?\" their camp.\" \"I don't question your authority,\" crinkled Taphetta. \"To me, all humans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If you are an archeologist, that's enough for me.\" He paused and flicked his speech ribbons. \"Camp, did you say?\" independently and those who did were scattered equally among early and late species. It's well known that individuals among my people are or early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold of atomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thing for non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actually It was Halden who answered him. \"There's the satisfaction of knowing curiosity.\" \"Cultural discoveries,\" rumbled Emmer. \"How did our ancestors live? When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more than physiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Things fractionally and ceaselessly. \"I don't like to, but we'll have to risk using bait for your pest.\" consent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask My terms don't permit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race.\" marrying you.\" \"Primitive,\" he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knew that, in relation to her, he was not advanced. \"It's almost a curse, isn't it?\" She laughed and took the curse away by \"Would it be wrong?\" he asked. \"I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn't have subhuman monsters.\" \"It would be a step up—for you.\" Under her calm, there was tension. The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another, it governed personal relations between races that were united against non-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves. \"I haven't asked you to marry me,\" he said bluntly. \"Because you're afraid I'd refuse.\" \"Why did you ever have anything to do with me?\" demanded Halden. \"Love,\" she said gloomily. \"Physical attraction. But I can't let it\n\n<question>:\nWhat most attracts Halden to Meredith?\n\n<options>:\nA Her bold and outspoken communication among 'higher-level' species\nB Her shared desire to be associated with a 'higher-level' species\nC Her long, slender legs and biologically superior appearance\nD Her blatant disregard for rules that govern intermixing among species\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
2,307 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nBY RANDALL GARRETT Women on space station assignments shouldn't get pregnant. But there's a first time for everything. Here's the story of One thousand seventy-five miles above the wrinkled surface of Earth, a woman was in pain. There, high in the emptiness of space, Space Station One swung in its orbit. Once every two hours, the artificial satellite looped completely around the planet, watching what went on below. Outside its bright steel hull was the silence of the interplanetary vacuum inside, in the hospital ward, Lieutenant Alice Britton clutched at the sheets of her bed in pain, then relaxed as it faded away. Major Banes looked at her and smiled a little. \"How do you feel, Lieutenant?\" a call in.\" He paused, then repeated, \"You just take it easy. Call the nurse if anything happens.\" Then he turned and walked out of the room. Alice Britton closed her eyes. Major Banes was all smiles and cheer now, but he hadn't been that way five months ago. She chuckled softly to herself as she thought of his blistering speech. \"Lieutenant Britton, you're either careless or brainless I don't know which! Your husband may be the finest rocket jockey in the Space on a supply rocket just to get you pregnant!\" Alice had said: \"I'm sure the thought never entered his mind, doctor. I know it never entered mine.\" not equipped for obstetrics up here.\" \"Send me back down to Earth, of course.\" And he had looked up at her scathingly. \"Lieutenant Britton, it is my personal opinion that you need your head examined, and not by a you to subject yourself to eight gravities of acceleration in a rocket landing, you're daffy!\" She hadn't thought of it before, but the major was right. The terrible pressure of a rocket landing would increase her effective body weight to nearly half a ton an adult human being couldn't take that sort of punishment for long, much less the tiny life that was growing within her. So she had stayed on in the Space Station, doing her job as always. As Chief Radar Technician, she was important in the operation of the station. Her pregnancy had never made her uncomfortable the slow rotation of the wheel-shaped station about its axis gave an effective gravity at the rim only half that of Earth's surface, and the closer to the hub she went, the less her weight became. According to the major, the baby was due sometime around the first of pinpoint it almost exactly. And at a maximum of half of Earth gravity, you shouldn't weigh more than seventy pounds then. You're to report to me at least once a week, Lieutenant.\" As the words went through her mind, another spasm of pain hit her, and she clenched her fists tightly on the sheets again. It went away, and she took a deep breath. Everything had been fine until today. And then, only half an hour ago, a meteor had hit the radar room. It had been only a tiny bit of rock, no bigger than a twenty-two bullet, and it hadn't been traveling more than ten miles per second, but it had managed to punch its way through the shielding of the station. The self-sealing walls had closed the tiny hole quickly, but even in that short time, a lot of air had gone whistling out into the vacuum of space. The depressurization hadn't hurt her too much, but the shock had been enough to start labor. The baby was going to come two months early. The Chief Nurse at a nearby desk took off her glasses and looked at him speculatively. \"Something wrong, doctor?\" \"Incubator. We can't deliver a seven-month preemie without an The nurse's eyes widened. \"Good Lord! I never thought of that! What are you going to do?\" least three hours before they can get a ship up here. If they miss us on the next time around, it'll be five hours. She can't hold out that long.\" before the coastline of California appeared on the curved horizon of the globe beneath them. He had spent the hour typing out a complete report of what had happened to Alice Britton and a list of what he impatiently as he waited for the answer. He turned and left through the heavy door. Each room of the space station was protected by airtight doors and individual heating units if some accident, such as a really large meteor hit, should release the air from one room, nearby rooms would be safe. Alice Britton was resting quietly, but there were lines of strain around her eyes which hadn't been there an hour before. \"How's it coming, Lieutenant?\" She smiled, but another spasm hit her before she could answer. After a time, she said: \"I'm doing fine, but you look as if you'd been through He forced a nervous smile. \"Nothing but the responsibility. You're going to be a very famous woman, you know. You'll be the mother of the first child born in space. And it's my job to see to it that you're both all right.\" Colonel Gates, the O.B. man, was supposed to come up for the delivery late. This isn't going to last that long.\" that long. And we don't have an incubator.\" His voice was a clipped monotone, timed with the rhythmic slamming of his fist. The Chief Nurse said: \"Can't we build something that will do until the rocket gets here?\" recorded all the monitor pickups from the Earth radio stations, and it looks as though the Space Service has released the information to the public. Lieutenant Britton's husband was right when he said the whole \"Well, think about something useful! Think about how we're going to save that baby!\" He paused as he saw her eyes. \"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. My nerves are all raw, I guess. But, dammit, my field is space medicine. I can handle depressurization, space sickness, and things know. I don't even have any references up here people aren't supposed to go around having babies on a space station!\" \"It's all right, doctor. Shall I prepare the delivery room?\" board had had to be carried up in rockets when the station was built in space. The air purifiers in the hydroponics section could keep the air fresh enough for breathing, but fire of any kind would overtax the system, leaving too little oxygen in the atmosphere. It was a few minutes of ten when he decided he'd better get back to Alice Britton. She was trying to read a book between spasms, but she wasn't getting much read. She dropped it to the floor when he came in. incubator. I didn't take the possibility of a premature delivery into account. It's my fault. I've done what I could, though the ship is bringing one up. I—I think we'll be able to keep the child alive until—\" He stopped. Alice was bubbling up with laughter. \"Lieutenant! Lieutenant Britton! Alice! This is no time to get hysterical! Stop it!\" Her laughter slowed to a chuckle. \" get hysterical! That's a good one! What about you? You're so nervous you couldn't sip water out of a bathtub without spilling it!\" station like an incubator?'\" Space Ship Twelve docked at Space Station One at exactly eleven thirty-four, and two men in spacesuits pushed a large, bulky package through the airlock. Major Peter Banes, haggard but smiling, met Captain Britton in the corridor as he and the colonel entered the hospital ward. station is a kind of incubator itself, you see. It protects us poor, weak humans from the terrible conditions of space. So all we had to do was close up one of the airtight rooms, sterilize it, warm it up, and comfortable.\" \"Excellent, Major!\" said the colonel. \"Don't thank me. It was Captain Britton's wife who—\" But Captain Britton wasn't listening any more. He was headed toward his wife's room at top speed.\n\n<question>:\nWhy did the Lieutenant go into labor early?\n\n<options>:\nA A slight depressurization in the space station shocked her body into labor.\nB Major Banes induced labor early because the baby was unusually large.\nC The stress of living in outer space caused her body to go into pre-term labor.\nD An asteroid crashed into the space station causing it to jerk unexpectedly. The Lieutenant fell and her water broke.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
2,133 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The sand-thing was powerful, lonely and strange. No doubt it was a god—but who wasn't? Stinson lay still in the sand where he fell, gloating over the success of his arrival. He touched the pencil-line scar behind his ear where the cylinder was when it pleases him.\" Stinson relaxed. He'd had his say. Sybtl trembled beside him. A small mammal, round, furry, hopped by, sniffing inquisitively. Sybtl said, \"Is the Sand God happy?\" She shook her head. \"No, he is not happy. He is old, old, old. I can feel it. My people say that when one \"Stinson,\" the Sand God said. \"You said I was adolescent. You are \"No.\" Stinson tried to imagine it. At first there must have been a single voice crying into a monstrous emptiness, \"Mother, where are you? MOTHER! Constellations disappeared, new patterns formed in the night sky. The unutterably total void of time—FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND YEARS! And a nine-year-old child brooding over an empty world. shone obliquely, throwing Stinson's shadow upon the sand. The wind The Sand God disappeared. Sybtl said \"Is the Sand God angry again?\" Life. Intelligence. The planet was inhabited. Should he give up and return to earth? Or was there room here for his people? Warming his hands there over the great steaming pool he thought of Benjamin, and Straus, and Jamieson—all those to whom he had given cylinders, and who were now struggling for life against those who desired them. He decided it would not be just, to give up so easily. There was no more. He stumbled toward the pool's wall and clutched for support, but The cavern was crowded. These creatures were not only humanoid, but definitely human, although more slight of build than earth people. The only difference he could see at first sight was that they had webbed hurt, but angered him. He left the chains by his own method of travel, and reappeared behind the two men. They stared at the place where he had been. The chains tinkled musically. He grasped the shoulder of the poked Stinson with the stick rose, and handed it to him. Still angered, Stinson grasped it firmly, with half a notion to break it over his Stinson's face drained pale, and suddenly, unaccountably, he was ashamed because he had no clothes. \"I didn't mean to kill him!\" he cried. \"I was angry, and....\" Useless. They could not understand. For all he knew, they might think gestured for him to sit. He touched it cautiously, then sat. Instantly he sprang to his feet. There, at the cavern entrance, the wind devil writhed and undulated in a brilliant harmony of colors. It remained in one spot, though, and he relaxed somewhat. Incongruously, he thought of Benjamin back on earth, and all the others with cylinders, who might be fighting for their lives at this moment. \"Don't be afraid. I didn't mean to kill the man. It was an accident. I will protect you.\" She shook her head. \"One day they will find me alone, and they'll kill me.\" \"Why?\" \"I am Stinson, of the planet Earth.\" another by a mere thought and a tiny instrument, yet you have done so. You deserted me out in the desert.\" \"I deserted you?\" Stinson cried angrily, \"You tried to kill me!\" \"I was attempting communication. Why should I kill you?\" He was silent a moment, looking at the people in the cavern. \"Perhaps Stinson was silent, thinking of the endless years of searching through now on the pallet. The men had left her and stood in groups, talking, glancing at him, apparently free of their awe and fear already. The woman looked at him, and she was not smiling. \"Please ask the Sand God,\" she said, \"to speak to my people again. Their fear of him does not last. When He is gone they will probably kill us.\" \"As for the webfoots,\" the wind devil, or Sand God, said, \"I will The Sand God did not reply. The great bodiless, directionless voice was pleaded. When he looked back, the Sand God was gone. Instantly a new note rose in the cavern. The murmur of unmistakable mob fury ran over the webfoots. Several of the men approached the woman \"No buts. Right now we'd better get out of here.\" He took her hand and they ran, slid, fell, picked themselves up again, and ran. He doubted the wisdom of keeping her with him. Alone, the webfoots were no match for him. He could travel instantly to any spot never had been an athlete. How was he to decide if this planet was suitable for his people, hampered by a woman, slinking through a frozen wilderness like an Indian? But the woman's hand was soft. He felt strong knowing she depended on him. Anyway, he decided, pursuit was impossible. They left no tracks on the from the creek. Stinson's bare feet were numb from walking on ice. Christ, he thought, what am I doing here, anyway? He glanced down at Sybtl and remembered the Sand God. It was blood red now. It pulsed violently. The great The Sand God became a sphere of blue flame. A wave of intense heat Sybtl shivered against his arm. \"The Sand God is angry,\" she said. \"My Kaatr got the tube-weapon. It was the only thing the Sand God didn't burn, that and the skirts. Then, when he had burned the ship, the Sand Well, Stinson said to himself, that does it. We are better off on Earth. We can't fight a monster like him. Sybtl touched his arm. \"Why did the Sand God come? He did not speak.\" \"I have no ship.\" \"Then he will kill you.\" She touched her fingers on his face. \"I am sorry. It was all for me.\" \"Don't worry. The Sand God travels without a ship, why shouldn't I?\" \"What makes you think he's lonely?\" She shrugged her shoulders. \"I just know. But he's an angry God now. \"The Sand God isn't doing this,\" Stinson said. \"It's only a storm.\" \"But it is, don't you see? You give him powers he does not possess.\" Sybtl shook her head and stroked his face with her long, slim fingers. \"Poor little God-with-fingers-on-his-feet,\" she said. \"You do not understand. The Sand God is terrible, even when he plays. See the trembled. Sybtl moved closer, trembling also. \"He never did this before,\" she said. \"He never made the earth shake He disappeared at once, giving her no chance to object again, and went to the desert of sand, where he had first arrived on the planet. He Stinson had never been in a sand storm before, even on Earth. He could The skirt flew up around his face. He could not get up again. He returned to the cave. Soon after, while they sat huddled together, watching the chaos of \"The Sand God is tired,\" Sybtl said. \"He is not angry now. I'm glad. Perhaps he will let you stay.\" \"No. Even if he allowed it, I couldn't stay. My people could never live on a level with the cave. It was quiet. It was dull gray in color. It exuded impressions of death, of hopeful words solemnly spoken over Stinson ignored him. He glanced down at Sybtl, who sensed that this was a time for good-bys. He thought, perhaps I can stay here alone with her. The webfoots might find us, or the Sand God might destroy us in one of his fits, but it might be worth it.\n\n<question>:\nHow does Stinson feel about the Sand God at the end of the story?\n\n<options>:\nA He is angry that he will not keep up the original deal of the humans getting the whole planet\nB He doesn't' care about the Sand God at all and is focused on Sybtl\nC He is sad that the Sand God will never get the life he deserves with friends of his own kind\nD He felt some pity for the abandoned creature\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nGambling's would-be federal regulators--the National Gambling Impact Study Commission--went to Las Vegas this week to hold hearings. In today's dispatch, we learn how gambling's foes seek to demonize wagering as a pernicious tobaccolike vice. In yesterday's dispatch, gambling's foes learn the folly of having brought their anti-sin crusade to an adult Disneyland. Tuesday's overpowering show of force by the Nevada gambling aristocracy has had at least one audible effect on the National Gambling Impact Study Commission. Wednesday, even commission Chair Kay Coles James, a gambling skeptic, succumbs to the hideous Vegas euphemism: She begins referring to the \"gaming industry.\" The antis, meanwhile, cry that gambling is like cigarettes: unsafe for kids, viciously addictive, deceptively marketed, unhealthy, expensive, and unacceptable unless mightily regulated. The commission will also push the industry to do more to prevent kids from gambling. It will call for heavier regulation of Indian gambling and will probably try to ban or severely regulate Internet gambling, perhaps by forbidding gambling companies from running online casinos. It will rebuke state lotteries for their deceptive marketing and will try to force them to post odds and stop targeting the poor. In short, it will treat gambling as a tobaccolike vice. If the comments of the pro-industry commissioners can be believed, the industry will happily endorse such a report. Gamblers don't quite accept the cigarette analogy--though commission member Bill Bible, a former chief of the Nevada Gaming Commission, did concede that gambling was like alcohol--but they're happy to sign on to the specific measures. The casino industry is even trying to get ahead of the commission. It has already established a (mostly) independent center to fund research into pathological gambling. I suspect that the industry will not only agree to the commission's recommendations but will become their strongest advocate. Casino owners will avidly lobby Congress and state legislatures to enact the recommendations into law. In Las Vegas, the euphemizers reign. Once upon a time, the casino owners decided that \"gambling\" was too crude, too avaricious, to describe their fair business. So \"gambling\" disappeared in Las Vegas, and \"gaming\" has risen in its place. He who controls language controls ideas, and at today's commission hearing, it is perfectly clear who controls the language. Video slot machines crammed into convenience stores--perhaps the most pernicious form of legal gambling there is--are called \"retail gaming.\" People who own casinos are not \"casino owners,\" they are \"gaming visionaries.\" Pathological gamblers are \"problem gamers\"--as if they're having trouble mastering the rules of Monopoly. And the National Gambling Impact Study Commission is reborn as the National Gaming Impact Study Commission. The gambling industry did everything in its power to stop the establishment of this commission two years ago, but Congress and a fervent grassroots anti-gambling group eventually foisted it on the industry. The nine member blue-ribbon panel was charged with assessing the social and economic impact of gambling, and it will issue a final report to Congress and the president in June 1999. Even though the panel was carefully balanced between pro- and anti-gambling leaders, it was supposed to be Vegas' nemesis. The industry and Las Vegas' pro-gambling media quaked in anticipation of the onerous regulations and taxes the commission might recommend. \"My goodness, no politician can withstand their resources,\" Focus on the Family's James Dobson, the commission's leading gambling opponent, tells me. The industry's political clout has emasculated the commission, Dobson continues: \"Our report won't be acted on by the president or Congress. They are too heavily influenced by gambling money. Almost all the leaders of Congress are on the dole.\" It has also become obvious that the commission has too many pro-gambling members to produce a report that recommends taxes or other real penalties on the industry. So the commission's two day visit to Gomorrah has been transformed from a charged political event to a kind of victory lap for gaming. Nevada Gov. Bob Miller and the \"gaming visionaries\" have been planning for these hearings for months, hoping to use them to demonstrate the might and sanctity and goodness of the Nevada gambling industry. The hearings, too, reinforce the Glorious Las Vegas theme. Frank Fahrenkopf, the industry's top lobbyist (who is paid so much he can afford monogrammed shirt cuffs --I saw them), holds forth cheerfully outside the ballroom, celebrating the electoral triumph of freedom over religious moralist tyranny. Inside, the room is packed with more than 600 people in neon lime green T-shirts that read \"Unions and Gaming: Together for a Better Life.\" They are members of the major casino union, here to cheer on their employers and their union. (Most of them, it must be said, are getting paid to do this.) Later in the day, Nevada's senators and both its congressmen appear to chew out the commission for even thinking that Nevada might have a dark side. They pay tribute to Nevada's sophisticated gambling industry, especially its regulation (much stricter than other gambling states) and its use of gambling taxes to fund state services. It is one of the ironies of Nevada politics that its Republican congressmen (Jim Gibbons and John Ensign) end up crediting their state's success to government regulation and corporate taxation. There are also a fair share of gleeful gambling regulators, bookmakers, and casino employees among the panels of expert witnesses the commission hears from. Critics who gripe about the perils of sports gambling and the evils of convenience store slot machines leaven the pro-gambling folks. Everyone, including the gambling industry shills, agrees that Internet gambling is evil and should be destroyed. Everyone agrees to this because no one in Las Vegas is making any money off Internet gambling. If they were, you can be sure they would explain why it's as American as nickel slots and scratch-off games. Pro-Vegas forces are also perfectly happy to take shots at Indian gambling, the chief economic threat to Nevada's prosperity. The expansion of Indian casinos resulting from last week's California voter initiative will slam Las Vegas, cutting its gambling revenues by $400 million a year. So the Vegans repeatedly swing at casinos in \"Indian country\" (that's Nevada Sen. Richard Bryan's term--I'm not joking) for being insufficiently regulated and taxed. One tribal chief I spoke to calls this \"red baiting.\" Still, for all the Vegan triumphalism in the air, it's impossible not to be charmed by the chief gambling opponent, the Rev. Tom Grey. Grey is utterly irrepressible. A Vietnam rifleman turned Methodist minister, Grey has spent the last eight years evangelizing against gambling. He founded the National Coalition Against Legalized Gambling, the primary force behind the commission's creation. (Grey, in a rare acknowledgement of defeat, has just renamed it the National Coalition Against Gambling Expansion, tacitly recognizing that gambling is here to stay.) He is a genial motormouth and shameless promoter of the cause. He wears a gigantic \"CasiNO\" button in the casino. He posed for People in a shepherd's robe. He says \"I would do anything short of lighting myself on fire in the Capitol rotunda to stop gambling.\" He is so excitable that I have to yank him out of the way of an oncoming car when he gets too wrapped up in one of his soliloquies.\n\n<question>:\nA former gaming commissioner compared gambling to:\n\n<options>:\nA Cigarettes\nB Alcohol\nC Prostitution\nD Drugs\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nJust another free soul In his foreword to the book, Lessig writes that you understand your subjects “by learning to see them in a certain way.” What is that certain way? I think I’m trying to get a mental image of a person, certain expressions, or what I think that person is about. I’m trying to capture what I think they look like, which is many times a minority of their typical expressions, or their typical stance. So, if I’m taking pictures just random ones. I think I’m trying to capture pictures of people that help others see what they’re about. Some photographers will make someone look the way the photographer wants them to look, and not the way they appear, so they’ll pick the one picture out of 100 where the guy looks more egotistical than he really is. Some photographers are almost medical, and are going after a perfect portrait. I’m somewhere in between. It’s amazing how many people will upload snapshots of people where the pictures don’t look like them at all. To me, uploading a picture that is not an easily recognizable picture of that person defeats the point, which I’m working toward, to try to express who they are. On the other hand, professional photographers usually have a subject whom they don’t know personally, so they end up having to try to capture an image that they’ve created based on who they think the person is or how they want that person to appear. You know how sculptors often say that they’re just freeing an image from a block? What I’m trying to do is free someone’s soul from his or her image. There are a lot of things that make this hard. A lot of people are uncomfortable in front of a camera, or might make expressions that aren’t very natural for them. And if the person is nervous, it’s very difficult to try to see what it is that you’re trying to capture. A lot of what I’m doing is, I just start shooting photos. After half an hour of having their picture taken, people start to ignore you. Or I’ll take pictures when I’m talking to people about what they’re doing, so after a while they get distracted by the conversation and forget about the camera. That’s something that I’m not perfect at, but I’m getting better. I think good photographers are also able to disarm people through conversation, but still, it’s difficult to have a disarming conversation with somebody you don’t know, or to make them laugh. Many times people make a face for me that they wouldn’t make for a professional photographer. For instance, a board meeting picture, like the one with Eric Saltzman: that was during a very tense discussion. I’ve found that people are at their most animated at these kinds of meetings, and look the most alive when they are under a lot of pressure, and super- focused. But usually if an outsider is in the room, they won’t get into that. I mean, it would be difficult for a cameraman to be in a room where a board is having a heated debate. But those are the things that I’m trying to capture, because most people asked me to put the camera away after awhile [laughs] because it was distracting. We were having a very heated discussion and I was taking all of these pictures. But he credited me later because afterward those pictures turned out the best. while they are “notable” on Wikipedia, their images aren’t free of the copyright of the photographer, or the institution who hired the photographer to take the picture. Often, even the subject of the article can’t make an image available to the Wikimedia/Wikipedia community. This means that a lot of people who have a Net presence have a legally encumbered Net presence. People who are invited to conferences get asked all the time, “By the way, do you have a photo that we can use?” But they don’t. By making these pictures available under a Creative Commons license, now they do. This is solving the issue of legal freedom. from the subjects, I’m asking everyone to be much more open and giving about their image than most people typically are. I’m giving, you’re giving, we’re all giving to participate and to try to create this pictures for something positive, rather than for something negative. The benefits greatly outweigh the risks. I think we spend way too much of Besides Wikipedia, how do you imagine these photos being used? They can be used in textbooks and in mainstream media articles about the person. Now they can get a picture that represents the person, at least from my perspective. That said, I shouldn’t be the only person doing this. More people should do the same, and make the photographs available freely. For one, I feel that “free” CC licensed photos have a much higher chance of not disappearing. But I don’t know exactly how these photos are going to be used, so in a sense I’m curious. For example, they’re not all pictures of people sitting at desks in the Berkman Center. There’s one more important thing: Creative Commons is great for exhibit was just amazing. There were some great images, and a lot of the photographers were professionals. This is professional-quality amateurs has increased significantly due to the importance of digital in both professional and high-end amateur photography I hate to say it, a lot of people love the darkroom, but it make sense, except for particularly fussy artists, to do wet-work anymore. If you’re a commercial photographer or a high-end amateur, you can do anything you used to do in the darkroom. I think it has really lowered the bar. I don’t know how that affects the industry directly, photographers. It caused an explosion of content and an increase in the quality of content on sites like Flickr. It has allowed amateurs to create a business model with professionals. Interestingly, I think these new high-end amateurs are buying more photography books and photographs and are probably providing an increasing revenue stream for professional photographers. I think most amateurs, including myself, are paying homage to the professionals and not trying to “compete” with them. Despite the existence of social software, what is still important about meeting people face-to-face? For me, the right way to use a lot of the new social software is by making it easier to spend more physical time with the people you like best. Dopplr is a great example. When I visit a city, I will see all of the people who are in the city at the friends, than I’ve met in any other year. I know my travels were crazy, but I think that the online world has allowed me to do that. What’s great about photography is that it captures the moment that I was sharing with that person. It’s not just a connection on a social network online, which is really pretty binary. I can look at all these photos and remember exactly what we were doing, what we were eating, what we were drinking, what we were talking about, and to me that’s a much more rich experience. It’s the combination of social software and photography. For me, reality is “the present” plus what you remember from the past. I think this project is really sharing memories with people. Blog posts contribute as well, but to me photography is a really good way of doing that. When I look at the expressions, I remember the moment and get a sense of presence. around. Just as I never believed that we would have a paperless office, being able to connect with people through social software mostly increases your travel, it doesn’t decrease it. It is great because you get to meet all these people. But it is bad for the environment, and bad for our jet lag. How would you characterize your contributions to free culture? is essential. My job is to keep that focus and maintain that balance. Also, CC needs to run smoothly as an organization and there is a lot of operational work that we all need to do. My photography is a way for me to participate in a small measure on the creative side of the Free individual’s personal contribution to any movement. The real meaning is\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the author mean to communicate by comparing the photographer's task to the sculptor's mission?\n\n<options>:\nA Photographers should strive to capture the essence of a person, vs. how the photographer wishes to portray them\nB Photographers should follow the path of sculptors in using more unconventional means to capture their subjects\nC Photographers should present more neutral, ambiguous renderings of a person in order to give the viewer a chance to participate in the art\nD Photographers should get to know their subjects on an intimate level, so the subjects feel more free to display their authentic selves during a session\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nI think I’m trying to get a mental image of a person, certain expressions, or what I think that person is about. I’m trying to capture what I think they look like, which is many times a minority of their typical expressions, or their typical stance. So, if I’m taking pictures I think I’m trying to capture pictures of people that help others see what they’re about. Some photographers will make someone look the way the photographer wants them to look, and not the way they appear, so they’ll pick the one picture out of 100 where the guy looks more egotistical than he really is. Some photographers are almost medical, and are going after a perfect portrait. I’m somewhere in between. It’s amazing how many people will upload snapshots of people where the pictures don’t look like them at all. To me, uploading a picture that is not an easily recognizable picture of that person defeats the point, which I’m working toward, to try to express who they are. On the other hand, professional photographers usually have a subject whom they don’t know personally, so they end up having to try to capture an image that they’ve created based on who they think the person is or how they want that person to appear. You know how sculptors often say that they’re make this hard. A lot of people are uncomfortable in front of a camera, or might make expressions that aren’t very natural for them. And if the person is nervous, it’s very difficult to try to see what it is that you’re trying to capture. after a while they get distracted by the conversation and forget about the camera. That’s something that I’m not perfect at, but I’m getting better. I think good photographers are also able to disarm people through conversation, but still, it’s difficult to have a disarming conversation For instance, a board meeting picture, like the one with Eric Saltzman: their most animated at these kinds of meetings, and look the most alive when they are under a lot of pressure, and super- focused. But usually if an outsider is in the room, they won’t get into that. I mean, it would be difficult for a cameraman to be in a room where a board is having a heated debate. But those are the things that I’m trying to capture, because most people pictures turned out the best. In your mind, what is a ‘Freesoul’ ? A freesoul is somewhat of a pun. On the one hand it means you are free, liberated. You, as a human spirit, are open. And then, it also has the ‘free software.’ There’s a paradox: with many people’s Wikipedia articles to which I’ve contributed, when it comes to the picture, many of these people don’t have any free photos of themselves on the web, so while they are “notable” on Wikipedia, their images aren’t free of the copyright of the photographer, or the institution who hired the photographer to take the picture. Often, even the subject of the article can’t make an image available to the Wikimedia/Wikipedia community. This means that a lot of people who have a Net presence have a legally The third part of the pun is that, since I’m asking for a model release from the subjects, I’m asking everyone to be much more open and giving about their image than most people typically are. I’m giving, you’re Of course people can abuse that, just like they can abuse anything. But I want people to see the value in sharing over the fear in sharing. The fact is, it’s much more likely that somebody is going to use these pictures for something positive, rather than for something negative. The benefits greatly outweigh the risks. I think we spend way too much of our lives worrying about the risks, at the cost of a lot of the benefits. This is a celebration of all of the people who are willing to give. In a way, giving up your image and allowing anyone to use it: it’s the ultimate gift. In one way it’s kind of vain. [laughs] But in another Besides Wikipedia, how do you imagine these photos being used? They can be used in textbooks and in mainstream media articles about the person. Now they can get a picture that represents the person, at least from my perspective. That said, I shouldn’t be the only person doing higher chance of not disappearing. But I don’t know exactly how these photos are going to be used, so in a sense I’m curious. For example, recently I received the Harvard Berkman Center pamphlet. It was a report more thorough from a legal perspective. It’s also an important educational point, so people understand that, in addition to the cases where the law requires such rights to be cleared before reuse. What have you learned about the people in these networks, just in the past year? That’s a good question. I think that at least Creative Commons has become much more mainstream. Creative Commons has moved from a fringy will be using Creative Commons for all of their basic infrastructure, you still have the core people who still remember and hold the torch for the philosophical side, the Internet has become much more of a business. is the market- driven business side, which has made the Internet affordable and ubiquitous. The second part is the strong movement of participants who fight to keep the Internet open and try to prevent the business side from corrupting the fundamental elements that make the Internet great. The Net Neutrality or Open Network discussion going on right now is a good example of the importance of continuing to balance these principles with business interests. Commons ubiquitous and more easily accessible to everyone. However, I think it’s important to remember to keep pushing to make content more “free” and not allow businesses to use Creative Commons in exploitive or destructive ways. In addition to the business side, Creative Commons is being used by large-format film At the time, the digital Hasselblad backs were too expensive, and were a technology breakthrough, let’s call it that, that allowed me to switch completely away from film, and I think this happened to a lot of photographers. It caused an explosion of content and an increase in the quality of content on sites like Flickr. It has allowed amateurs to create a business model with professionals. Interestingly, I think these new high-end amateurs are buying more photography books and photographs and are probably providing an increasing revenue stream for professional photographers. I think most amateurs, including myself, are paying homage to the professionals and not trying to “compete” with them. best. Dopplr is a great example. When would bet that more than half of the photos in this book are pictures of really increasing your ability to spend quality time with, actually, a smaller number of people. It allows you to actively filter. Your meetings don’t have to be random. If I look at the list of people in this book, although there are some obvious people missing whom I didn’t look at the expressions, I remember the moment and get a sense of presence. I think the main problem for me is the environmental impact of flying around. Just as I never believed that we would have a paperless office, for our jet lag. How would you characterize your contributions to free culture? I think it’s mostly incremental. I think there is very little we actually do all by ourselves, and I hate saying, “I did this” or “I did that.” I think that in most cases, focusing on individual contributions or achievements undervalues the importance of everyone else involved. Having said that, I think my main contribution is probably in supporting Creative Commons as a fan, board member, chairman of the board and now CEO. I think CC has a significant role, and helping to keep it on track Free Culture. Specifically, I think that trying to keep an international focus and a balance between business and the non-business elements of the movement is essential. My job is to keep that focus and maintain that balance. Culture movement, and helps me see things from that perspective as well. However, I believe in emergent democracy and the importance of trying to celebrate the community more than the heroes. Of course, I’m a huge fan of Larry’s and I have great respect for the leaders of our movement. But participants who aren’t so well known and who are essential to moving everything forward. Personally, I don’t think it’s ultimately meaningful to talk about one individual’s personal contribution to any movement. The real meaning is\n\n<question>:\nWhich statement would the author most likely support?\n\n<options>:\nA Humans want people to be viewed the way they view themselves\nB Humans are too trusting in anything aligned with 'freedom' and 'creativity'\nC Humans are easily manipulated by powerful corporations\nD Humans have a proclivity toward a negativity bias\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Sure I'm a Nilly, and I've died seven times, always in the blackness of the outer reaches, and I'm not alone, although there aren't very many of us, never were. Weblor I Weblor I before with a thousand families, reached the planet with less than five hundred surviving colonists. Upon the return to Earth a year later, the crew's report of suffering and chaos during the year's outgoing voyage the halfway point. It ended with passengers engaging in open warfare with each other and the crew. Sessions was lucky to escape with his Ellason nodded. \"The ship disappeared.\" \"Yes. We gave control to the colonists.\" \"Assuming no accident in space,\" Phipps said, \"it was a wrong decision. They probably took over the ship.\" Weblor II .\" Being a Nilly is important, probably as important as running the ship, and I think it is this thought that keeps us satisfied, willing to be what we are. Weblor II Weblor I Antheon as it circled Earth, shuttling its cargo and passengers to the was caught and whisked away. Ellason left the captain's quarters with an odd taste in his mouth. Now the traditions of thousands of years, and as these planet-orginated rules fall away, the floundering group seeks a new control, for they are humanity adrift, rudderless, for whom the stars are no longer day out. In Ellason's mind the incident, though insignificant from the which went to all hands and passengers. In the Bulletin the captain it was to the ship's discredit that someone with criminal tendencies should have been permitted aboard. Ellason had to smile at that. What did Captain Branson think of those colonists who killed each other on the Weblor I ? They had passed stability tests too. This, then, was what happened when you took three thousand strangers and stuck them in a can for a year. for? I could only take along so much baggage and I threw out some Interstellar asked me to go along. But what use am I now? Where am On the forty-fifth day June Failright, the young wife of one of the passenger meteorologists, ran screaming down one of the long corridors her compartment while her husband was in the ship's library. She was taken to one of the ship's doctors, who confirmed it. She said the culprit was a husky man wearing a red rubber mask, and though her description of what he had done did not appear in the story no crewmen to spare for police duty.\" The group left in a surly mood. and further incidents occur. What then? It soon becomes the crew's investigation, if nothing else than to prove the crew guiltless. Why couldn't Branson see the wisdom of setting an example for the colonists? As a Nilly, I knew that space breeds hate. There is a seed of malevolence in every man. It sometimes blossoms out among the stars. On the Weblor II day. Palugger, a Fourth Quadrant passenger, had complained of feeling in a red mask was seen hurrying from the hospital area, and a staff investigation revealed that Palugger had died trying to prevent the in the belt and had died of a severe beating. He said that since the incident occurred in the staff section of the ship, his crew would be forced to submit to a thorough inspection in an effort to find the \"How can we protect ourselves without stunners?\" one colonist called out. everyone returned to his compartment, and the larger search was conducted. It took twenty hours. The captain reported that his search had been equally fruitless. trial for him when he was caught. It was all recorded in the newsletter and by Keith Ellason. We Nillys know about hate and about violence. We know too that where there is hate there is violence, and where there is violence there is death. During sleep time on the seventy-ninth day Barbara Stoneman, awakened by a strange sound, sat up in the bed of her compartment to find a corridor. The flight of the man was witnessed by many, and several men escaped. time the passengers seemed relaxed. appeared one day in the Bulletin newsletter. The colonists settled down to living out the rest of the voyage until the landing on Antheon. But on the 170th day calamity struck. Red Mask appropriated one of the stunners, made his way down one whole corridor section in Quadrant Two, put occupants to sleep as he went, taking many articles of value and leaving disorder behind. The council issued orders that all passengers from now on would be make so much as a move.\" \"And what will you do when you get him?\" \"Kill him,\" Tilbury said, licking his lips, his eyes glowing more fiercely than ever. \"Without a trial?\" named Terryl Placer on the 201st day. The criminal was carried to the assembly room surrounded by guards, for he surely would have been mauled, if not killed, by angry colonists who crowded around. In the assembly hall his mask was whipped off. The crowd gasped. Nobody knew him. \"Well, Critten,\" Branson roared at him, \"what have you got to say for yourself?\" Lemuel Tarper, who was appointed prosecutor, asked him, \"What did you do with the loot, Critten?\" Critten looked him square in the eye and said, \"I threw it out one of the escape chutes. Does that answer your question?\" \"Threw it away?\" Tarper and the crowd were incredulous. \"Sure,\" Critten said. \"You colonists got the easy life as passengers, just sitting around. I had to work my head off keeping records for you lazy bastards.\" The verdict was, of course, death. They executed Harrel Critten on the morning of the 270th day with by a great crowd in the assembly hall. A detail from the ship's crew disposed of his body through a chute. It was all duly recorded in Keith Ellason's notebooks. Dying is easy for a Nilly. Especially if it's arranged for beforehand, which it always is. The Weblor II was only one day out of orbit when Captain Branson sent lives.\" \"Let me get this straight. Interstellar thought that it was idleness and boredom that caused the killings on the Weblor I , so they had you Critten nodded. \"When great numbers are being transported, they are apt to magnify each little event because so little happens. It was my job to see that they directed none of their venom against each other or the the passengers.\" \"Probably,\" Critten said, \"you are wondering about the execution.\" \"Naturally.\" \"We removed the charges before the guns were used.\" Captain Branson will say they were found somewhere on the ship. You see, I was a liar.\" \"How about that assault on June Failright?\" Critten grinned again. \"She played right into our hands. She ran out into the hall claiming I'd attacked her, which I did not. She was certainly amazed when the ship's physicians agreed with her. Of course Captain Branson told them to do that.\" \"And the murder?\" \"Raymond Palugger died in the hospital all right, but he died from his illness on the operating table. We turned it into an advantage by \"Gave them something to do,\" Branson said. \"Every time things got dull, I livened them up. I got a stunner and robbed along the corridor. That really stirred them. Lucky nobody got hurt during any of it, including that Stoneman woman. I was trying to rob her when she woke up.\" Branson cleared his throat. \"Ah, Ellason about that story. You understand you can't write it, don't you?\" be other ships outward bound.\" Critten sighed. \"And I'll have to be caught again.\" Yes, we're anonymous, nameless, we Nillys, for that's what we call each other, and are a theme, with variations, in the endless stretches of deep space, objects of hatred and contempt, professional heels,\n\n<question>:\nWhat happened to the passengers of the Weblor I?\n\n<options>:\nA No one knows what happened. The frequency of the Weblor I was lost several months after take off.\nB The passengers started warring with each other and the crew.\nC Space pirates boarded the ship and shoved the passengers out of the airlock.\nD The Nilly's killed them in their sleep and ate them.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe saucer was interesting, but where was the delegate? was clear. No one moved DELEGATE from their position. VENUS what the delegate from Venus approached the object only biggest surprise since David when they were yards away did \"We expect a certain amount of decorum from our Washington \"Greetings from Venus,\" it and said nothing. One part of his mind wanted him to play it ship you see is a Venusian Class cagey, to behave the way the newspaper wanted him to behave, all radiation, and is perfectly safe to approach. There is a Again, the meeting room exploded \"Even if that's true, we'll \"It's a box!\" someone said. \"A crate—\" hear about it through the usual drunk to obtain information—well, that's not only indiscreet, Bridges. It's downright will find our delegate within. emissary.\" its gray plastic material giving in readily to the application of their tools. But when it was amazement and consternation. \"I haven't the faintest idea.\" \"Don't kid me, Mr. Conners. Think it's war?\" \"That'll be all, Bridges.\" Delegate,'\" he read aloud. order. A-1, central nervous system up. \"It's an instruction book,\" whole affair, and he seemed more interested in the romantic The Delegate, a handsomely rather than political implications. As he walked beside him, who seemed to find the Venusian \"Where's your decorum?\" instructions as elementary as a simple as the job was, they were obviously impressed by the mechanism they had assembled. It stood impassive until they obeyed the final instruction. blueprint in an Erector set. But sighed. \"What a way to get radioactive.\" It wasn't the newsmen's jibes face of the United Nations it was the But his greatest surprise was So far, the byword had been secrecy. They knew true. The highest echelons of the at the realization—Nikita Khrushchev meeting without benefit of long foreign minister's debate. And the cause of it all, a placid, highly-polished metal robot, was seated blithely at a desk which VENUS. had that effect upon men. Even the confining effect of a mannishly-tailored The robot delegate stood up. her outrageously feminine qualities. suit didn't hide prompt attention. I come as a Delegate from a great neighbor peace is the responsibility of individuals, of nations, and now of worlds, and that each is dependent upon the other. I speak has been created for me, and I come to offer your planet not merely a threat, a promise, or an easy solution—but a challenge.\" The council room stirred. we foresee the day when contact between our planets will be commonplace. cannot last in the face of your progress, so we believe that It's my job. I'd do it again if \"Here, then, is our challenge. Continue your struggle of ideas, compete with each other for the minds of men, fight your bloodless battles, if you know no other means to attain progress. But do all this without unleashing the terrible forces of power now at your command. Once unleashed, these forces may or may not destroy all that you \"What?\" of Venus, promise you this—that on the very day your conflict deteriorates into heedless violence, we will not stand by and let the ugly contagion \"Did I say that?\" Venus will act swiftly, mercilessly, and relentlessly—to destroy your world completely.\" \"It just won't be any use. spread. On that day, we of We'll always have this thing between here came as a messenger of peace. But envision it, men of Earth, as a messenger of war. Unstoppable, inexorable, it may return, bearing a different Delegate from Venus—a Delegate of Death, who speaks not in words, but in the explosion of atoms. Think of thousands of such Delegates, fired from a vantage point far beyond the reach of your retaliation. This is the promise and the challenge that will hang in your night sky from the planet Venus, men of Earth, and see a Goddess of Vengeance, poised to wreak its wrath upon those who betray the peace.\" The Delegate sat down. and said: \"At first, they thought it was of Los Alamos, and the Venus hours after that, the robot delegate, its message delivered, its opened, the Delegate was an exploded what \"But it's not a moon. That's the big point. It's a spaceship.\" what out what to do about it. The only hitch is, Russia doesn't the Delegate speak, something's want to wait that long, and is \"But don't you think he's done good? Don't you think they'll be \"About the Venusians, of \"I'm not worried about that. I think that damn robot did more for peace than anything that's ever come along in this cockeyed world. But still ...\" from Venus impressed by what he said?\" \"A decision about what?\" can land their delegate.\" \"Their what?\" \"Their delegate. They came normal, healthy male usually \"What's the matter?\" does. But in the middle of an \"Wait a minute!\" are their affairs, too. It's kind \"You mean these Venusians \"What asking for a hurry-up summit every country for the past three days. Like I say, they want to or something. The Senator thinks that if we don't agree, they might do something drastic, like blow us all up. It's kind of scary.\" She shivered delicately. \"You're taking it mighty calm,\" he said ironically. \"Well, how else can I take it? I'm not even supposed to know is so careless about—\" She put her fingers to her lips. \"Oh, dear, now you'll really think I'm terrible.\" \"Terrible? I think you're wonderful!\" \"Y-e-s. But you know, you're a massive woman with gray hair and impervious to single stooped figure vigorously an envelope, stamped URGENT. and he blurted out: the Delegate speak. I didn't \"There was something about the Robot's speech that sounded with a grin of triumph. \"This note of yours. Just what and produced a sheet of paper. He unfolded it and read aloud. \"'It's my belief that peace is the responsibility of individuals, of nations, and someday, even of do you think it means?\" \"You know better than I do, His words brought an exclamation by the Delegate from Venus.\" that secrecy is essential, that panic. Since you're the only unauthorized person who knows of it, we have two choices. One of them is to lock you up.\" Jerry swallowed hard. \"The other is perhaps more leakage of the story might cause I thought you knew anything.\" press until such a time as all group that worked in the quiet and secrecy of a University on a fantastic scheme to force the idea of peace into the minds of the world's big shots. Does my correspondents are informed. She was pouting now. \"Well, \"Don't thank me, I'm not doing you any personal \"Well, I dreamt that this group would secretly launch an a marvelous electronic robot radio message to earth from the reached to accept the delegate. Then, when the Robot was assembled, they would speak through it to demand peace for all mankind ...\" \"Jerry, if you do this—\" \"And to think what that terrible planet can do to us!\" \"Oh, I dunno. Venus is also the Goddess of Love.\" around her, and Venus winked after another. As the minutes ticked off, the activity became more frenetic have gained. But we, the scientists became a growl that increased in volume until even the shouting voices could no longer be sight. A loudspeaker blared out an unintelligible order, but its message\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the central irony of the Venusian delegate's message?\n\n<options>:\nA It self destructs in the same way that it promises to devastate Earth's population, if Earth does not fulfill its terms\nB It glorifies war and violence despite the fact that Venus is the goddess of love\nC It's artificial intelligence is undecipherable by the most intelligent scientists from each major country on Earth\nD It uses threatening means in order to achieve a peaceful desired outcome\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWhen Chatterbox invited readers to nominate events, significant deaths, good and bad movies, etc., for 1999--a year likely to get little attention in the coming weeks, as news organizations choose instead to review the entire century or millennium--the response was overwhelming. Chatterbox had promised to publish his official \"1999 In Review\" item before Thanksgiving, but some distant memory of a scruple persuaded him to wait till November was over. Nothing ever happens in December. OK, that's not quite true. Hordes of protesters in Seattle are making the World Trade Organization's meeting there a much more exciting TV story than anyone expected it to be. Reader Dan Crist (who finds Chatterbox's habit of referring to himself in the third person \"rather annoying and less than professional\") points out that Japan bombed Pearl Harbor in Dec. 1941. Also, Chatterbox (moonlighting as \"Today's Papers\" columnist) observed not quite one year ago that the House of Representatives cast its second presidential-impeachment vote in U.S. history on Dec. 19, 1998. (That same news-filled day, the U.S. ended an air war against Iraq and Bob Livingston said he'd decided not to become House speaker after all.) Two months after the impeachment vote, the Senate failed to convict the president--a highly significant event of 1999 that, for some bizarre reason, slipped Chatterbox's mind until several indignant readers wrote in to remind him of it. Here are 20 important things that happened in 1999: 1. Most Hated Celebrity--Ever? The New York Times reported on Nov. 10, 1999, that a new record had been set in the latest Times /CBS poll: [Its] highest negative rating ever scored by a person in the news. The honor went to Reform Party candidate Donald Trump, who managed to make an unfavorable impression upon some 70 percent of those polled. The paper noted that this achievement far eclipsed the last comparably negative rating--the 55 percent score attained by Linda Tripp. Presumably this came as no surprise to Mr. Trump, who, upon announcing the formation of a presidential exploratory committee on Oct. 7, 1999, had cited polls with \"amazing results\"--a remark that was widely misinterpreted at the time. -- Jodie Allen of U.S. News & World Report (and frequent Slate contributor) 2. Most Foolishly Ignored Parts of the World in 1999 3. Worst/Best Films of 1999 Here's my nominee for worst movie of the year (complete category should be: \"Worst Movie of the Year That Assumedly Adult Male Reviewers Slathered Over\"): There's Something About Mary --a pathetically sophomoric, penis-obsessed mess that wouldn't even appeal to Larry Flynt! Oops ... well then, the best of '99 was The Red Violin --lyrical, magical, musical, wonderful! 4. Most Shameless (and Unsuccessful) Attempt To Have It Both Ways in 1999 : Stanley Kubrick (multiple sources) John Kennedy Jr. (multiple sources) Susan Strasberg (anonymous tipster Strasberg played Anne Frank in the original production of the Broadway adaptation, which some people think wasn't Jewish enough) Mrs. Whozit [ Chatterbox interjects : her name was Anne Sheafe Miller], the first person ever to be saved by penicillin (Blair Bolles) Don't forget Woodstock 1999 --the concert of \"peace and love\" that ended in a literal blaze of glory when in an hours-long tribute to the original Woodstock, the mob started ripping down vendor booths and anything else that would burn and piling it onto the bonfires scattered about the scene. [ Chatterbox interjects: Didn't people get assaulted and raped, too?] I'm getting all sentimental just thinking about it. --Susan Hoechstetter 8. A Lunatic Rhapsody for the New York Yankees The Yankees can actually be referred to as the glue that held the century together. Of course, as the 1999 World Series champions, they are a significant \"story of the year.\" However, this one singular achievement must be considered in a broader context. 1999 represented the team's 25th championship of the century. This beats, by one, the most championships any one team won during the century. The Montreal Canadiens have won 23 Stanley Cups. However, the Yankees, an American team, playing in the \"City of the Century\" (so called by me to reflect the amazing growth and transformation of one city during this period), who play the \"National Pastime,\" are truly an amazing story. therefore, they have won 25 of the last 78 years, nearly one in three. This level of sustained excellence is not matched in sports or in any other aspect of society. The 1999 win is possibly the most unique. With free-agency, expansion, and three levels of playoffs, it is much harder to win today than in past years. In fact, by winning three of the last four championships, they are the first team to accomplish this feat during the eras of free-agency and of divisional play. The Sultan of Swat, the Iron Man, the Yankee Clipper, the Mick, and Yogi--these strong, masculine names are synonymous with the team, the sport, and American history. They went hand in hand with two world wars, Superman, and America's superpower status. The 1999 squad does not feature \"a name.\" This team, with its myriad of human-interest stories, its international roster, and no star, is representative of '90s man, male sensitivity, Pax American interests, and the new political paradigm. Chatterbox interjects: Didn't Baltimore Mayor Kurt Schmoke do the same thing 11 years ago? 10. Don't Worry in 1999 The Dalai Lama proclaimed that most important thing in the world is to be happy. --Margaret Taylor 11. The Athletic Bra Seen 'Round the World in 1999 Public interest and media attention to the women's World Cup in soccer. --Tom Horton I nominate as the most under-reported story of the year (and the last few years) the continuing alarmist predictions by foreign-policy and military experts about peacekeeping efforts, which are then proved wrong and immediately forgotten. This year, the obvious one is Kosovo, but the year is also ending with East Timor, where the Aussies and their allies successfully stopped the slaughter with no casualties. These followed Haiti, Bosnia, and Rwanda as places where the West delayed sending in troops because of alarmist predictions. --Jerry Skurnik 14. Barbara Walters Did This One on Her Year-End Special, But It's Still Good Don't forget, Susan Lucci finally won an Emmy . 16. Get Me a New Century, Quick A sitting president was accused of rape. --Ananda Gupta 17. The Most Important Thing of All That Happened in 1999 --Walt Mossberg, \"Personal Technology\" columnist for the Wall Street Journal (and occasional rock-music historian for this column) 18. All Dolled Up and Nowhere To Go in 1999 General Pinochet --Jodie Maurer The Senate rejected the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty , thereby decapitating nuclear-arms control and sending Iraq, Iran, and North Korea the message that the United States won't raise a big stink if they try to join India and Pakistan. The president woke up to this possibility at about the moment it was realized, and started lobbying for passage of the treaty a day after it became too late. 20. Unremarked Natural Disaster in 1999 The Indian Supercyclone is the biggest, this century at least.\n\n<question>:\nWho is the most hated celebrity of 1999?\n\n<options>:\nA Larry Flynt\nB Donald Trump\nC Bob Livingston\nD Linda Tripp\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIt's Time To Keelhaul U-Haul! Like all superheroes worthy of the title, the Shopping Avenger has an Achilles' heel. In the case of the Shopping Avenger, his Achilles' heel is not animal, vegetable, or mineral but something less tangible. An explanation: Last week, the magazine you are currently reading forced the Shopping Avenger at gunpoint to read a series of treacle-filled self-help books, and then to . The Shopping Avenger, who can withstand radiation, extreme heat and cold, hail, bear attacks, and Eyes Wide Shut , almost succumbed to terminal jejuneness after reading these books. Except for one thing: One of the books, The Art of Happiness , which collects and simplifies the Dalai Lama's philosophy, got the Shopping Avenger to thinking. This, in a way, is the Shopping Avenger's Achilles' heel: thinking. Perhaps it is wrong, the Shopping Avenger thought, to complain about the petty insults and inconveniences of life in the materialistic '90s. The Shopping Avenger felt that perhaps he should counsel those who write seeking help to meditate, to accept bad service the way one accepts the change of seasons, and to extend a compassionate hand of forgiveness to those who provide poor customer care. But then the Shopping Avenger sat down, and the feeling passed. The Shopping Avenger does not make light of the Dalai Lama or of the notion that there is more to life than the impatient acquisition of material goods. If the Shopping Avenger were not, for a superhero, extremely nonjudgmental--as opposed to his alter ego, who is considered insufferably judgmental by his alter ego's wife--the Shopping Avenger would tell the occasional correspondent to let go of his petty grievance and get a life. The complaints about U-Haul's nonreservation reservation policy continue to pour in through the electronic mail. One correspondent, B.R., wrote in with this cautionary tale: \"Last weekend, I went to San Francisco to help my brother and his family move into their first house. My brother had reserved a moving truck with U-Haul for the big day. I warned my brother about U-Haul's 'not really a reservation per se' policy that I learned from the Shopping Avenger. He didn't believe such a thing would happen to him, so he didn't act on my warning.\" The Shopping Avenger will undoubtedly return to the sorry state of affairs at U-Haul in the next episode, but now on to this month's airline debacle. Before we begin, though, the Shopping Avenger nearly forgot to announce the winner of last month's contest, in which readers were asked to answer the question, \"What's the difference between pests and airlines?\" This month's airline in the spotlight is Southwest. Loyal readers will recall that last month the Shopping Avenger praised Southwest Airlines for its \"sterling\" customer service. This brought forth a small number of articulate dissensions. The most articulate, and the most troubling, came from M., who wrote, \"Last year, flying from Baltimore to Chicago with my entire family (two really little kids included), we set down at Midway in a rainstorm. And waited for our bags. And waited for bags. And waited for bags.\" An hour later, M. says, the bags showed up, \"soaked through. We took them to baggage services at SW and were faced with the most complicated, unclear, and confusing mechanism for filing a claim we experienced flyers have ever seen.\" When they arrived at their destination, M. and her family made a terrible discovery, \"We discovered that our clothes were soaked through--the top clothes were so wet that the dye had bled through down to the lower levels, destroying lots of other clothes. Obviously, our bags had just been sitting out on the runway in the rain. To this day, I've never heard a thing from SW, despite calls and letters.\" This, of course, is where Shopping Avenger steps in. Shopping Avenger knows that Southwest is different from the average airline, in that it doesn't go out of its way to infuriate its paying customers (see: ), so I expected a quick and generous resolution to M.'s problem. What I got at first, though, was a load of corporate hoo-ha. Harrumph, the Shopping Avenger says. It is a bad hair day at Southwest when its officials defend themselves by comparing their airline to other airlines. I forwarded this message to M., who replied: Things do look bad for Southwest, don't they? The Shopping Avenger sent M.'s response to Rutherford, who e-mailed back saying she thought the Shopping Avenger was asking for \"policy information.\" The Shopping Avenger e-mailed back again, stressing to Rutherford that the Great Court of Consumer Justice would, if this case were brought to trial, undoubtedly find for the plaintiff (the Shopping Avenger serves as prosecutor, judge, and jury in the Great Court of Consumer Justice--defendants are represented by the president of U-Haul), and that Southwest was precipitously close to feeling the sword of retribution at its neck. But then she came through, provisionally, \"Yep, you can be sure if [M.] will call me we will get everything squared away. I'm sorry it's taken this long for her to get someone who can help, but we will take care of it from here.\" Stay tuned, shoppers, to hear whether Southwest makes good it promise to compensate M. and apologize to her for her troubles. The story of M. reminds the Shopping Avenger of a central truth of consumer service: It's not the crime, it's the cover-up. Take the case of K., who found himself waiting in vain for Circuit City to repair his television. Televisions break, even 1-year-old televisions, as is the case with K's. But Circuit City, where he bought the television, gave him a terrible runaround. The Shopping Avenger dispatched his sidekick, Tad the Deputy Avenger, to get to the bottom of K.'s story. This is what he found: K. grew concerned, Tad the Deputy Avenger reports, after his television had been in the Circuit City shop for a week. When he called, he was told to \"check back next week.\" When he asked if someone from the store could call him with more information, he was refused. Weeks went by. When K. told one Circuit City employee that he really would like to get his television back, the employee, K. says, asked him, \"Don't you have another television in your house?\" More than a month later--after hours and hours and hours of telephone calls and days missed at work--K. received his television back. Mistakes happen, but not, Tad the Deputy Avenger found out, at Circuit City. The case, K. was told by a Circuit City official, was \"handled perfectly.\" Another official, Morgan Stewart in public relations, assured Deputy Avenger Tad that \"We got to be a big and successful company by treating customers better than the other guy.\" The Shopping Avenger and his loyal sidekick would like to hear from other Circuit City customers: Does Circuit City, in fact, treat its customers better than the other guy? Stay tuned for answers. And next month, a Shopping Avenger clergy special: TWA screws with a Hasidic rabbi's travel plans, leaving the rabbi's wife crying at the airport. Find out if the Shopping Avenger can save TWA from certain heavenly punishment, in the next episode. Got a consumer score you want settled? Send e-mail to shoppingavenger@slate.com.\n\n<question>:\nWhich of these do the Circuit City and UHaul stories have most in common?\n\n<options>:\nA The type of customer reporting the story\nB The Shopping Avenger's response to these cases\nC The types of issues customers were having in each case\nD The tone around the companies' attitudes about their policies\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from visiting her \"stage\" in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands with planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication. The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts' transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches \"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. \"There are two companies here,\" he continued, \" Interstellar Voice and and yet it just crossed. \"Billy-boy,\" she said to me in a strange voice, \"look down there and tell me what you see.\" I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat, another Earth man, and a Martian. Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves! But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way. Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away, they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared. \"What do you make of it?\" I said in a hushed voice. windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite. goggles could not conceal. ahead of us.\" I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said \"Okay\" and dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire \"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet.\" A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long , and through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. \"C'mon in,\" he said, seeing us. \"If you want a look at your friends, here they are.\" He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then coalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me, directly behind them. \"It's Mr. Baker's own invention,\" the operator said. \"An improvement on the visiphone.\" \"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?\" \"Sure.\" The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice entered the room. It stopped abruptly. \"The machine uses a lot of power,\" the operator said, \"and as yet we haven't got much.\" The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing. I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of Antlers Park flashed on the screen. \"Hello,\" he said in his friendly way. \"I see you arrived all right. Is gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in the visiscreen room, I watched him. group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With a shock I saw the likeness of myself I saw Ezra Karn and I saw \"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images. They're Xartal's drawings!\" \"Don't you see,\" the lady continued. \"Everything that Xartal put on paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images.\" The Larynx manager nodded slowly. \"I see,\" he said. \"But why don't the birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?\" \"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and made a greater impression on their brains,\" Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. \"Sorry,\" the operator said. \"I've used too much power already. Have to give the generators a chance to build it up again.\" The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk toward that window. \"Look here,\" he said. part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run. Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: \"Turn it on!\" The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel. I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor doorway between. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power with an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. \"Ultra violet,\" Grannie Annie explained. \"The opposite end of the vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays Interstellar Voice . Antlers Park\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the viviscreen do?\n\n<options>:\nA It plays a recording of something. In this case, it's of Grannie, Xarnal, and Jimmy Baker.\nB It's stationary, and can only be used to view one place and time.\nC It brings up a 3-D image of the person you are looking at and allows you to watch and hear them as if you were there.\nD Like a computer or television screen, it allows you to see another person on the other end.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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1,722 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nHe was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired man and he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, than any man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, a kiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some old friends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey. He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror then perhaps he would talk. Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he had He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through with surprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watching at a window. And perhaps she he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and she in high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago. Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutual support, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. They Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the other arm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the old Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his, down beside him—but she had hesitated. He wasn't being sensitive she had hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him. Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco De in uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another. ran from the room and from the house. He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her in been lying down all the months of the way back. She said, \"Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around and make small talk and pick up just where you left off.\" He was sure then that she had known, and that the beds and the barrier between them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He went to the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket, began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scars Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms would keep them from her until they were gone. Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving Walter Reed Hospital early this morning distasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time, he began to understand that there would be many things, previously beneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed Ralphie had changed all the people he knew had probably changed—because they thought he before. But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance began filtering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the same man who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family and friends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he could communicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First One would again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—a His mother came talkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially with company present—to describe everything and anything that had happened to him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especially with his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had been good-natured They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly, at Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said, before, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quip her left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't move it—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-cool embrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let it the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' Tuesday Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching of while.\" She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusive irritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barely Ralphie said, \"Yeah, Dad.\" Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork and murmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and said Hank looked at Edith Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked at Edith said, \"Hank!\" He said, voice hoarse, \"Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick of the lot of you.\" Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing food down his throat. Mother said, \"Henry dear—\" He didn't answer. She began to cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never said anything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have been the time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something about getting together again soon and \"drop out and see the new development\" and he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him. He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the special She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. She hesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called the Edith said, \"He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an evening want to.\" They answered together that of course they wanted to. But their eyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said he was going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would in all probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and that they shouldn't count on him for normal social life. He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes. But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to a full of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, and clapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so much and Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but he many times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognized him. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was as if he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world. At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but he said, \"I haven't danced with my girl Rhona.\" His tongue was thick, his mind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on her face—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritual Hank said, \"First one dance with my loving wife.\" He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waited she was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time when looked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fence would satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula or another monster from the movies.\" Edith said, \"Oh, Hank, don't, don't!\" didn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone path and entered the house. \"Hank,\" Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, \"I'm so sorry—\" \"There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'll all work out in time.\" That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had since returning. And there was something else what Carlisle had told him, even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did. Edith said, \"Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Please months—slept without dreaming.\" She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he was satisfied. Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories of how they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered and\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Edith greet her husband the way she did when he returned home?\n\n<options>:\nA She was upset that Henry had not been there for their son for some time.\nB She was nervous because she had not seen him in almost a year.\nC In some ways, he was not the man who had left and she was nervous about the change.\nD She had met another man and did not know how to tell Henry about him.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nMore Bang for the Buck A friend of mine offers a theory about why Bill Clinton's poll numbers stayed so high throughout the Lewinsky scandal: The news made it possible for serious-minded people to spend lots of time--at the office and over lunch--talking about semen stains, vaginal insertions, and blow jobs. And the people were grateful. That's probably because they're not getting all that much themselves. A recent University of Chicago survey of 10,000 adults found that Americans are having considerably less sex than was generally thought. Only one American in 20 has sex three times a week. One in five didn't score at all last year. If that's true, many of us could use a little sexual self-improvement. Not me, of course. I have been happily married for 26 years, since the age of 21. Deb and I have what seems to us to be a perfectly fine amorous life, yet everywhere I turn the culture tells me--almost mocks me-- you can do better! What would happen to our sex life then, if Deb (who participated in this story because she loves me and because she has tenure) and I tried for the first time to make something happen to it? And so it was that we found ourselves for the first time ever in a sex-toy store, A Touch of Romance, located near our home in Los Angeles, across the street from a Macy's. The idea behind shops like these is to make obtaining the materials of sexual experimentation as ordinary as purchasing plumbing supplies or housewares. Which sort of works--the only sexual thrill I got from the visit was knowing that Microsoft just bought a cock ring. Choosing it wasn't easy. Most of them came in presized sets of three. I couldn't figure out which would fit right and intuited that try-ons weren't an option. So I opted instead for an adjustable circumference version, a little strip of vinyl with snaps for $11.95. Man, what a rip-off! Unless it works. It doesn't. Back home, I derived a certain depraved buzz in cinching the device on, but that was soon eclipsed. The thing works on the Roach Motel principle--your blood gets in but it can't get out. But then I got to thinking: Under battlefield conditions it doesn't get out anyway. And while I should have been paying more attention to other things, this led to thinking about the old joke with the punch line \"... and right ball go POW.\" My wife hadn't noticed any difference at all. Overall rating, on a scale of 1 to 10: 2 toes curled. A woman I know says women's magazines are the best places in America to find sex tips. She's right--go ahead, just try to find a sewing pattern in Redbook . You're much more likely to land on \"Try phone sex, dirty notes, porn videos, fantasy games and sex in new places. ... Try lingerie and no underwear. ... Try talking dirty and silk scarves. Try anything at all,\" or articles such as \"Eight New Games for the Foreplay Challenged.\" An article in the April Cosmopolitan , \"The Six Best Sex Positions,\" seemed more promising than the Redbook playbook. Each position was accompanied by a succinct write-up and a stick-figure diagram. The position we settled on was \"The Butterfly,\" which we had to read three times to comprehend. The man stands, the woman remains supine on a bed or counter-top with her feet up on his shoulders. The whole idea is to produce a pelvic tilt for better access to the G spot. Instead, we experienced an uncomfortable pretzel feeling that stick figures must be immune to. And in general, Cosmopolitan 's exotic sex positions require the sort of body placement you can't remember in the moment of passion and even if you could, for proper alignment, you still might need mood-killing accessories such as a plumb line and a laser pen. Rating: 3 toes curled. Next we tried those \"Better Sex\" instructional videos advertised in the New York Times Book Review. I ordered Better Sexual Techniques , Advanced Sexual Techniques , Making Sex Fun , and Advanced Oral Sex Techniques (priced about $11.95 each, not including shipping and handling). My wife couldn't bear to watch them We shopped for the food together and cooked together, drinking wine and beer along the way. At one point while I was working on the dessert, I asked my wife how long to beat the heavy cream mixture. \"Till it's stiff--it's an aphrodisiac,\" she said. Preparation took less than an hour, and everything came out perfectly. Eating at our dining room table for the first time ever without guests, we were having fun by candlelight. But the mood was romantic, not erotic. Overall rating: 4 toes curled. That's when we went for the Viagra ($212.50 for 10 doses, which includes a \"consultation\" fee). The drug was prescribed by a doctor, whom I've never met, and ordered from a pharmacy in Miami Beach, Fla., where I've never been. I completed the transaction via the Internet after filling out a cover-their-ass questionnaire in three minutes. We each decided to take one pill, clinked our glasses, and gulped. And then what? It felt awkward sitting in our bedroom, knowing that it could take up to an hour for Viagra to \"work.\" I suggested that we play strip poker, something I'd never done. Deb had never even played poker, so I had to explain the rules. I won in about six hands, auspiciously I thought, with three aces. But we still weren't really in the mood yet. So then I got out the other purchase I'd made at A Touch of Romance--\"Dirty Dice\" ($4.95). One of the two pink cubes is marked with these words instead of dots: \"lips,\" \"above waist,\" \"ear,\" \"breast,\" \"below waist,\" and \"?\". The other cube is labeled \"kiss,\" \"squeeze,\" \"lick,\" \"blow,\" \"suck,\" and \"eat.\" We took turns throwing the dice, but the activities generated seemed forced and arbitrary. Finally, as they say at NASA, there was word from the pad that the launch sequence was initiating. It was pretty much like all other sex, except for a slight lightheadedness. Deb said she noticed a remote tingling sensation. On the plus side, there was no priapism and neither of us experienced disruption of our color vision nor a fatal heart attack, which was nice. Overall rating: 5 toes curled. This is not to say there isn't a way out of this conflict between desire and design. With homage to our potent POTUS, there is, I think, a Third Way that's neither sexual complacency nor standard self-help. If the intrusion of consciousness is the problem, then maybe the answer is to block it out. Sure, you could do this the old-fashioned way: with alcohol and drugs. But then you have all the traditional drawbacks, including diminished physical attractiveness and degraded sexual performance.\n\n<question>:\nWhat was the role of the dice in the broader discussion?\n\n<options>:\nA The dice highlighted the fun of sex games that are easy to partake in\nB The combinations set by the dice did not seem natural and weren't as fun as expected\nC There weren't enough options on the dice for them to be fun to use\nD It was a relief to leave decision making out of the couple's hands for a while\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nElizabeth Dole 1. Top three. Dole needed to get within striking distance of Bush and to seal off the rest of the pack behind her. On Meet the Press , Face the Nation , and Late Edition , she boasted that she had cracked \"the top three.\" Pundits bought the three-winners line, treating Ames as a horse race (\"win, place, and show\") and noting that \"no one's ever won the Republican nomination without finishing in the top three\" at Ames. Newspapers, cramped for space, confined their headlines to Bush, Forbes, and Dole. Though Dole's 14 percent was closer to Bauer's 9 than to Forbes' 21, she earned a \"solid third\" and a place among the leaders by crossing the \"double-digit\" threshold. As Fox News' Carl Cameron put it: \"The other seven candidates could not crack double digits.\" 3. Underdog. In every TV interview, Dole claimed to have been \"outspent by millions of dollars.\" Her spokesman told reporters that \"on a dollar-per-vote basis, Elizabeth Dole trounced George Bush and Steve Forbes.\" Reporters love an underdog. \"From a strict cost-benefit standpoint, the big winner may be Elizabeth Dole,\" concluded Time . 4. Comeback kid. Dismissive coverage of Dole before the straw poll played to her advantage, as everyone marveled at her \"surprisingly\" strong third. \"Dole Revived,\" the Washington Post 's front page proclaimed. On This Week , George Will conceded, \"There had been a lot of very skeptical stories about whether her people would show up. She, therefore, I think, is the biggest winner.\" 1. Race for second. Forbes wants to fast-forward the GOP tournament to a finals bracket: Bush vs. Forbes. To prevent this, Dole needs to create a semifinal playoff--Forbes vs. Dole--to determine who gets to play Bush. Despite Forbes' huge financial advantage, \"we finished close to second,\" Dole told reporters Saturday night. \"This is going to become a two-person race.\" The press agreed. \"Forbes had growing hopes ... that he might upset Bush or finish a close second,\" recalled the Post . Instead, \"he finished closer to Dole than to Bush.\" 2. Experience. Having narrowed the field to three, Dole needs to focus the contest on criteria that favor her. The first of these is political experience, of which Bush has little and Forbes has almost none. On every talk show, Dole vowed \"to demonstrate that the candidate with the most experience is more qualified than the candidates with the most money. ... We're talking about president of the United States.\" 3. Gender. This is the more obvious criterion that distinguishes Dole. She hardly needs to mention it--the media bring it up anyway--but she invokes it subtly, alluding (as she did on two Sunday talk shows) to \"women who drive their daughters halfway across the state to shake my hand, a woman they dare to believe in.\" Newspapers hail Dole's female followers as evidence \"that she can attract new voters to the GOP.\" Gary Bauer Playback 4. Underdog. Bauer couldn't claim to be more strapped than Dole, so he claimed underdog status on the basis of low name recognition, inexperience, and working-class heritage. \"I am running against some big bios ... the son of a former president, the son of a tycoon, and the wife of a senator,\" Bauer argued on Late Edition . \"I have never run for president or office before. And yet here we come in fourth place.\" Newsweek 's David Brooks wrote that Bauer \"overcame his own financial disadvantages\" and joined Dole as the two surviving \"Have-Not candidates.\" Playbook 1. Buchanan will defect. Since Buchanan's combativeness and loyal base make him hard to write off as a candidate, his rivals have persuaded the media at least to write him off as a Republican by inferring that his low score at Ames will prompt him to transfer to the Reform Party. The more Buchanan fends off comparisons to Bauer by emphasizing his protectionism, the more he plays into this scenario. 2. Populism. With Buchanan out of the way, Bauer will go after Forbes. When asked on television about Forbes' claim to represent the right. Bauer cited Forbes' wealth and called himself \"the son of a maintenance man.\" On This Week , George Stephanopoulos agreed that Bauer \"is becoming the populist in the race,\" noting that Bauer's supporters \"love the fact that he was the son of a janitor.\" 3. Conservatism. If Bauer wins the social conservative quarterfinal and the conservative semifinal, he gets to run as the \"Reagan\" candidate against \"Bush-Gore\" moderation on abortion, Hollywood, China, and other hot-button issues. This bracket-by-bracket tournament strategy reduces Bauer's obstacles from three candidates to two. He can target Forbes, knowing that if he prevails, either Bush or Dole will have vanquished the other in the moderate semifinal. Indeed, Dole's success at Ames arguably helps Bauer by giving Bush a semifinal contest. 4. Vote-buying. To undermine the straw poll's authority as an arbiter of his candidacy, McCain called it a \"fund-raiser,\" \"a sham and a joke\" in which campaigns spent \"millions\" to \"buy\" votes. \"My campaign theme is to try to reform the system that is now awash with money and the influence of special interests,\" he argued on Fox News Sunday . Brit Hume's retort--\"that this whole process isn't quite pure enough for you\"--played right into McCain's hands. McCain doesn't need to persuade the media that his reasons for skipping Ames were morally sound. He just needs to persuade them that his reasons were moral rather than political. Playbook 1. Real votes. The vote-buying complaint only gets McCain a bye on the straw poll. To get another bye on February's Iowa caucuses, he'll rely on two other moral arguments. First, he'll claim that caucuses aren't \"real votes.\" \"We'll have real votes in New Hampshire,\" McCain argued on Fox News Sunday . \"That's where real people are motivated to vote.\" On Face the Nation , he suggested that he would focus on \"the genuine balloting process, which takes place in New Hampshire and then South Carolina.\" 3. Experience. The longer McCain stays out of the race without damaging his credibility, the more the field narrows to his advantage. Alexander and Rep. John Kasich, R-Ohio, are already gone. Quayle and Sen. Orrin Hatch, R-Utah, won't be far behind. If the field dwindles to Bush, Forbes, and Bauer, McCain can sell himself as the only experienced officeholder running against Bush. But Dole's third-place finish at Ames, coupled with her victory in the post-Ames spin contest, complicates this plan. So here's how the race shapes up. Bauer will frame it as a populist showdown, chiefly between himself and Forbes. Forbes will frame it as a fight between the establishment, led by Bush, and conservatives, led by himself. Dole will exploit feminism as well as feminine stereotypes, pitching herself as the candidate of change, civility, and moral renewal. And McCain will fortify his war chest while his rivals battle and bleed. Ames has organized the contestants. Let the games begin.\n\n<question>:\nWhat makes Dole different from the other candidates?\n\n<options>:\nA Dole had significant financial backing from the fruit company of the same name\nB She's more conservative than the others\nC She's more sympathetic to the voters because of her upbringing\nD A certain part of her identity might make her sympathetic to the voters in a way that would not work for the other candidates\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIs < A NAME= Tuesday's overpowering show of force by the Nevada gambling aristocracy has had at least one audible effect on the National Gambling Impact Study Commission. Wednesday, even commission Chair Kay Coles James, a gambling skeptic, succumbs to the hideous Vegas euphemism: She begins referring to the \"gaming industry.\" After Tuesday's casino triumphalism, Wednesday is a comedown, eight hours of policy panels on teen gambling, compulsive gambling, gambling regulation, gambling marketing, and gambling credit practices. It is tough slogging, but for the first time I sense that this commission--though divided, underfunded, timid, and without any power beyond exhortation--isn't entirely useless. It may finally settle this question: Is gambling Hollywood or tobacco? Entertainment or vice? The antis, meanwhile, cry that gambling is like cigarettes: unsafe for kids, viciously addictive, deceptively marketed, unhealthy, expensive, and unacceptable unless mightily regulated. Why should the pro-gamblers cooperate with a critical study? Because it provides superb cover for them. It medicalizes the problem of compulsive gambling, blaming it on psychological abnormality rather than industry machination. Likewise, cracking down on compulsives is also politically cost-effective. In exchange for losing a few compulsive gamblers, the casinos will (falsely) appear more concerned with the health of their customers than with profits. \"Gaming\"? \"My goodness, no politician can withstand their resources,\" Focus on the Family's James Dobson, the commission's leading gambling opponent, tells me. The industry's political clout has emasculated the commission, Dobson continues: \"Our report won't be acted on by the president or Congress. They are too heavily influenced by gambling money. Almost all the leaders of Congress are on the dole.\" It has also become obvious that the commission has too many pro-gambling members to produce a report that recommends taxes or other real penalties on the industry. So the commission's two day visit to Gomorrah has been transformed from a charged political event to a kind of victory lap for gaming. Nevada Gov. Bob Miller and the \"gaming visionaries\" have been planning for these hearings for months, hoping to use them to demonstrate the might and sanctity and goodness of the Nevada gambling industry. The MGM Grand, which is run by commission member Terrence Lanni, is itself the first exhibit of the Vegas triumphalists. It is gaudy testimony that consumers, at least, have no problem with this business. The MGM Grand, a k a \"The City of Entertainment,\" has 5,000 rooms--the corridor outside my room is 200 yards long, so long I can't see its end--to feed the endless supply of slot machines, craps tables, and roulette wheels. David Cassidy performs here every night--twice! A few steps outside on the Strip is still more overwhelming evidence that Las Vegas has won the popular vote. New York, New York is just across the street, the $1.6 billion Bellagio is one door down, and a half-scale Eiffel Tower is going up next door. The setting has, as the pro-gambling folks no doubt hoped, stunned some of the gambling opponents. I asked one anti-gambling activist who had never before been to Vegas what she thinks of it. She could only blurt out \"Wow.\" The hearings, too, reinforce the Glorious Las Vegas theme. Frank Fahrenkopf, the industry's top lobbyist (who is paid so much he can afford monogrammed shirt cuffs --I saw them), holds forth cheerfully outside the ballroom, celebrating the electoral triumph of freedom over religious moralist tyranny. Inside, the room is packed with more than 600 people in neon lime green T-shirts that read \"Unions and Gaming: Together for a Better Life.\" They are members of the major casino union, here to cheer on their employers and their union. (Most of them, it must be said, are getting paid to do this.) Chairwoman Kay Coles James, a Christian conservative and skeptic of gambling, opens the hearing by assuring the crowd that the committee is toothless: \"We're not here to take anyone's job. ... We have no power to do anything except make recommendations.\" This sets the mood for most of the day: Vegas is great, so you'd better leave it alone! The local government, by all appearances a wholly owned subsidiary of the casinos, puts on a bravura performance. Gov. Miller opens the show with a 15 minute hymn to Las Vegas. It is the first of many statistical barrages about Nevada's one-ders: No. 1 in job growth, No. 1 in population growth, and No. 1 on planet Earth in per capita Girl Scout troops--and Boy Scout troops! (Pause for an aesthetic observation: I am sitting right behind the witnesses, and after a while I begin to separate them into the Wides and the Narrows. The Wides are men in suits with enormous backs and enormous bellies, men who eat and eat and used to play football. They all testify to their love of gambling. The Narrows are thin and generally disapprove of it. I begin to wonder whether fondness for gambling correlates with general indulgence, and dislike correlates with asceticism, and decide that they probably do.) During the last hour of the day, the public comment period, the union sends a parade of casino employees to the microphone to hallelujah the gaming industry. Housekeepers, cooks, and slot change girls, almost all black or Latina, tell the same story: I was working a dead-end job in another state, \"then I heard about Las Vegas, where there's opportunity!\" I moved here, landed a job at a union casino with high pay, free medical insurance, a pension, and \"now I am buying a house.\" The stories are intensely moving, by far the most persuasive tribute to the Strip that I've ever heard. Still, for all the Vegan triumphalism in the air, it's impossible not to be charmed by the chief gambling opponent, the Rev. Tom Grey. Grey is utterly irrepressible. A Vietnam rifleman turned Methodist minister, Grey has spent the last eight years evangelizing against gambling. He founded the National Coalition Against Legalized Gambling, the primary force behind the commission's creation. (Grey, in a rare acknowledgement of defeat, has just renamed it the National Coalition Against Gambling Expansion, tacitly recognizing that gambling is here to stay.) He is a genial motormouth and shameless promoter of the cause. He wears a gigantic \"CasiNO\" button in the casino. He posed for People in a shepherd's robe. He says \"I would do anything short of lighting myself on fire in the Capitol rotunda to stop gambling.\" He is so excitable that I have to yank him out of the way of an oncoming car when he gets too wrapped up in one of his soliloquies.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the overall tone of the passage?\n\n<options>:\nA sympathetic\nB optimistic\nC hopeless\nD vengeful\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
2,392 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nstill there is a grandeur in the very stones that transcends their human sculptors, and it is no wonder to me that many cling tenaciously, and ignorantly, to the old religion. ancient evils, wars, emergencies. through the high grass to stand at his side. Their youthful voices were babbling in excitement. \"Sias,\" they were saying, \"the Maternite's gone.\" Maternite Machine, it appears, has been drunk. The heat rose above the in Maternite. All the Prelife is gone.\" what will happen with no more children?\" \"That is for the priests to say, not I,\" I replied. In moments of emergency, it is wise to speak with caution. That is, I suppose so. I have never before been in a real emergency. A man my age does not hurry in the heat of the midday sun—maddugs nenglishmin go out in the midday sun, as the ancients say, although I often wonder why—but Xeon and Melia ran all the way down to the city. They are of an age to enter manhood, and have all the energy such young men do. As we entered the city, we were surrounded by confusion and consternation. And can the simple people be blamed? They were aware that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening indeed, an emergency. For a machine had failed! Not in the memory of the eldest among us has a machine failed. They were created so long ago, indeed, that the ignorant believe them to have been constructed by the gods themselves. And never, so far negligent. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity. I hastened to the City Hall and found the Conclave assembled, waiting impelled to make speeches, and one must not be disrespectful. Prayers and supplications were offered to the gods, priests were sent to sacrifice, and finally, as the light of the sun was falling between the pillars, the High Priest of the Maternite Machine was heard. He rambled through the customary opening remarks and then, continually smoothing his white beard—of which he is excessively proud—approached the crux of the matter and the Conclave finally heard the facts it had assembled to hear. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Conclave had departed for home and supper. Yet perhaps it is for the best, for those left were the most earnest and intelligent. \"I would not bore you,\" he said, \"with details of which only the gods an easy matter for the Maternite Machine to add more and more assuring us, as has always been, a continuous source of Prelife to be born by the Generating Machine as children. The machines bear the exact number of children each year to balance the number of us whom the gods claim. Such it has always been from time immemorial.\" A murmur of assent and approval of these virtuous words whispered around the Hall. Indeed, I might call it an emergency. For the M-Maternite Machine has actually failed.\" Cries of \"Treason\" sprang up, and I fear it might have gone hard for \"That is not the worst,\" he cried, as if in defiance. \"All the Prelife has been dried up. It will not function. There is no more. And there will be no more children!\" At this I feared the Conclave was about to riot. It is at such times that I most revere the wisdom of the ancients, who decreed seventy years the minimum age for a member of the Conclave. They shouted and began to beat their fists, but for how long can a man of seventy years roar like a youngster? They quieted, breathing heavily, and I asked, \"Is there no way, then, to produce more Prelife in order that the \"As I have said,\" he replied, \"give the machines but a bit of Prelife and they will produce more. But take away that least bit, and they are helpless.\" Such heresy could have brought a sad end to the priest had not the Conclave been so exhausted by the events of the day. We leaned back to think. and yet it came from somewhere.\" \"Riddles are not called for,\" I answered severely. \"Are not riddles often the beginning of knowledge?\" he asked, in that irritating dumber-than-thou attitude of his. \"Must there not, long ago, have been a source of Prelife: a source now forgotten? And may it not do—\" The heads of the Conclave were turning to me, quizzically. I \"May it not be,\" Rocsates put in, \"that these animals had no machines to such creatures. And indeed, if they had Maternite Machines, why then says there was a time before the machines, and before the Maternite from within their own bodies?\" At this two members of the Conclave fell immediately into a faint, and I would gladly have joined them. I hoped that the youngsters, Xeon and Melia, had not heard, but as I turned they were listening most attentively to Rocsates, who, amid cries of \"Heresy\" and \"Treason\", \"I should like to ask the Conclave for permission to search the ancient and so delicate, that they are kept in an air-tight tomb lest, being handled, they be destroyed and all knowledge within them lost. Several weeks elapsed before Rocsates requested that the Conclave meet. I called the meeting at dawn and so it was yet early in the afternoon your excretory system is not so mechanically dextrous as ours. And, you seems to have been so simple that there was once a problem of over-population.\" Order was lost among the Conclave as each man turned to speak to his neighbor, and for some time I could not restore order. I realized that something had to be done to save Rocsates before the outrage of the assembled overwhelmed him. such there was, I was hopeful of dismissing the entire affair with with Melia were at the Conclave without permission, shouted, \"Perhaps a pleasure that the Conclave ruled it to be a sin? And therefore the machines were necessary!\" At this impudence the Conclave dissolved in an uproar, and I was beyond they cannot do until they meet again. I needed a sufficient excuse to call a meeting of the Conclave, desired audience, I immediately proclaimed a meeting of the Conclave to be held the next day at dawn, and so that night slept well. The Conclave had come to order and formalities had been initiated when Rocsates entered and took his place. He clutched under one shoulder formalities were over. I intended to speak for Xeon, but Rocsates was on his feet and I gave way. Life.' It seems to be some sort of a do-it-yourself pamphlet.\" He When he finished the Conclave sat in horrified silence. His words, to move. I cleared my throat. \"Shall not these organs which you mention have atrophied by now? With no use throughout all these generations, will they not have evolved into nothingness?\" \"I do not think so,\" Rocsates replied after a while. \"What to us is an eon, to evolution is but an instant. And then the swelling of the breasts, I believe, proves that there is still reproductive activity in such horror?\" replied. \"The She, of course, must be one with the swelling of the I voiced my assent, and the entire Conclave adjourned to the fields. It was nearly dark when we walked home, Rocsates and I, arm in arm. It had been a horrible day. The inhuman indignity, the cries— \"They may indeed have succeeded,\" Rocsates replied. \"There is mentioned a time lapse which is necessary. The child does not appear immediately.\" \"It doesn't matter,\" I said disconsolately. \"Who could ask them to go through such an ordeal again?\" I watched them turn and wander off together under the stars. My heart has a warmth in it, and I no longer fear for the future of our race when our young people can show such nobility and sacrifice.\n\n<question>:\nIn describing the Conclave's reaction to the Maternite emergency, the author is making a comparison to:\n\n<options>:\nA how authoritarian governments, though less humane, are often more effective in executing policies\nB how modern leaders revert to ceremony and argument instead of problem-solving\nC how the filibuster prevents governments from making real progress for its people\nD how young members and elder members of governments typically reach an impasse\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
2,247 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nObstetrics for beginners It's my first go at delivering a baby by caesarean section – and the foetal head is impacted, jammed in its mother's pelvis. To be honest I'm struggling. Incisions have been made in the lower part of the mother's abdomen and womb. I've pushed my gloved hand inside and managed to slide my fingers between the baby's head and the surrounding uterine tissue. But it's difficult. The baby is tightly wedged in. I've had to push hard to get my hand to the far side of its head, and even though I'm now cupping and grasping it in the approved manner, I can't seem to pull it out. Dare I grip its head more firmly? Dare I pull harder? The baby's mother – she's called Debra – remains impassive throughout these agonised fumblings. Her face reveals nothing of what she may be feeling. But then Debra has no feelings. Indeed she has no face…So you can stop worrying. Debra – Desperate Debra to use her full trade name – is a simulator designed to help doctors practise their skill at dealing with impacted foetuses: babies that get stuck trying to exit the womb by the normal route. She comprises the lower two thirds (ie from the mid-chest region downwards) of a life-sized but limbless female torso made of flesh-coloured silicone rubber. She comes with a vulva, a pre-cut incision in her abdomen and, most importantly, a uterus containing a foetal head that should, in the normal way of things, be free to emerge between her legs. But this fetus is going nowhere until an obstetrician – or in this case me – can successfully grasp and pull it out. The clever and sophisticated simulator I'm playing with started life as a lash-up in an obstetrician's home workshop: a Heath Robinson-style contraption barely recognisable as a model of the human body. But it wasn't at that stage intended as a simulator for training medical staff. Its sole purpose was to test the effectiveness of a novel device called a Tydeman tube. Paradoxically, although the testing equipment, Debra, is now commercially available, the device it was intended to test has yet to reach the market. but with a good outcome. Although the Tydeman tube is still in gestation, Desperate Debra herself is now thriving. To understand the desperation of Debra and how the Tydeman tube might help to relieve it requires a brief foray into basic obstetric knowhow. Evolution has endowed us with heads proportionally so large that even when labour runs according to plan, the delivery process involves a bit of a squeeze. For the baby's head to get stuck on the way out may not be usual, but it's by no means a rarity. The standard response is to perform a caesarean section. Every year some 160,000 babies are born in the UK this way, with almost two thirds of them classified as emergencies. One audit has suggested that roughly 8,000 babies get stuck and have to be delivered by caesarean at a stage when their mothers are fully dilated. \"Some of the babies will be so close to coming out by the normal route,\" says Tydeman, \"that it's then difficult to get them back up and remove them through the hole in the woman's tummy.\" Which women are most at risk of this setback seems to be largely unpredictable. \"We just observe that it happens… It's been discussed in the medical literature since the 1940s, but until 10 years ago, and throughout my training and most of my life as a consultant, it wasn't really talked about.\" which suggests requests for push-ups during unplanned caesareans are far from uncommon. The Tydeman tube is a gadget intended to make this manoeuvre safer and more effective. Creativity and innovation have many unlikely sources. What seems to have inspired Tydeman to develop his device was the characteristic sound of a Wellington boot being pulled free of wet, muddy ground: a slurpy, sucking, gurgling noise. When an impacted foetal head is pulled free of the uterus it's often accompanied by a similar sucking noise, the result of air rushing in between the obstetrician's fingers to fill the space vacated. \"What occurred to me years ago was that if the air can't get in, why not put a tube up into the vagina so that it can get in from below the baby's head.\" From time to time, if he felt he felt the baby might stick, Tydeman would slip a length of sterile silicone tubing through the woman's vagina and up into the womb next to the baby's head. Allowing air in by this route would release any suction forces tending to hold it where it was. Tydeman didn't do much with the idea until 10 years ago when one trainee, who was experiencing real difficulty getting heads out, prompted him to think again about the problem. Around the same time, he met professor of obstetrics Andrew Shennan and consultant midwife Annette Briley, both of the Women's Health Academic Centre at St Thomas's hospital. Between them they came up with a device – the Tydeman tube – to make pushing on the foetus more controlled while simultaneously releasing any vacuum that might be holding it in place. The instrument is made up of a rigid plastic tube opening into a softer silicone cup. Pressure to the foetal head is applied using four pads projecting forward from the cup's interior. Holding the device by the tube, the user places the cup against the part of the head exposed through the dilated cervix, and presses. This pushes the baby back up into the uterus while releasing any suction pressure that may have been holding it, so allowing the obstetrician to extract it more easily. Because pressure is distributed equally between the four pads with a greater combined surface area than that of a user's fingertips, the risk of inadvertent damage is minimised. The team found some money to employ a product designer who used computer-aided design technology and 3D printing to make a prototype. \"We were at the point of getting one made in silicone,\" says Tydeman, \"when we realised that before we started experimenting on women we really ought to test it on a simulator.\" No such simulator existed – so he decided to make one himself. That Tydeman was able to do this comes as no great surprise once you've glanced at his website. His career may be rooted in medicine but his interests encompass sculpture, furniture making and much else. He works in wood, glass, metals and plastic. \"I've got a big workshop with a lathe and a forge,\" he says. \"I make stuff. I always have, ever since I was a child. My dad was a woodwork teacher, my mum was very creative with fabric.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the Tydeman tube do?\n\n<options>:\nA The Tydeman tube is placed in the uterus near the baby's head. The tube opens into a soft silicone cup, which is placed on the part of the head that is exposed through the cervix. Pushing air in through the tube releases suction forces that may be holding the baby in place.\nB The Tydeman tube is placed in the uterus near the baby's head. The doctor can inflate or deflate the tube as necessary to help ease the baby out of the birth canal.\nC The Tydeman tube is placed in the uterus near the baby's head. The tube opens into a soft silicone cup, which is placed on the part of the head that is exposed through the cervix. Pulling air out through the tube releases suction forces that may be holding the baby in place.\nD The Tydeman tube is placed in the uterus near the baby's head. Pushing air in to inflate the tube keeps the umbilical cord from closing around the baby's neck.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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855 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nNo doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order! When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beaten had an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtown wife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone. What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumed place looked wife-deserted. when I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almost While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I was able to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the size of an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight, During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase \"I'm just spitballing\" eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite, \"The whole ball of wax,\" twelve times. However, my story had been other hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, and notes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticed their wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinking about this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn, usually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded like an incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized that him, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and the it. Those guys didn't believe it. Every round normal, nothing unusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sort my deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time, somebody else has four aces....\" At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles in what must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over the top of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto the tile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been from point where I was about to put down the word \"agurgling,\" I decided it was too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letter This was absolutely not my day. \"Well,\" McGill said, \"nothing you've told me is impossible or supernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds against what I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely, and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view that must have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. \"Do you think they'll each have the same date, perhaps?\" \"Did you accumulate all that change today?\" \"No. During the week.\" there are two great apparently opposite principles governing the Universe—random and design. The sands on the beach are an example of random distribution and life is an example of design. The motions of the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are so many of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law of Thermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the other hand, seems not to depend on probability at all actually, it goes against it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidental manifestation.\" \"Do you mean,\" I asked in some confusion, \"that some form of life is He shook his head. \"No. All I mean is that improbable things usually have improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken, I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of the \"I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left.\" \"Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?\" electrical storm. Something has it in for me!\" McGill grinned. \"Don't be superstitious. And especially don't be anthropomorphic.\" \"Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life.\" \"On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions are being rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's a frowning look. I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off. \"Let's go out and eat,\" I said, \"There's not a damn thing in the kitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee.\" on around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it. They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seen replaced by looks of suspicion and then determination. Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellas ladies seemed not to be. \"And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it?\" said her adversary. I all right! \"Of course I'm all right. But why....\" He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she was \"In other words, you think it's something organic?\" \"Well,\" McGill said, \"I'm trying to think of anything else it might be. I'm not doing so well,\" he confessed. \"But so far as I can see,\" Molly answered, \"it's mere probability, and without any over-all pattern.\" feel all right, darling?\" she asked me. I nodded brightly. \"You'll think this silly of me,\" she went on to McGill, \"but why isn't it something like an overactive poltergeist?\" \"Pure concept,\" he said. \"No genuine evidence.\" \"Magnetism?\" \"Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren't all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece of \"Only an analogy,\" said McGill. \"A crystal resembles life in that it has a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agree this—thing—has no discernible shape and motion it does not convert what it feeds on it merely rearranges it into a non-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions and Molly frowned. \"Then what is it? What's it made of?\" the atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears to be forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speck of sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus of crystallization.\" \"Sounds like the pearl in an oyster,\" Molly said, and gave me an impertinent look. \"Why,\" I asked McGill, \"did you say the coins couldn't have the same date? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.\" \"Because I don't think this thing got going before today and require retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book. \"I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister,\" he said with strong disapproval. \"Certainly not,\" I said. \"Is it broken?\" \"Not exactly broken \"You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced the receiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open.\" so pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry. some mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?\" next table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant green evening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiter returned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: cold cuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfait for the fat lady. I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar salt seemed to have been used instead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, and made faces. expression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out a pick, his face pink with exasperation. is a crystal, I thought to myself. the air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I made was outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is implied by having an \"absentee-wife look\"?\n\n<options>:\nA It is hypermasculine\nB It is sophisticated\nC It is disheveled\nD It is malodorous\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
2,017 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\ntomorrow on what they had eaten today! Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls, men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It's In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearing seals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers, celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. The only as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmen are called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the history—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilis to the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral with The Pequod's concentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for the skies, a decline set in. from aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to the groundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes. the in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We think of the Sale . The Robert Bailey. smell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in a hundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quite wore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule of oxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by the end of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with the guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder. Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victim It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, \"Bailey, cuisine and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched our algaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it was Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the taste \"Doc, do you like Winkelmann?\" the Cook asked me. \"Not much,\" I said. \"I suspect that the finest gift our Captain can give his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've got to live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship.\" \"His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey,\" I said. \"He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers in my time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none.\" Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of rye The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon the burnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can only Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silently \"Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me?\" Bailey pleaded. Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. \"Yes, sir. But I really with the \"Yes, sir,\" Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the British followed him. \"Captain,\" I said, \"you're driving Bailey too hard. mother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make him \"Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when we Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the elliptical by that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain at cheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary genius acidly called in question again. I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to go turkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacy genuinely dairy smell. \"Splendid, Bailey,\" I said. student. That will be all, Bailey.\" Bailey they were in addition gratified that the battle between their Captain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embark on an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their last few days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and many memories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men had ration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds of books, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to help him while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for a fact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case of Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cards interested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability alien to his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'd exercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowance to the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram. Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'd \"Yes, Sir,\" Bailey said. \"Well, I squeezed the \"Remarkable, Bailey,\" I said. too bad, Belly-Robber,\" he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbed \"Yes, Sir?\" Bailey asked. the cap. \"Ketchup,\" he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey's \"... Sir,\" Bailey added. \"That's better,\" Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He said meditatively, \"Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I have \"But, Sir....\" Bailey began. \"Watch your noun,\" Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. \"Your adjectives are \"Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you,\" I said. \"The other officers and the men have been more than satisfied with his work.\" \"That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds,\" Winkelmann said. Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered him therapy, Bailey,\" I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throat After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. \"Sorry, Doc,\" he said. \"Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey,\" I said. \"You've worked your fingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're not appreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A year from now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start that restaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman.\" \"I hate him,\" Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. He reached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can be an apt confederate of nature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep it and tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey, Bailey nodded and smiled. \"Thank you, Sir,\" he said. I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses were the decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He served of canned beer being church-keyed. \"He's done it, Doc!\" one of the \"The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks,\" the crewman said. warming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three of limits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in the galley door. I gestured for him to join me. \"You've done it, Bailey,\" .\" \"Thanks, Doc,\" Bailey said. I smiled and took another bite. \"You may not realize it, Bailey Captain may be a hard man, Bailey Bailey stood up. \"Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor?\" he asked. spearing another piece of my artificial steak. \"Bailey, I'm afraid I'll Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto my\n\n<question>:\nWhich is the best description of the relationship between the Doc and Bailey?\n\n<options>:\nA They are friendly but butt heads a little bit with respect to others on the ship\nB The Doc expects to be waited on by Bailey\nC They don't interact at all, it's a very superficial relationship\nD They are old friends and like to go for a drink together\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
1,955 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe saucer was interesting, but where was the delegate? The DELEGATE FROM VENUS was clear. No one moved from their position. Everybody was waiting to see what the delegate from Venus looked like. And all they got for their patience was the biggest surprise since David clobbered Goliath. \" \"Greetings from Venus,\" it ship you see is a Venusian Class newspaper wanted him to behave, for one-passenger. It is clear of all radiation, and is perfectly safe to approach. There is a to protect the cozy Washington assignment he had waited \"It just seemed strange, all these exchanges of couriers in the past two days. I couldn't A door slid open. \"It's a box!\" someone said. \"A crate—\" \"Colligan! Moore! Schaffer! Lend a hand here—\" A trio came forward and hoisted the crate out of the ship. Then the voice spoke again Jerry deduced that it must have been activated by the decreased load of the ship. \"Please open the crate. You will find our delegate within. We trust you will treat him with the courtesy of an official emissary.\" They set to work on the crate, its gray plastic material giving their tools. But when it was opened, they stood aside in amazement and consternation. There were a variety of metal pieces packed within, protected by a filmy packing material. \"Wait a minute,\" the general speak to you again!\" said. \"Here's a book—\" The reporter closed the door \"'Instructions for assembling Delegate,'\" he read aloud. \"'First, remove all parts and arrange them in the following order. A-1, central nervous system behind him, and then strolled out of the building into the sunlight. housing. A-2 ...'\" He looked up. \"It's an instruction book,\" build the damn thing.\" The Delegate, a handsomely constructed robot almost eight feet tall, was pieced together some three hours later, by a who seemed to find the Venusian instructions as elementary as a blueprint in an Erector set. But simple as the job was, they were obviously impressed by the mechanism they had assembled. It stood impassive until they obeyed the final instruction. escort me to the meeting place ...\" It wasn't until three days after the landing that Jerry Bridges saw the Delegate again. Along with a dozen assorted in the rear and ate his meal in sullen silence. It wasn't the newsmen's jibes that bothered him it was the But his greatest surprise was and said: So far, the byword had been secrecy. They knew \"At first, they thought it was foreign minister's debate. And the cause of it all, a placid, highly-polished metal robot, was bore the designation: VENUS. The robot delegate stood up. \"Gentlemen,\" it said into the microphone, and the great men at the council tables strained to hear the translator's version Delegate from a great neighbor planet, in the interests of peace last night.\" \"Look, Greta—\" Wham! out. He ran after her, the restaurant proprietor shouting about the unpaid bill. It took a rapid merely a threat, a promise, or an easy solution—but a challenge.\" reporter , damn it. It's my job. I'd do it again if without unleashing the terrible forces of power now at your command. Once unleashed, these forces may or of Venus, promise you this—that \"Did I say that?\" \"It just won't be any use. Venus will act swiftly, mercilessly, here came as a messenger of peace. But envision it, men of Earth, as a messenger of war. Unstoppable, inexorable, it may return, bearing a different Delegate from Venus—a Delegate of Death, who speaks not in words, but in the explosion of atoms. Think of thousands of such Delegates, fired from a vantage point far beyond the reach of \"Greta!\" \"But if you print one again.\" word the planet Venus, men of Earth, of it, Jerry Bridges, I'll never poised to wreak its wrath upon those who betray the peace.\" The Delegate sat down. Four days later, a mysterious explosion rocked the quiet sands of Los Alamos, and the Venus spacecraft was no more. Two hours after that, the robot delegate, its message delivered, its mission fulfilled, requested to be locked inside a bombproof chamber. When the door was opened, the Delegate was an exploded ruin. The news flashed with lightning speed over the world, and Jerry Bridges' eyewitness accounts and nobody could figure out in Washington. They were in his apartment, and it was the first for about three days, and they're thinking of calling a plenary session of the UN just to figure \"It's not that,\" Jerry said moodily. \"But ever since I heard the Delegate speak, something's been nagging me.\" \"But don't you think he's done \"About the Venusians, of from Venus they're people—want to know if they can land their delegate.\" \"Their what?\" \"Their delegate. They came here for some kind of conference, I guess. They know about embrace, he cried out: \"Wait a minute!\" \"What's the matter?\" and Jerry responded the way a normal, healthy male usually does. But in the middle of an \"You mean these Venusians last chance to change his mind, and then left. calm,\" he said ironically. \"Well, how else can I take it? I'm not even supposed to know is so careless about—\" She put her fingers to her lips. \"Oh, dear, now you'll really think I'm terrible.\" \"Terrible? I think you're wonderful!\" \"And you promise not to print it?\" to say: \"It must be something new since I was here. Where is this place?\" can't deliver any messages.\" erasing a blackboard. He turned when the door opened. If the it with his next batch of mail.\" \"When will that be?\" \"In an hour. He's in a terribly been bothering me. It bothered me from the moment I heard the Delegate speak. I didn't know what it was until last night, when I dug out my old letters, his own envelope atop it. She came out of the press secretary's office two minutes by the waiting reporters with a grin of triumph. Jerry, and snapped: \"This note of yours. Just what do you think it means?\" isn't it, Professor? These very words were spoken by the Delegate from Venus.\" \"A coincidence—\" \"Is it? But I also remember that secrecy is essential, that leakage of the story might cause panic. Since you're the only unauthorized person who knows of it, we have two choices. One of them is to lock you up.\" not be allowed to relay the story to the press until such a time as all who were suddenly struck by correspondents are informed. about a group of teachers, scientists, and engineers, a group within the cone, ready to be conference was held this morning, and a decision was reached to accept the delegate. Landing instructions are being assembled. They would beam a radio message to earth from the Then, when the Robot was assembled, they would speak through it to demand peace for given at Los Alamos, and the cone, seemingly as if it originated from their 'spaceship.' in custody.\" The USAF jet transport wasn't the only secrecy-shrouded the rear seat flanked by two Sphinx-like Secret Service men, knew that he was the only passenger with non-official status \"Oh, I dunno. Venus is also but it was well-ordered and unhurried. They had done a good job of keeping the excitement contained. He was allowed to leave the car and stroll unescorted. He shouted. And in a moment, the calm was shattered. At first, he saw nothing. A faint roar was started in the heavens, and it of the light-ringed area. When it hit, a dust cloud obscured it from sight. A loudspeaker blared out an unintelligible order, but its message\n\n<question>:\nIf the following event had not occurred, the Venusian delegate's identify would likely not have been discovered:\n\n<options>:\nA If Jerry had not kept his old notes from college physics\nB If the UN had not called a plenary session\nC If Greta had gotten fired for leaking her source\nD If the authorities had destroyed the delegate after its opening message\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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1,709 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nNiemand by Philip Latham. can between activity on the Sun and various forms of activity on the Earth. LATHAM. What do you mean by activity on the Sun? NIEMAND. Well, a sunspot is a form of solar activity. LATHAM. Just what is a sunspot? NIEMAND. I'm afraid I can't say just what a sunspot is. I can only describe it. A sunspot is a region on the Sun that is cooler than its surroundings. That's why it looks dark. It isn't so hot. Therefore not so bright. LATHAM. Isn't it true that the number of spots on the Sun rises and falls in a cycle of eleven years? NIEMAND. The number of spots on the Sun rises and falls in a cycle of about eleven years. That word NIEMAND. It means you can only approximately predict the future course of sunspot activity. Sunspots are mighty treacherous things. LATHAM. Haven't there been a great many correlations announced between sunspots and various effects on the Earth? NIEMAND. Scores of them. LATHAM. What is your opinion of these correlations? NIEMAND. Pure bosh in most cases. NIEMAND. A few. There is unquestionably a correlation between sunspots and disturbances of the Earth's magnetic field ... radio fade-outs ... auroras ... things like that. NIEMAND. Yes, I suppose some people would say so. NIEMAND. That's true. LATHAM. In what way have your investigations differed from those of others? NIEMAND. I think our biggest advance was the discovery that sunspots themselves are not the direct cause of the disturbances we have been studying on the Earth. It's something like the eruptions in rubeola. Attention is concentrated on the bright red papules because they're such a conspicuous symptom of the disease. Whereas the real cause is an invisible filterable virus. In the solar case it turned out to be these NIEMAND. We had to call them something. Named after the Sun, I suppose. radiation we detect is the actual cause of the disturbing effects observed. NIEMAND. Well, Shakespeare would have been nearer the truth if he had put it the other way around. \"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in ourselves but in our stars\" or better \"in the Sun.\" LATHAM. In the Sun? NIEMAND. That's right, in the Sun. I suppose the oldest problem in the world is the origin of human evil. Philosophers have wrestled with it ever since the days of Job. And like Job they have usually given up in NIEMAND. What reasons? sexes and of all ages. They came from all walks of life. The onset of their attack was invariably sudden and with scarcely any warning. They ten days later the attack would cease as mysteriously as it had come and they would be their old self again. LATHAM. Aren't such attacks characteristic of the stress and strain of NIEMAND. I'm afraid that old stress-and-strain theory has been badly NIEMAND. A doctor must always do something for the patients who come to NIEMAND. It was the beginning. In most instances patients reported the LATHAM. What sort of pattern? NIEMAND. The first thing that struck me was that the attacks all occurred during the daytime, between the hours of about seven in the morning and five in the evening. Then there were these coincidences— NIEMAND. Total strangers miles apart were stricken at almost the same do with it. There is some evidence that mental patients are most disturbed around the time of full moon, but a search of medical literature failed to reveal any connection with the Sun. LATHAM. What did you do? \"simultaneous.\" NIEMAND. We say an attack is simultaneous when one occurred on the east LATHAM. Which was? NIEMAND. In every case of a simultaneous attack the Sun was shining at both New York and California. LATHAM. You mean if it was cloudy— NIEMAND. No, no. The weather had nothing to do with it. I mean the Sun attack soon after sunrise in New York but there would be no corresponding record of an attack in California where it was still dark. Conversely, a person might be stricken late in the afternoon in California without a corresponding attack in New York where the Sun had set. Dr. Hillyard and I had been searching desperately for a clue. We had both noticed that the attacks occurred only during the daylight hours but this had not seemed especially significant. Here we had evidence pointing directly to the source of trouble. It must have some connection with the Sun. LATHAM. That must have had you badly puzzled at first. NIEMAND. It was really quite simple. But if it had not been for solar rotation. That is, if you see a large spot at the center of the Sun's disk today, there is a good chance if it survives that you will see it at the same place twenty-seven days later. But that night LATHAM. Why is that so important? NIEMAND. Because the average period of solar rotation in the sunspot NIEMAND. Middletown was immediately struck by the resemblance between about ten or twelve days. How does that tie-in with the S-Regions? NIEMAND. Very closely. You see it takes about twelve days for an S-Region to pass across the face of the Sun, since the synodic rotation is twenty-seven point three days. NIEMAND. Apparently an S-Region is not particularly effective when it is just coming on or just going off the disk of the Sun. LATHAM. Are the S-Regions associated with sunspots? NIEMAND. They are connected in this way: that sunspot activity and S-Region activity certainly go together. The more sunspots the more violent and intense is the S-Region activity. But there is not a one-to-one correspondence between sunspots and S-Regions. That is, you cannot connect a particular sunspot group with a particular S-Region. The same thing is true of sunspots and magnetic storms. LATHAM. How do you account for this? NIEMAND. We don't account for it. NIEMAND. Middletown says that the radio waves emanating from them are ordinary ray of the magneto-ionic theory. LATHAM. Does this mean that the mental disturbances arise from some form of electromagnetic radiation? NIEMAND. Our latest results indicate that probably this malignant radiation. Then a new region develops in perhaps an entirely different region of the Sun. Sometimes there may be several different S-Regions all going at once. LATHAM. Why were not the S-Regions discovered long ago? NIEMAND. Because the radio exploration of the Sun only began since the end of World War II. LATHAM. How does it happen that you only got patients suffering from enough numbers to attract attention. Also the present sunspot cycle started its rise to maximum about 1954. LATHAM. Is there no way of escaping the S-radiation? NIEMAND. I'm afraid the only sure way is to keep on the unilluminated on the Sun. But a new one may develop at any time. Also, the outlook for a decrease in activity is not very favorable. Sunspot activity continues at a high level and is steadily mounting in violence. The last sunspot cycle had the highest maximum of any since 1780, but the present cycle bids fair to set an all time record. NIEMAND. That is the logical outcome of our investigation. We are resist. LATHAM. Could we not be warned of the presence of an S-Region? NIEMAND. The trouble is they seem to develop at random on the Sun. I'm afraid any warning system would be worse than useless. We would be crying WOLF! all the time. Sun. Keep a tight rein on yourself. For it seems that evil will always be with us ... as long as the Sun shall continue to shine upon this little world.\n\n<question>:\nWhich of these does Dr. Niemand believe to be true about the cause of the attacks?\n\n<options>:\nA The second world war brought out violent tendancies which caused a spread of emotional effects\nB It is the humans' development & use of radio technology that is causing the solar events\nC It is the innate evil of humankind that is causing the emotional disruptions\nD Is it an event on the Sun that causes the attacks\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nBoth these memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, \"Bill\" and Lillian loved each other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by the winged seraphs of heaven. \"We had indeed become one,\" she tells us, freely venting the inflations of her heart. Shawn was managing editor of The New Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter (the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to die for. As for Ross, \"I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing.\" During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems, to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a divorce. Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was \"a man who grieved over all living creatures\" is forgivable hyperbole but later to add that he \"mourned\" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in 1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much. Even Jesus had his limits. Elsewhere, Ross refers to her lover's \"very powerful masculinity,\" only to note on the very next page that \"if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he would come into my office, looking pale.\" She declares that \"Bill was incapable of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word.\" But then she puts the most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: \"Why am I more ghost than man?\" Or: \"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a point of pure light that will reach into eternity.\" (File that under Romantic Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic cliché herself. \"Why can't we just live, just live ?\" she cries in anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of packages. Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight, of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr. Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was \"terminated\" by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: \"He was so careful of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous arguments for hours on end.\" Like Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. \"It is as if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception,\" Janet Flanner tells him once to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: \"His words were so generous that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him.\" Pooter on Perkupp: \"My heart was too full to thank him.\" Mehta: \"I started saying to myself compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting and perfecting!\" Pooter: \"Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve you!\" I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office: His door was always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine. Mehta's writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late '70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si Newhouse (\"We all took fright\") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji. Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. \"I found that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of naivete, insight, and sensitivity,\" Ross says of Brown. \"She, too, 'got it.' \" A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief. That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina Brown's New Yorker \"with new interest\" in the weeks prior to his death. Has Tina Brown betrayed the legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this.\n\n<question>:\nWhat stance does the writer take in regards to Tina Brown.\n\n<options>:\nA A neutral one. The anecdotes offered are too biased to make a judgement either way.\nB They agree with Ross, that Brown carried the same mentality as Shawn.\nC Brown's presence saddened Shawn, as evidence by him no longer reading the magazine.\nD Brown has built on William Shawn's legacy in her own way.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nTHE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER hum of the jamming device. \"You spent a week with Grammond—I can't wait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressing me.\" \"Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've got some answers to go with the questions?\" blame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secret project, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—\" came to the counter and put out his hand. \"How are you, Jimmy? What brings you back to the boondocks?\" \"It won't take long to tell we don't know much yet.\" Tremaine covered the discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on the \"I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you had something ...\" \"Course,\" said Jess, \"there's always Mr. Bram ...\" \"Mr. Bram,\" repeated Tremaine. \"Is he still around? I remember him as a groceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.\" \"Well, what about him?\" \"Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A little touched in the head.\" \"There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember,\" Tremaine \"I've never seen any harm in Bram,\" said Jess. \"But you know how this town is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bram has blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and he But we never did know where he came from.\" \"How long's he lived here in Elsby?\" \"Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all about ancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. She \"You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup all \"I remember Soup,\" Tremaine said. \"He and his bunch used to come in \"Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Him \"What was the idea of that?\" \"Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car was passing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up here for six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tyke they'll make jail age.\" \"Why Bram?\" Tremaine persisted. \"As far as I know, he never had any dealings to speak of with anybody here in town.\" \"Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy,\" Jess chuckled. \"You never knew foot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger to boot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the local bucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funny about any kind of socializing never would go any place at night. But shay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished off her reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It was always did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his front the door. \"What's up, mister?\" the clerk called after him. \"Bram in some kind of trouble?\" \"No. No trouble.\" The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. \"Nineteen-oh-one,\" few head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, has been a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the past months. her desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caught his eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were much alarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning and thunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pine woods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount of timber and threatened the house before burning itself out along The door opened. A tall figure stepped out. \"What's your problem, mister?\" a harsh voice drawled. \"What's the matter? Run out of signal?\" \"What's it to you, mister?\" \"Oh,\" said the cop, \"you're the big shot from Washington.\" He shifted chewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. \"Sure, you can talk to him.\" He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mike The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. \"What's your beef, Tremaine?\" \"I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gave \"You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys use Grammond snorted. \"Okay, Tremaine,\" he said. \"You're the boy with all the answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me call Washington.\" \"Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginia moonshiners.\" \"Don't tell me my job, Tremaine!\" the voice snapped. \"And don't try out your famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation.\" \"Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket.\" Tremaine \"Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.\" \"You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.\" used against him?\" \"There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needs to be in the national interest.\" \"I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means, \"Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolated piece of country? What's his story?\" \"I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.\" \"There is one other thing,\" she said, \"perhaps quite meaningless....\" \"I'd be grateful for any lead.\" \"Bram fears the thunder.\" III As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a car asked: \"Any luck, Jimmy?\" dud, I'm afraid.\" \"Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm getting a little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?\" \"Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.\" As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, \"Jimmy, what's this about State Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone hand from what you were saying to me.\" \"I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead of me. He smells headlines in this he doesn't want to be left out.\" \"Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'm wondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ring working—\" \"We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind this and neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ... and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enough distance. \"I'm getting jumpy,\" said Jess. \"Dern hounddog, I guess.\" A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. \"What the devil's that?\" \"Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.\" he said. \"You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playing tricks?\" \"I think.\" Tremaine said, \"that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a few out, Hull?\" \"He's a foreigner, ain't he?\" the youth shot back. \"Besides, we heard....\" \"What did you hear?\" \"They're lookin for the spies.\" \"Who's looking for spies?\" \"Cops.\" \"Who says so?\" \"And you mentioned Bram?\" The boy darted another look at Tremaine. \"They said they figured the spies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's out that way, ain't he?\" \"Anything else?\"\n\n<question>:\nWho is Soup Gaskin?\n\n<options>:\nA Local librarian\nB Local politician\nC Local police officer\nD Local troublemaker\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nQUEST OF THIG Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach because of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet, however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped across the mouth and neck of the stranger.... Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't dared touch the machine since. For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on a trailer tour of the West that very summer. Since that promise, he could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out of his subconscious. Yet he had to write at least three novelets and a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great adventure—or the trip was off. So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed road. \"What's the trouble?\" Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech wears he might be Thig.\" arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the two inner planets.\" \"You are the commander,\" said Thig. \"But I wish this beast did not wear Terry's body and headed for the laboratory. their love-life, their everything! So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured \"There is nothing more to learn,\" he informed his impassive comrades. \"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly.\" An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running inland to his home. where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that \"Lew, dear,\" Ellen was asking, \"where have you been all day? I called Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for \"Reversed Revolvers\" and three other editors asked for shorts soon.\" \"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn,\" grunted Thig, and gasped. For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this way, he realized—more natural. \"Sorry I was late,\" he said, digging into his pocket for the He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung, \"Uh huh,\" agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages \"I saved some kraut and weiners,\" Ellen said. \"Get washed up while I'm the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?\" \"Mmmmmm,\" came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin. \"Home again,\" whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the chaos of his cool Orthan brain. Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows Hordes? Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had of Ellen and the man he had destroyed. Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. \"We now have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to Ortha at once. \"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient for the purposes of complete liquidation.\" \"But why,\" asked Thig slowly, \"could we not disarm all the natives and \"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then,\" gritted out Thig savagely. \"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet. There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled out into a senseless whinny. Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove. The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of read the last few nervously scrawled lines: Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his. monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days he had spent on his three month trip over Earth. He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that crowded his mind. He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time space. He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that!\n\n<question>:\nHow long did Thig spend traveling with Ellen while posing as Lewis?\n\n<options>:\nA Four weeks\nB Twelve weeks\nC Four months\nD Two weeks\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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2,341 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWhy don’t more authors take advantage of the access revolution to reach more readers? The answer is pretty clear. Authors who share their works in this way aren’t selling them, and even authors with purposes higher than money depend on sales to make a living. Or at least they appreciate sales. Let’s sharpen the question, then, by putting to one side authors who want to sell their work. We can even acknowledge that we’re putting aside the vast majority of authors. OA gains nothing and loses potential allies by blurring these distinctions. This variety reminds us (to paraphrase Tim O’Reilly) that OA doesn’t threaten publishing it only threatens existing publishers who do not adapt. Imagine a tribe of authors who write serious and useful work, and who follow a centuries-old custom of giving it away without charge. I don’t mean a group of rich authors who don’t need money. I mean a group of authors defined by their topics, genres, purposes, incentives, and institutional circumstances, not by their wealth. In fact, very few are wealthy. For now, it doesn’t matter who these authors are, how rare they are, what they write, or why they follow this peculiar custom. It’s enough to know that their employers pay them salaries, freeing them to give away their work, that they write for impact rather than money, and that they score career points when they make the kind of impact they hoped to make. Suppose that selling their work would actually harm their interests by shrinking their audience, reducing their impact, and distorting their professional goals by steering them toward popular topics and away from the specialized questions on which they are experts. Second, scholarly journals generally don’t pay authors for their research articles, which frees this special tribe of authors to consent to OA without losing revenue. This fact distinguishes scholars decisively from musicians and moviemakers, and even from most other kinds of authors. This is why controversies about OA to music and movies don’t carry over to OA for research articles. A price tag is a significant access barrier. Most works with price tags are individually affordable. But when a scholar needs to read or consult hundreds of works for one research project, or when a library must provide access for thousands of faculty and students working on tens of thousands of topics, and when the volume of new work grows explosively every year, price barriers become insurmountable. The resulting access gaps harm authors by limiting their audience and impact, harm readers by limiting what they can retrieve and read, and thereby harm research from both directions. OA removes price barriers. Both facts are critical, but the second is nearly unknown outside the academic world. It’s not a new fact of academic life, arising from a recent economic downturn in the publishing industry. Nor is it a case of corporate exploitation of unworldly academics. Scholarly journals haven’t paid authors for their articles since the first scholarly journals, the Copyright OA isn’t an attempt to deprive royalty-earning authors of income. The OA movement focuses on research articles precisely because they don’t pay royalties. In any case, inside and outside that focus, OA for copyrighted work depends on copyright-holder consent. Hence, royalty-earning authors have nothing to fear but persuasion that the benefits of OA might outweigh the risks to royalties. (More in section 5.3 on OA for books.) can also be a significant access barrier. If you have access to a work for reading but want to translate it into another language, distribute copies to colleagues, copy the text for mining with sophisticated software, or reformat it for reading with new technology, then you generally need the permission of the copyright holder. That makes sense when the author wants to sell the work and when the use you have in mind could undermine sales. But for research articles we’re generally talking about authors from the special tribe who want to share their work as widely as possible. Even these authors, however, tend to transfer their copyrights to intermediaries—publishers—who want to sell their work. As a result, users may be hampered in their research by barriers erected to serve intermediaries rather than authors. In addition, replacing user freedom with permission-seeking harms research authors by limiting the usefulness of their work, harms research readers by limiting the uses they may make of works even when they have access, and thereby harms research from both directions. OA removes these permission barriers. OA isn’t an attempt to reduce authors’ rights over their work. On the contrary, OA depends on author decisions and requires authors to exercise more rights or control over their work than they are allowed to exercise under traditional publishing contracts. One OA strategy is for authors to retain some of the rights they formerly gave publishers, including the right to authorize OA. Another OA strategy is for publishers to permit more uses than they formerly permitted, including permission for authors to make OA copies of their work. By contrast, traditional journal-publishing contracts demand that authors transfer all rights to publishers, and author rights or control cannot sink lower than that. (See chapters We can take this a step further. Scholars can afford to ignore sales because they have salaries and research grants to take the place of royalties. But why do universities pay salaries and why do funding agencies award grants? They do it to advance research and the range of public interests served by research. They don’t do it to earn profits from the results. They are all nonprofit. They certainly don’t do it to make scholarly writings into gifts to enrich publishers, especially when conventional publishers erect access barriers at the expense of research. Universities and funding agencies pay researchers to make their research into gifts to the public in the widest sense. Newcomers to OA often assume that OA helps readers and hurts authors, and that the reader side of the scholarly soul must beg the author side to make the necessary sacrifice. But OA benefits authors as well as readers. Authors want access to readers at least as much as readers want access to authors. All authors want to cultivate a larger audience and greater impact. Authors who work for royalties have reason to compromise and settle for the smaller audience of paying customers. But authors who aren’t paid for their writing have no reason to compromise. It takes nothing away from a disinterested desire to advance knowledge to recognize that scholarly publication is accompanied by a strong interest in impact and career building. The result is a mix of interested and disinterested motives. The reasons to make work OA are essentially the same as the reasons to publish. Authors who make their work OA are always serving others but not always acting from altruism. In fact, the idea that OA depends on author altruism slows down OA progress by hiding the role of author self-interest. OA isn’t an attempt to punish or undermine conventional publishers. OA is an attempt to advance the interests of research, researchers, and research institutions. The goal is constructive, not destructive. If OA does eventually harm toll-access publishers, it will be in the way that personal computers harmed typewriter manufacturers. The harm was not the goal, but a side effect of developing something better. Moreover, OA doesn’t challenge publishers or publishing per se, just one business model for publishing, and it’s far easier for conventional publishers to adapt to OA than for typewriter manufacturers to adapt to computers. In fact, most toll-access publishers are already adapting, by allowing author-initiated OA, providing some OA themselves, or experimenting with OA. (See section 3.1 on green OA and chapter 8 on casualties.)\n\n<question>:\nHow could selling their work actually harm some authors' interests?\n\n<options>:\nA It could steer them toward writing about popular topics rather than writing about their expertise.\nB Libraries may decide not to purchase the work because of the cost involved for multiple copies.\nC They may never reach a global audience.\nD The cost to read the work could result in a smaller audience.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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939 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nName Your Symptom By JIM HARMON Illustrated by WEISS Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Anybody who shunned a Cure needed his head examined—assuming he had one left! world is going mad and we are just sitting back watching it hike along. Do you know that what we are doing is really the most primitive medicine in the world? We are treating the symptoms and not the disease. One cannibal walking another with sleeping sickness doesn't cure anything. Eventually the savage dies—just as all those sick savages out in the street will die unless we can cure the disease, not only the indications.\" therapy to all the sick people.\" one thing, the gyro ball. There are so many others, so many.\" Morgan smiled. \"You know, Henry, not all of our Cures are so—so—not all are like that. Those Cures for mother complexes aren't even obvious. If anybody does see that button in a patient's ear, it looks like a hearing aid. Yet for a nominal sum, the patient is equipped to he'll turn violently schizophrenic sooner or later—and you know it. The only cure we have for that is still a strait jacket, a padded cell or one of those inhuman lobotomies.\" Morgan shrugged helplessly. \"You're an idealist.\" seemed to be Normals, but you couldn't tell. Many \"Cures\" were not readily apparent. A young man with black glasses and a radar headset (a photophobe) was of Cure. \"Pardon me,\" he said warmly. \"Quite all right.\" move he merely radiated narrowed eyes. \"How long have you been Cured?\" \"Not—not long,\" Infield evaded. The other glanced around the street. He moistened his lips and spoke Infield's pulse raced, trying to get ahead of his thoughts, and losing out. A chance to study a pseudo-culture of the \"Cured\" developed in Under the mousy hair, Price's strong features were beginning to gleam moistly. \"You are lucky in one way, Mr. Infield. People take one look at your Cure and don't ask you to go walking in the rain. But even after seeing Infield supposed it was a Cure, although he had never issued one like it. He didn't know if it would be good form to inquire what kind it was. \"It's a cure for alcoholism,\" Price told him. \"It runs a constant blood check to see that the alcohol level doesn't go over the sobriety limit.\" \"What happens if you take one too many?\" Price looked off as if at something not particularly interesting, but more interesting than what he was saying. \"It drives a needle into my temple and kills me.\" The psychiatrist felt cold fury rising in him. The Cures were supposed to save lives, not endanger them. \"What kind of irresponsible idiot could have issued such a device?\" he \"I did,\" Price said. \"I used to be a psychiatrist. I was always good in shop. This is a pretty effective mechanism, if I say so myself. It can't be removed without causing my death and it's indestructible. They seated themselves at a small table with a red-checked cloth. cloths. Then he looked closer and discovered the reason. They did a say but tiring of constant pretense. \"You don't understand. Everyone has some little phobia or fixation. have them for generations, everyone who didn't have one developed a defense mechanism and an aberration so they would be normal. If that phobia isn't brought to the surface and Cured, it may arise any time and endanger other people. The only safe, good sound citizens are Cured. Those lacking Cures—the Incompletes— must be dealt with .\" Price started to glance around the cafe, then half-shrugged, almost visibly thinking that he shouldn't run that routine into the ground. \"We'll Cure them whether they want to be Cured or not—for their own good.\" not just in his head. It was thundering outside. He was getting sick. Price was the type of man who could spread his ideas throughout the ranks of the Cured—if indeed the plot was not already universal, imposed upon many ill minds. He could picture an entirely Cured world and he didn't like the view. Every Cure cut down on the mental and physical abilities of the patient as it was, whether Morgan and the others admitted it or not. But if everyone had a crutch to lean on for one phobia, he would develop secondary symptoms. People would start needing two Cures—perhaps a foetic gyro and a safety belt—then another and another. There would always be a crutch to lean on for one thing and then room enough to develop something else—until everyone would be loaded down with too many Cures to operate. A Cure was a last resort, dope for a malignancy case, euthanasia for the hopeless. Enforced Cures would be a curse for the individual and the race. relief for neurotic or psychopathic symptoms on someone who didn't want or need it? \"Perhaps you don't see how it could be done,\" Price said. \"I'll and suave, draped clothes. In this den of the Cured, Infield thought half-humorously, it was surprising to see a Normal—an \"Incomplete.\" But then he noticed something about the baby she carried. The Cure had been very simple. It wasn't even a mechanized half-human robot, just a He's not an alcoholic. He didn't need to put that Cure on his head. It's just an excuse for not drinking. All of this is just because a \"You were explaining,\" the psychiatrist said. \"You were going to tell me how you were going to Cure the Incompletes.\" \"I said we Cure and eager to Cure others. Very eager.\" Price leaned forward. \"There is one phobia that is so wide-spread, a Cure is not even thought of—hypochondria. Hundreds of people come to your office for a Cure and you turn them away. Suppose you and the other Cured psychiatrists give everybody who comes to you a Cure?\" Infield gestured vaguely. \"A psychiatrist wouldn't hand out Cures unless they were absolutely necessary.\" \"You'll feel differently after you've been Cured for a while yourself. Other psychiatrists have.\" Mrs. Price screamed. \"The Cure! If you get that much liquor in his system, it will kill him!\" She rocked the rag doll in her arms, trying to soothe it, and stared in horror. same as when he had diagnosed his first case. No, better than that. \"That taste of liquor didn't kill you, Price. Nothing terrible happened. You could find some way to get rid of that Cure.\" Price stared at him as if he were a padded-cell case. \"That's different. I'd be a hopeless drunk without the Cure. Besides, no one ever gets rid of a Cure.\" They were all looking at Infield. Somehow he felt this represented a less Cures instead of more, Price. Look, if I can show you that someone can discard a Cure, would you get rid of that—if I may use the word— monstrous threw the Cure on the floor. \"Now,\" he said, \"I am going out in that rain storm. There's thunder and lightning out there. I'm afraid, but I can get along without a Cure and It was his problem. Infield usually solved other people's problems, but now he ran away—he couldn't even solve his own. saying?\" \"Mr. Infield went out without his Cure in a storm and was struck by lightning. We took him to the morgue. He must have been crazy to go out without his Cure.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the significance of the restaurant's stained table cloth?\n\n<options>:\nA Only the cured people are allowed to dine in fine restaurants, but 'fine' is a loose term\nB Table cloths, like cures, can easily be switched out and cleaned (repaired) in order to appear flawless\nC They represent the stain that cure development has made on social progress\nD Like the cure, it obscures up a symptom but fails to address the root problem\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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1,150 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutiny some object might try to get a head start. \"Get set!\" he challenged the thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. \"Stop!\" were already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs to play on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comical three-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and many kinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. off, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what was had been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeying hour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing. He chose to ignore the negative maxim that \"small children who stop tripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careers of munching seaweed. \"Hi there!\" Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered that he himself was \"dead\" to the living world: he was still in a zone of time-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world would interrupted in the least not the world around him. the two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual \"Hi there!\" when he heard them making sounds of their own. \"... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makes seventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own!\" \"My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell are you going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back in San Diego?\" \"Hi there, wanna play?\" Purnie's invitation got nothing more than the scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for this expedition just to give your flunkies a vacation.\" \"All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it's your money that put us here it's your expedition all the way. But you hired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's just what I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safety of the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home.\" bring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in the ocean with a three-legged ostrich!\" \"Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twenty minutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to find wild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint little \"Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in the vicinity. He's trying to locate it now.\" \"There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to make you so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, I believe.\" \"Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I've discovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about that flag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque.\" claim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Lively now!\" \"Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for the to carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works will slide down on top of us.\" \"Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to be \"Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this with the flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up a flag.\" \"There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements set down by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say it represents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flags is the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call it sentiment if you will.\" \"Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before.\" \"Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal? What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering.\" \"Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrow system so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually own the people who are foolish enough to buy land on them.\" \"I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man! It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give your space ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good money into a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away from thirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that?\" scintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way!\" \"Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box.\" \"Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids—\" \"This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box!\" \"With my crew as witness, I officially protest—\" \"Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why, they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands of these creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn fools on Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors flocking to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off or \"Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may be \"Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has no intention of running away.\" \"Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling what imploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't know directions to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it had end animals. into. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start the didn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. His The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, for to them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure of \"Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now that you've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way.\" death. \"Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?\" \"I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going to animals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregarding of life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way until time-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... without late. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of the \"Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? Captain Benson!\" others and get out of here while time is on our side.\" \"But what happened, Captain?\" take super-human energy to move one of those things.\" \"I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are so busy eating seaweed—\" \"He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Or laughing. I can't tell which.\" \"We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You all right?\" \"Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'll do anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see that little trick with the rocks? Ho-ho!\" he'll either kill himself or one of us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be along \"Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed back him any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'm You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone.\" \"No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked.\" \"That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is NOT a technological/social advancement involved in this story?\n\n<options>:\nA Radiation impacting life forms\nB Time travel\nC Teleportation\nD Colonization of other planets\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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2,312 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nBY RANDALL GARRETT Women on space station assignments shouldn't get pregnant. But there's a first time for everything. Here's the story of woman was in pain. There, high in the emptiness of space, Space Station One swung in its orbit. Once every two hours, the artificial satellite looped completely steel hull was the silence of the interplanetary vacuum inside, in the hospital ward, Lieutenant Alice Britton clutched at the sheets of her bed in pain, then relaxed as it faded away. Alice Britton closed her eyes. Major Banes was all smiles and cheer know which! Your husband may be the finest rocket jockey in the Space Service, but that doesn't give him the right to come blasting up here on a supply rocket just to get you pregnant!\" Alice had said: \"I'm sure the thought never entered his mind, doctor. I know it never entered mine.\" She hadn't thought of it before, but the major was right. The terrible pressure of a rocket landing would increase her effective body weight to nearly half a ton an adult human being couldn't take that sort of punishment for long, much less the tiny life that was growing within her. So she had stayed on in the Space Station, doing her job as always. As Chief Radar Technician, she was important in the operation of the station. Her pregnancy had never made her uncomfortable the slow gravity at the rim only half that of Earth's surface, and the closer to the hub she went, the less her weight became. According to the major, the baby was due sometime around the first of September. \"Two hundred and eighty days,\" he had said. \"Luckily, we can pinpoint it almost exactly. And at a maximum of half of Earth gravity, she clenched her fists tightly on the sheets again. It went away, and she took a deep breath. Everything had been fine until today. And then, only half an hour ago, space. The depressurization hadn't hurt her too much, but the shock had been enough to start labor. The baby was going to come two months early. She relaxed a little more, waiting for the next pain. There was nothing to worry about The Chief Nurse at a nearby desk took off her glasses and looked at him speculatively. \"Something wrong, doctor?\" \"Incubator,\" he said, without taking his eyes off the clock. \"I beg your pardon?\" \"Incubator. We can't deliver a seven-month preemie without an incubator.\" The nurse's eyes widened. \"Good Lord! I never thought of that! What are you going to do?\" \"Right now, I can't do anything. I can't beam a radio message through to the Earth. But as soon as we get within radio range of White Sands, I'll ask them to send up an emergency rocket with an incubator. But—\" \"But what?\" \"Will we have time? The pains are coming pretty fast now. It will be at least three hours before they can get a ship up here. If they miss us on the next time around, it'll be five hours. She can't hold out that long.\" The Chief Nurse turned her eyes to the slowly moving second hand of the DELIVERY. HANG ON. OVER. He turned and left through the heavy door. Each room of the space station was protected by airtight doors and individual heating units if some accident, such as a really large meteor hit, should release the He forced a nervous smile. \"Nothing but the responsibility. You're going to be a very famous woman, you know. You'll be the mother of the first child born in space. And it's my job to see to it that you're both all right.\" She grinned. \"Another Dr. Dafoe?\" 0-199515 COMMANDING WSRB ROCKET. ORBIT COMPUTED FOR RENDEZVOUS AT 1134 HRS MST. CAPT BRITTON SENDS PERSONAL TO LT BRITTON AS FOLLOWS: HOLD THE FORT, BABY, THE WHOLE WORLD IS PRAYING FOR YOU. OUT. Banes sat on the edge of his desk, pounding a fist into the palm of his left hand. \"Two hours. It isn't soon enough. She'll never hold out that long. And we don't have an incubator.\" His voice was a clipped monotone, timed with the rhythmic slamming of his fist. The Chief Nurse said: \"Can't we build something that will do until the rocket gets here?\" Banes looked at her, his face expressionless. \"What would we build it looks as though the Space Service has released the information to the public. Lieutenant Britton's husband was right when he said the whole world's praying for her. Do you want to hear the tapes?\" \"Not now, but thanks for the information.\" He hung up and looked into the Chief Nurse's eyes. \"They've released the news to the public.\" She frowned. \"That really puts you on the spot. If the baby dies, they'll blame you.\" save that baby!\" He paused as he saw her eyes. \"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. My nerves are all raw, I guess. But, dammit, my field is space medicine. I can handle depressurization, space sickness, and things like that, but I don't know anything about babies! I know what I read in medical school, and I watched a delivery once, but that's all I know. I don't even have any references up here people aren't supposed to go around having babies on a space station!\" \"It's all right, doctor. Shall I prepare the delivery room?\" His laugh was hard and short. \"Delivery room! I wish to Heaven we had one! Prepare the ward room next to the one she's in now, I guess. It's the best we have. \"So help me Hannah, I'm going to see some changes made in regulations! board had had to be carried up in rockets when the station was built in space. The air purifiers in the hydroponics section could keep the air fresh enough for breathing, but fire of any kind would overtax the system, leaving too little oxygen in the atmosphere. Ninety seconds! It was long and hard. When the pain had ebbed away, he said: \"We've got the delivery room all ready. It won't be much longer now.\" \"I'll say it won't! How about the incubator?\" There was a long pause. Finally, he said softly: \"There isn't any incubator. I didn't take the possibility of a premature delivery into account. It's my fault. I've done what I could, though the ship is bringing one up. I—I think we'll be able to keep the child alive until—\" He stopped. Alice was bubbling up with laughter. Another pain came, and he had to wait until it was over before he got her answer. \"Doctor,\" she said, \"I thought you would have figured it out. Ask yourself just one question. Ask yourself, 'Why is a space station like an incubator?'\" Space Ship Twelve docked at Space Station One at exactly eleven thirty-four, and two men in spacesuits pushed a large, bulky package through the airlock. The colonel said nothing, but he raised an eyebrow. \"Over an hour ago,\" said Banes. \"But—but—the incubator—\" Banes' grin widened. \"We'll put the baby in it, now that we've got it, but it really isn't necessary. Your wife figured that one out. A space station is a kind of incubator itself, you see. It protects us poor, weak humans from the terrible conditions of space. So all we had to do was close up one of the airtight rooms, sterilize it, warm it up, and put in extra oxygen from the emergency tanks. Young James is perfectly comfortable.\"\n\n<question>:\nHow does Alice feel about delivering the baby on the space station?\n\n<options>:\nA She is confident in Major Barnes. She feels he's perfectly competent, though obstetrics is not his field.\nB She is excited. She's going to be famous. No one has ever had a baby in space before.\nC She is terrified. No one has ever had a baby in space before.\nD She is scared because the baby is so early and there is no incubator onboard the space station.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
681 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWhat lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of slope where he hobbled him and left him for the night. In the fading light, he ate the hard beef jerky and drank the scalding coffee. Refreshed and momentarily content, he sat staring into the dying fire, seeing the bright glowing coals as living fingers clutching at the wood in consuming embrace, taking all and returning nothing but ashes. Slowly his eyelids yielded. His body sagged, and blood seemed to fill his brain, bathing it in a gentle, warm flood. He slept. His brain slept. But the portion of his brain called memory stirred. It was all alone all else was at rest. Images began to appear, drawn from inexhaustible files, wherein are kept all thoughts, past, present, and future.... It was the night before he was to go overseas. World War III had been so long as you wear it, I'll come back, even from the the abyss which seemed to have no beginning or any end. The next morning had been bleak and gray. The mist clung to the wet, sodden ground, and the air was heavy in his lungs. He had driven off Three days later they had landed in Spain, merged with another where the fighting had begun. Already the city was a silent graveyard, littered with the rubble of towers and cathedrals which had once been great. was near. The Russians had not yet used the H-bomb annihilation by the retaliation forces had been too great. But the planes had passed over, the sun glinting on their bellies, targets. When the all-clear had sounded, the men clambered from their shelters. An icy wind swept the field, bringing with it clouds which Across the Atlantic, over the pole, via Alaska, the great bombers flew. In cities, great and small, the air raid sirens sounded, high screaming noises which had jarred the people from sleep in time to die. The defending planes roared into the sky to intercept the on-rushing bombers. The horrendous battle split the universe. Many bombers fell, victims of fanatical suicide planes, or of missiles that streaked across the sky which none could escape. But too many bombers got through, dropping their deadly cargo upon the helpless cities. And not all the prayers or entreaties to any God had stopped their carnage. First there had been the red flashes that melted buildings into molten streams, and then the great triple-mushroom cloud filled with the poisonous gases that the wind swept away to other cities, where men had not died quickly and mercifully, but had rotted away, leaving shreds of putrid flesh behind to mark the places where they had crawled. The retaliatory forces had roared away to bomb the Russian cities. Few, if any, had returned. Too much blood and life were on their hands. Those who had remained alive had found a resting place on the crown of some distant mountain. Others had preferred the silent peaceful sea, where flesh stayed not long on bones, and only darting fishes and merciful beams of filtered light found their aluminum coffins. The war had ended. To no avail. Neither side had won. Most of the cities and the majority of the population of both countries had been destroyed. Even their governments had vanished, leaving a silent nothingness. The armies that remained were without leaders, without sources of supplies, save what they could forage and beg from an unfriendly people. They were alone now, a group of tired, battered men, for whom life held nothing. Their families had long since died, their bodies turned to dust, their spirits fled on the winds to a new world. Yet these remnants of an army must return—or at least try. Their They had started the long trek. Throughout Europe anarchy reigned. He After months of storms and bad luck, they had been shipwrecked swimming and fishing, recovering his strength, inquiring about the United States. The Mexicans had spoken with fear of the land across the Rio Grande. All its great cities had been destroyed, and those that had been only partially destroyed were devoid of people. The land across the Rio Grande had become a land of shadows. The winds were poisoned, and the few people who might have survived, were crazed and maimed by the blasts. Few men had dared cross the Rio Grande into \"El Mundo gris de Noviembre\"—the November world. Those who had, had never returned. waded into the muddy waters and somehow landed on the American side. In the November world. It was rightly called. The deserts were long. All plant life had died, leaving to those once great fertile stretches, nothing but the sad, temporal beauty that comes with death. No people had he seen. Only the ruins of what had once been their cities. He had walked through them, and all that he had seen were the small mutant rodents, and all that he had heard was the occasional swish of the wind as it whisked along what might have been dead leaves, but wasn't. He had been on the trail for a long time. His food was nearly her once again all would be well, and his long journey would be over. The images faded. Even memory slept in a flow of warm blood. Body and mind slept into the shadows of the dawn. lungs would burst then swiftly returned to the clean air, tingling in very edge. Even then he might not have seen it had not the horse stopped suddenly. The wind swirled through its vast emptiness, slapping his face with dusty hands. For a moment he thought he heard voices—mournful, murmuring voices, echoing up from the misty depths. He turned quickly away and did not look back. Night paled into day day burned into night. She was sitting motionless in a straight wooden chair beside the fireplace, the feeble light cast by the embers veiling her in mauve like a restless child in sleep, then moved from the chair to the pile of wood near the hearth, and replenished the fire. The wood caught quickly, sending up long tongues of flame, and forming a bright pool of light around her. His blood froze. The creature illuminated by the firelight was a monster. Large greasy scales covered its face and arms, and there was no hair on its head. Its gums were toothless cavities in a sunken, mumbling mouth. The eyes, turned momentarily toward the window, were empty of life. \"No, no!\" he cried soundlessly. This was not his house. In his delirium he had only imagined he had He knew then. He had come home. Slowly he moved toward the door. A great weakness was upon him. His feet were stones, reluctant to leave the earth. His body was a weed, passed over him. It was no use. There was no strength. Only fear—a kind of fear he had never known. it, and stared at the pictures, now in the dim moonlight no longer faces of those he loved, but grey ghosts from the past. Even the ruby had lost its glow. What had once been living fire was now a dull glob of darkness. \"Nothing is forever!\" He thought he had shouted the words, but only a thin sound, the sound of leaves ruffled by the wind, came back to him.\n\n<question>:\nWhat happens to Europe after the bombs?\n\n<options>:\nA It becomes anarchic, with essentially no governments left.\nB It becomes anarchic, with nothing but gangs to officially end what is left of the war.\nC It falls to Russia, becoming a wasteland in the wake of its bombing.\nD It becomes a festering wasteland. All living things dead.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
1,767 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nplaces. Standing in the sticky, sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyed the robot apprehensively. Half buried in mud, it stood quiet in the shadowy light except for an The robots were built to serve Man to do his work, see to his comforts, make smooth his way. Then the robots figured out an his head. Alan froze. \"My God, Then another. Alan stopped, floor. \"Damn!\" He cursed again, for the tenth time, and stood uncertainly in the dimness. it hunt and track so perfectly.\" He tried to visualize the computing circuits needed for the as a blaster roared in the jungle. Then Alan heard the approaching robot, crunching and snapping its way through the undergrowth like an onrushing forest on the planet, the shadows Alan peered around him at the were long and gloomy. \"All I need is to get lost.\" I'll bet anything they're explosive crash. Alan started, automatically controlled by the camp computer. That's where pulled himself through the undergrowth towards the camp. Trees exploded to his left as another robot fired in his direction, too far away to be effective caught at his legs, tripping him but churning towards him and holding him back. Then, to follow a line between the two robots coming up from either side, behind him. His eyes were well accustomed to the dark now, and he managed to dodge most of the shadowy vines and through the trees he saw the or trip him. Even so, he stumbled killer robots shook the night behind him, nearer sometimes, then falling slightly back, but three days before. Except for a few of the killer robots rolling slowly around the camp site on their quiet treads, there was no nightmare. Alan would have to pause and squeeze his eyelids tight shut before he could see again, and the robots would move a little closer. To his right the trees silhouetted Alan leaped back, and fell sprawling over a bush just as one of the robots rolled silently up from the right, lowering its blaster barrel to aim directly at a third robot slowly moved up in the distance. Without thinking, Alan turned slightly to the briefly against brilliance as itself from the smoldering branches and crashed against the He pictured the camp computer with no one to stop it, automatically sending its robots in With an awkward jerk the robot wider and wider forays, slowly robot, clawing insanely at the machines doing the job for which they were built, completely, thoroughly, without feeling, antenna and blaster barrel. and without human masters to separate sense from futility. swung around and fired its blaster, completely dissolving the towards the camp, leaving Alan Shakily, Alan crawled a few feet back into the undergrowth where he could lie and watch the camp, but not himself be seen. Though visibility didn't make any difference to the robots, he felt safer, somehow, hidden. He knew now what the shooting men would also lie, beside a In the brief flash of the blaster shot, Alan saw the steel glint of a robot only a hundred yards away, much nearer than he had thought. \"Thank heaven grabbed his ankle. Quickly he the rotten luck, anyway!\" He blinked the pain tears from his eyes and looked up—into a robot's blaster, jutting out of the foliage, thirty yards away. Alan grabbed his pocket blaster robot jerked back, its gun wobbled rusty hulk, beneath the alien and started to tilt away. it swung back again to face Alan. He fired again, and again the robot reacted. It seemed familiar somehow. Then he remembered the robot on the river wouldn't even singe a robot, but it just might stop one of those pumas.\" bank, jiggling and swaying for seconds after each shot. \"Of Reaching into his jacket, Alan pulled himself upright and hobbled ahead through the bush. The robot shook spasmodically with each shot, its gun tilted upward at an awkward angle. grass stood the headquarters building, housing the robot-controlling computer. Still firing at spite of the agonizing pain, Alan avoiding the insect hills that jutted up through the grass. From the corner of his eye he saw another of the robots standing shakily in the dark edge of slightly different spot. the jungle waiting, it seemed, for his small blaster to run dry. Alan unclenched his fists and A few feet from the building's door his blaster quit. cells released themselves from ready, Alan rolled over onto his the device, falling in the grass at his feet. He dropped the useless \"No!\" He threw himself on the ground as a new robot suddenly appeared around the edge of the building a few feet away, gun. Blinding itself for a few seconds with its own blaster static, the robot paused momentarily, jiggling in place. In this instant, Alan jammed his hands into an insect hill and hurled the Alan whirled, startled. The planet's double moon had risen and he could see a robot rolling slowly across the clearing in his general direction, blasting indiscriminately robot fired erratically as Alan headed for the jungle, each to a by the blast. Frantically, Alan slammed open the door as the robot, sensing him strongly now, aimed point blank. He saw nothing, his sensed him yet, but Alan didn't know what the effective range of its pickup devices was. He Apparently the robot hadn't mind thought of nothing but the red-clad safety switch mounted jungle. Minutes later, looking back he saw that the machine, though several hundred yards beside the computer. Time stopped. There was nothing else in Alan opened his eyes in a a white light hung wire in a machine. \"I have to try,\" he said aloud. \"I have to try.\" He moved into the blackness. Powerful as a small tank, the killer robot was equipped to over his head. Beside him, looking down with a rueful smile, he could manage to keep ahead of it, barely out of blaster range. Only, the robot didn't get tired. Alan did. The twin moons cast pale, deceptive clothes, and insects attracted by the blood matted against his pants and shirt. Behind, the robot crashed imperturbably after Then, getting itself under control, him, lighting the night with fitful its range. There was movement also, in the darkness beside him, scrapings and rustlings and an occasional lower half of the cat creature load in fresh cells this morning!\" The robot crashed on, louder now, gaining on the tired human. Legs aching and bruised, stinging from insect bites, Alan him like a child in the dark. His foot tripped on a barely visible Alan jerked sideways, crashing shadows. The robot crashed loudly behind him now. Without stopping to think, Alan fumbled along the Alan stumbled forward. a mere hundred yards behind. He screamed at the blast. \"Damn you, Pete! Damn your robots! Alan, lying in the mud of the as the heavy little robot rolled slowly and inexorably towards he thought, \"in battle dress.\" He tried to stand but his legs were almost too weak and Alan trembled. For the first tree crashed heavily past Alan slowly down. Frantically, Alan robot shook for a second, its blaster muzzle lifted erratically and for an instant it seemed almost Alan slid slowly along the bank machine above. Its muzzle turned to follow him but the edge of from where Alan stood. housing, frantically locking his arms around the barrel as the robot's treads churned furiously in the sticky mud, causing it to Alan's arms, then slammed wrapped tightly around the blaster barrel and housing, pressed fiercely against the robot's metal skin. Slowly, trying to anticipate spinning plunges, Alan worked hardly able to move on the wildly swinging turret, he felt down the sides to the thin crack between the revolving housing and the stationary portion of the robot. With a quick prayer he jammed in the knife blade—and\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Alan jump towards the robot when it fell into the mud?\n\n<options>:\nA He thought the mud would protect him from the fire caused by the blasters.\nB He saw a chance to exploit a weakness of the robot's.\nC He knew he would not survive the attack and wanted to take the robot down with him.\nD The robot would not be able to see him he was right on it.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
2,135 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"I hear you.\" \"Why does your mind shrink backward?\" \"I've decided not to bring my people here.\" \" You Stinson lay still in the sand where he fell, gloating over the success \"Listen to that, will you?\" Stinson said angrily. \"Just listen! You It had happened so fast that he could almost feel the warm, humid Missouri air, though he was light years from Missouri. \"No!\" Stinson shot back. \"You've owned this planet for a million Stinson relaxed. He'd had his say. Sybtl trembled beside him. A small Stinson tried to imagine it. At first there must have been a single bush, nor even a wisp of dry grass was in sight. Everywhere was desert. The funnel of sand had moved closer and while he watched it, it seemed to drift in the wind—although there was no wind. Stinson backed away. ?\" A frenzied searching of the planet, base. Then Stinson backed away again. It was changing. Now it became a the solar system, the galaxy. Then a returning to the planet. Empty.... Change. Buildings, roads, bridges weathering slowly. Such a race would Where is everyone \"I don't understand why your development stopped,\" Stinson said. Again Stinson felt the urge to run, or to use the cylinder to project himself somewhere else, but he said, \"No!\" very firmly to himself. He was here to investigate, to determine if this planet was capable of supporting life. \"No, he is not angry.\" \"I'm glad. You will leave now?\" \"No. This is my home.\" first grains of sand, the realization of what was happening dawned with a flash of fear. Instantly he projected himself a thousand miles away. dry and brittle, for here autumn had turned the leaves. Night would be cold. He was not a woodsman. He doubted if he could build a fire without indecipherable symbols. Life. Intelligence. The planet was inhabited. Should he give up and return to earth? Or was there room here for his people? Warming his hands there over the great steaming pool he thought of Benjamin, and Straus, and Jamieson—all those to whom he had given cylinders, and who were now struggling for life against those who desired them. He decided it would not be just, to give up so easily. There was no more. He stumbled toward the pool's wall and clutched for support, but hurt, but angered him. He left the chains by his own method of travel, poked Stinson with the stick rose, and handed it to him. Still angered, Stinson grasped it firmly, with half a notion to break it over his Stinson's face drained pale, and suddenly, unaccountably, he was Incongruously, he thought of Benjamin back on earth, and all the others with cylinders, who might be fighting for their lives at this moment. \"On the contrary, you have. There is a time and place for everything, though.\" kissed Stinson's feet. Two of the men came and gave her a brilliant Stinson looked at the wind devil, since it could be no one else \"Yes, I see it in your mind, now. You want to live here, on this planet.\" \"Then you must know where I came from, and how.\" \"I do not understand how. You have a body, a physical body composed of atoms. It is impossible to move a physical body from one place to another by a mere thought and a tiny instrument, yet you have done so. You deserted me out in the desert.\" \"I deserted you?\" Stinson cried angrily, \"You tried to kill me!\" Stinson felt a mental shrug. \"It is of no importance. When they arrived \"What happened?\" \"I do not know. I alone exist. I have searched all the levels of time and matter from the very beginning. My people are gone. Sometimes it almost comes to me, why they are gone. And this is contrary to the greatest law of all—that an entity, once in existence, can never cease to exist.\" Stinson was silent, thinking of the endless years of searching through silent, and Stinson felt as if he had been taken from some high place then. The web-footed people milled about restlessly. The woman's eyes pleaded. When he looked back, the Sand God was gone. Stinson pointed the disintegrating weapon at them and yelled. They Stinson donned the shimmering skirt, smiling as he did so. The others name is Stinson.\" \"We'd better make tracks.\" \"No,\" she said, \"we must run, and make no tracks.\" \"But....\" \"No buts. Right now we'd better get out of here.\" and ran. He doubted the wisdom of keeping her with him. Alone, the webfoots were no match for him. He could travel instantly to any spot he chose. But with Sybtl it was another matter never had been an athlete. How was he to decide if this planet was suitable for his people, hampered by a woman, slinking through a frozen wilderness like an depended on him. Anyway, he decided, pursuit was impossible. They left no tracks on the Stinson's bare feet were numb from walking on ice. Christ, he thought, what am I doing here, anyway? He glanced down at Sybtl and remembered the webfoots. He stopped, tempted to use his cylinder and move to a warmer, less dangerous spot. \"I cannot leave her. She is helpless against them.\" \"What form of primitive stupidity are you practicing now? Leave, or Stinson shook his head. \"Yes,\" Stinson said, \"and your race no longer exists.\" burn, that and the skirts. Then, when he had burned the ship, the Sand God went to the sixth planet and burned two of the largest cities, as a warning that no more of us must come here.\" Well, Stinson said to himself, that does it. We are better off on \"I did not hear.\" \"Yes, I know now. His voice sounds like thunder in the sky, but it is a voice that speaks only in the mind. He said I must leave this planet.\" She glanced at him with suddenly awakened eyes, as if thinking of it for the first time. \"Where is your ship?\" \"I have no ship.\" sorry. It was all for me.\" \"Don't worry. The Sand God travels without a ship, why shouldn't I?\" \"Now?\" They stepped around it carefully. Stinson felt warm air, but there was for days at a time in winter, so the snow melts and the grass begins to green. Then he tires and lets winter come back again. He is the loneliest God in the universe.\" \"What makes you think he's lonely?\" if they stayed. \"I'll leave for a moment,\" he said. \"I'll be back soon.\" \"You're leaving?\" There was panic in her voice. \"Only for a moment.\" \"And you won't come back. You will go to your world.\" \"No. I'll be back.\" \"I'll be back.\" He disappeared at once, giving her no chance to object again, and went to the desert of sand, where he had first arrived on the planet. He wanted to see if the storm were world-wide. Stinson had never been in a sand storm before, even on Earth. He could and the wind rolled him over and over in the sand like a tumbleweed. The skirt flew up around his face. He could not get up again. He returned to the cave. purposefully. Stinson prepared himself to leave. In spite of his desire \"Fiend!\" Stinson screamed the word, vaguely marvelling at his own fury. \"The Sand God is tired,\" Sybtl said. \"He is not angry now. I'm glad. Perhaps he will let you stay.\" \"No. Even if he allowed it, I couldn't stay. My people could never live Stinson ignored him. He glanced down at Sybtl, who sensed that this was a time for good-bys. He thought, perhaps I can stay here alone with her. The webfoots might find us, or the Sand God might destroy us in one of his fits, but it might be worth it. \"Don't go,\" she said. \"Not yet.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat drove Stinson to decide to stay in the end?\n\n<options>:\nA He sees that there is some hope for a successful though challenging life\nB His transportation device needs to be repaired before he can return to Earth\nC He is curious enough about the web-footed people's abilities that it is worth investigating\nD He has given up trying to find somewhere to move to\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
460 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThey were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on the other. lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh.\" Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donned their space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sun \"The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all.\" \"Maybe,\" Lt. Chandler said, \"it's buried too deep.\" \"Maybe so,\" Major Winship said. \"But we can't have the dome fall down around all our ears.\" He stood. \"Whew! You guys stay put.\" He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered, the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward, off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside the radio equipment. The ground moved again. completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal. \"Well,\" Lt. Chandler commented, \"even though we didn't build this thing to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right.\" \"I guess I was just—\" Major Winship began. \"Oh, hell! We're losing He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as though it were breathing and then it ruptured. Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which He moved for the plastic sheeting. \"We've lost about three feet of calk out here,\" Capt. Lawler said. \"I can see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate.\" Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. \"How's that?\" \"Not yet.\" \"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads.\" There was a splatter of static. \"Damn!\" Major Winship said, \"they should have made these things more \"Best I can do.\" Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the floor. \"Come on in,\" he said dryly. With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cables trailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling, his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. \"We can't hear anything without any air.\" They huddled over the instruction sheet. \"Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference,\" Lt. Chandler said. \"Some air must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. A gorilla couldn't extrude it.\" \"The only way you can check is to extrude it,\" Lt. Chandler said, \"and if it does extrude, you've ruined it.\" cursed twice during the operation. \"I'd hate to live in this thing for any period.\" Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. \"What brought this on?\" \"I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've got better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there's only seven of them right now. That's living.\" wooden desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—\" \"They've got the power-plants for it.\" \"Do you think he did that deliberately?\" Major Winship asked. \"I think \"If you've got all that power....\" \"That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean? It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off. Like a little kid.\" \"Maybe they don't make aluminum desks.\" \"They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is aluminum. You know they're just showing off.\" stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of vigorous American protests.\" being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation. \"However,\" he continued, \"we did experience a minor leak in the dome, which is presently being repaired.\" \"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out.\" Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It was a fifty-five gallon drum. \"Why didn't you just borrow a cupful?\" Major Winship said sarcastically. \"It's this way,\" Lt. Chandler said. \"They didn't have anything but 55-gallon drums of it.\" \"Oh, my,\" said Capt. Wilkins. \"I suppose it's a steel drum. Those things must weigh....\" \"Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong,\" Capt. Lawler combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little scale—\" \"A little scale?\" asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome. \"That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale.\" \"Yeah,\" said Captain Lawler, \"and he looked at us with that mute, whole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff that \"He had five or six of them.\" \"Jesus!\" said Capt. Wilkins. \"That must be three thousand pounds of It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly.\" They thought over the problem for a while. \"That will be a man-sized job,\" Major Winship said. \"We're going to have to bring the drum in,\" Capt. Wilkins said. \"Well,\" said Capt. Lawler, \"that will make it nice and cozy.\" It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was interposing itself. Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. \"Damn these suits,\" he said. \"You've got it stuck between the bunk post.\" \"I back the drum out.\" Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It rested uneasily on the uneven surface. \"Now, let's go,\" said Major Winship. Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring. \"It's not the weight, it's the mass,\" said Capt. Wilkins brightly. \"The hell it isn't the weight,\" said Lt. Chandler. \"That's heavy.\" \"With my reefer out,\" said Major Winship, \"I'm the one it's rough on.\" He shook perspiration out of his eyes. \"They should figure a way to get and touched the drum. He jerked back. \"Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's harder than a rock! It is an epoxy! Let's get out of here.\" temporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainly in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms and legs. At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.\n\n<question>:\nWhat was the problem with having the fifty-five gallon barrell in the dome?\n\n<options>:\nA It would be impossible to get out once it was inside the dome.\nB It took up too much room in an already crowded area.\nC It had a terribly overpowering smell.\nD It weighed too much to be supported by the dome.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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1,579 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nEarly in American Beauty , Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey), a weary reporter for a media magazine, masturbates in the shower while informing us in voice-over that we're witnessing the highlight of his day. He peers through tired eyes out the window at his manicured suburban tract-house lawn, where his wife, Carolyn (Annette Bening)--whose gardening clogs, he points out, are color-coordinated with the handles of her shears--snips roses (American beauties) and twitters about Miracle-Gro to a gay yuppie (Scott Bakula) on the other side of a white picket fence. \"I have lost something,\" says Lester. \"I'm not exactly sure what it is but I know I didn't always feel this ... sedated.\" Apparently, Lester doesn't realize that snipped roses are garden-variety symbols of castration, or he'd know what he has lost. But the makers of American Beauty are about to give Lester his roses back. At a high-school basketball game, Lester is transfixed by a blonde cheerleader named Angela (Mena Suvari), who is twirling alongside his daughter, Jane (Thora Burch). Ambient noise falls away, the crowd disappears, and there she is, Lester's angel, writhing in slow motion--just for him. She opens her jacket (she's naked underneath) and red rose petals drift out. Later, Lester envisions her on a bed of red petals, then immersed in a bath of red petals. Back in the roses for the first time in years, he's soon pumping iron, smoking pot, and telling off his frigid wife and faceless bosses, convinced that whatever he has lost he's getting back, baby. The movie is convinced, too--which is odd, since the fantasy of an underage cheerleader making a middle-aged man's wilted roses bloom is a tad ... primitive. But American Beauty doesn't feel primitive. It feels lustrously hip and aware, and a lot of critics are making big claims for it. The script, by Alan Ball, a playwright and former sitcom writer, carries an invigorating blast of counterculture righteousness, along with the kind of pithily vicious marital bickering that makes some viewers (especially male) say, \"Yeah! Tell that bitch off!\" More important, it has a vein of metaphysical yearning, which the director, Sam Mendes, mines brilliantly. A hotshot English theater director (his Cabaret revival is still on the boards in New York), Mendes gives the film a patina of New Age lyricism and layer upon layer of visual irony. The movie's surface is velvety and immaculate--until the action is abruptly viewed through the video camera of the teen-age voyeur next door (Wes Bentley), and the graininess of the video image (along with the plangent music) suggests how unstable the molecules that constitute our \"reality\" really are. Mendes can distend the real into the surreal with imperceptible puffs. Aided by his cinematographer, Conrad Hall, and editors, Tariq Anwar and Chris Greenbury, he creates an entrancing vision of the American nuclear family on the verge of a meltdown. in American Beauty , it's Ricky Fitts, the damaged stoner videomaker next door, who sees beauty where nonartists see only horror or nothingness. In the film's most self-consciously poetic set piece, Ricky shows Lester's dour daughter Jane--in whom he recognizes a kindred spirit--a video of a plastic bag fluttering up, down, and around on invisible currents of wind. Ricky speaks of glimpsing in the bag's trajectory an \"entire life behind things\"--a \"benevolent force\" that holds the universe together. The teen-ager, who likes to train his lenses on dead bodies of animals and people, sells wildly expensive marijuana to Lester and somehow passes on this notion of \"beauty.\" By the end, Lester is mouthing the same sentiments and has acquired the same deadpan radiance. That must be some really good shit they're smoking. It's not the druggy philosophizing, however, that makes American Beauty an emotional workout. It's that the caricatures are grounded in sympathy instead of derision. Everyone on screen is in serious pain. The manipulative sexpot Angela, who taunts her friend Jane with the idea of seducing her dad, acts chiefly out of a terror of appearing ordinary. As the military martinet, Cooper goes against the grain, turning Col. Fitts into a sour bulldog whose capaciously baggy eyes are moist with sadness over his inability to reach out. (When he stands helplessly in the rain at the end, the deluge completes him.) The character of Carolyn is so shrill as to constitute a libel on the female sex, but there isn't a second when Bening sends the woman up. She doesn't transcend the part, she fills it to the brim, anatomizes it. You can't hate Carolyn because the woman is trying so hard--to appear confident, composed, in control. When she fails to sell that house, she closes the shades and lets go with a naked wail--it's the sound of a vacuum crying to be filled--then furiously slaps herself while sputtering, \"Shut up--you're weak--shut up. \" Then she breathes, regains her go-get-'em poise, replaces her mask. Carolyn isn't a complicated dramatic construction, but Bening gives her a primal force. An actress who packs more psychological detail into a single gesture than others get into whole scenes, Bening was barreling down the road to greatness before she hit a speed bump called Warren. It's a joy to observe her--both here and in Neil Jordan's In Dreams (1999)--back at full throttle. American Beauty is Spacey's movie, though. He gives it--how weird to write this about Spacey, who made his name playing flamboyantly self-involved psychopaths--a heart. Early on, he lets his face and posture go slack and his eyes blurry. He mugs like crazy, telegraphing Lester's \"loserness.\" But Spacey's genius is for mugging in character. He makes us believe that it's Lester who's caricaturing himself , and that bitter edge paves the way for the character's later, more comfortably Spacey-like scenes of insult and mockery. He even makes us take Lester's final, improbably rhapsodic moments straight.\n\n<question>:\nHow does the author feel about American Beauty?\n\n<options>:\nA It is moronic or insane or both.\nB It is wittily written and gorgeously directed.\nC It is lustrously hip and aware.\nD It is an invigorating last of counterculture righteousness.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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2,290 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nworld requires for a healthy and comfortable life cannot be provided single world alone, and that gives us a very considerable measure of control. exterminate any planet that the unfamiliar planet. Sectors we control. We are still powerful. And soon we will be all-powerful. In company with you Earthlings, that is.\" mass of eight-foot creatures, words, you think that we Earthmen seen it done. These humanoids had conquer planets without the necessity of destroying them, and thereby take over number one spot from these Sunda friends of yours.\" \"Don't call those damn lobsters when you landed here on my capital world. You can do the same on the worlds of the Sunda. Now, just tell us how you did it, and we're partners.\" Crownwall pikes in front of him as he approached the entrance. \"And just what business do you government of the Galaxy.\" orifice framing with difficulty the sibilances of Universal Galactic. \"What business would I have at arrange something a little more trustworthy, I believe. On your our only planet at any time. That \"It is impossible for us of Earth to destroy all of your planets. As Twelfth Sector of the Universal Holy Empire\"—Universal Galactic are human beings on Earth. But had a full measure of ceremonial at once, a hundred of your planet-destroying arrived from Earth to talk to him. He'll summon me fast enough. Meanwhile, my highly polished friends, I'll just wait here, so why don't you put those heavy pikes destroy this planet. destroy any planet you choose to would happen to Earth. And don't think that blowing up our planet Earth. How does that sound to said the standing one at last. \"But then I'm told you're an Earthling. I suppose we can expect such ideas. I have not underestimated you, you see.\" tentacle in a beckoning gesture. \"Come closer, Earthling. I bid you across light-years of space in a few for us to detect.\" He raised a tentacle yesterday, back on Earth, closing in on them—ships that from space, which I doubt, your plans to beat the claws off the Master Race.\" After due consideration, Earthling from another? What I from Earth to break through instruments. Instead, we travel I never doubted that you'd manage it. Still, if you were on your home planet only yesterday, that's how did you manage to get here so from Earth to come here to see around Earth? And why did you drop a planet-buster in the Pacific told you that Earthlings were unbelievably planet, I went back far enough, using Earth as the spatial referent, to both of us. But you did come, so I can tell you that although I am the leader of one of the mightiest peoples in the Galaxy, whereas there are scarcely six spiral nebula that is our Galaxy. billions of you squatting on one other. Together, there is nothing we can't do.\" \"I'm listening,\" said Crownwall. \"We offer you partnership with us to take over the rule of the Galaxy from the Sunda—the so-called Master Race.\" \"It would hardly be an equal partnership, would it, considering to move in time, the whole Galaxy than there are of us?\" His Effulgence twitched his ear stalks in amusement. \"I'm Viceroy of one of the hundred Sectors of the Empire. I rule over a total of a hundred Satrapies these average plane of this planet I'm on about a hundred Clusters apiece, and every Cluster has an average of a hundred inhabited solar systems. There are more inhabited planets in the Galaxy than there own race. And yet I tell you that it would be an equal partnership.\" \"I don't get it. Why?\" rose to his feet. \"And now, Your Effulgence, I think it's about upstart Earthlings are a strange drove it home to Earth to make my time I went back to my ship and Earth out of hand, while \"Your silly little planet was carefully thousand years ago. There were numbering a total of perhaps a hundred thousand individuals. cohort of troops, pikes at the ready and bows strapped to their backs, leaped forward and formed a Galaxy. In all, it has been found only fifteen times. The other races we have watched develop, and develop. It took the quickest of them just under a million years. \"You Earthlings, in defiance of exploded into space. You have developed first expedition of your people into space, of course?\" \" adventure an adventure that had taken place little more than ten years before. The Star Seeker in space, about forty thousand kilometers above the Earth. It had been manned by a dozen adventurous people, captained by Crownwall, and had headed out on its ion drive until it was safely clear of the warping influence of planetary in Earth's history, and, for the The men of Earth had decided that it should work in theory. They had built the drive—a small machine, planet. To do so, said their theory, would usually—seven point three four times out of 10—destroy the ship, and everything in space for thousands of miles around, in a ravening burst of raw energy. of Alpha Centauri. They had with such things as pikes and Earth to be its twin sister. They had headed for that planet confidently and unsuspectingly, using the ion drive. Two weeks later, while they were still several planetary diameters from their destination, they had been shocked to find more than two score alien ships of space a shudder of distaste. \"Tell me, race—the Master Race—also enjoy the type of civilization you have just had demonstrated the Star Seeker Your Effulgence, does the Emperor's than their own. These ships planet it had been heading toward. had rapidly and competently englobed , and had had called it—and their unanimous decision. Although far within the dangerous influence of a planetary race and mine, of course.\" \"I sincerely hope so,\" said they had returned to Earth as swiftly as they had departed. Earth had against her unknown enemy. transportation machine. The machine, for spatial mobility, was itself and the ships and those of my own race who manned them. equipped with the heavy and grossly could also have wrecked the planet We had tried to contact you, but emitted no mass or radiation. landing on Earth and taking us starting his enormous journey through time back to Earth. More over?\" asked Crownwall. wild and warlike races running free and uncontrolled in the Galaxy. Once was enough for that.\" Government of Earth, making a full reach his ship from the palace of it took us a little time to react. We located your planet quickly enough, and confirmed that you were a new blown into atoms if we don't. But organized a not inconsiderable defense. Your drones blew up our unmanned ships as fast as we could send them down to your planet. And by the time we had organized properly for war against you, it was of time before they'll find some you. We could only destroy you.\" way around it, and then—poof—we'll all be dust.\" across the Galaxy to meet him, to Galactic tongue, and had managed to get what you call the 'planet-buster' down into the to the President and began to speak rapidly. \"They're gone without trace— way for you to get off the planet. to Sunda and there's no sign of intelligent life anywhere! We're all alone now!\" Crownwall. \"Our enemies are all gone!\" other, head out into space, and show up on our planet. So I've been waiting for you, and here you are.\" Earthling,\" said His Effulgence. bowed. \"The crustaceans on Sunda—the lobsterlike creatures that rule the Galaxy—are primitive tribe, grubbing in the \"The Emperor at Sunda is one that you have entered space, that \"War in space is almost an impossibility,\" \"We can destroy planets, of course, but with few exceptions, we cannot conquer them. I rule a total of seven races in my Sector. I rule them, but I don't let them intermingle. Each race settles on the planets that best suit it. Each of those planets is quite capable of defending large-scale assaults that would result in its capture and subjugation—just itself. economic blockade—trade provides a small but vital portion of the goods each planet uses. All that a\n\n<question>:\nWhat was Earth's first Spaceship?\n\n<options>:\nA Voyager\nB Alpha Centauri\nC Star Seeker\nD Enterprise\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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347 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nI repeated it patiently. \"But why?\" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like. Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop, \"To do so would be illogical.\" He waved his hands helplessly. \"Gratitude?\" he muttered. \"No, you don't understand that, either.\" \"I do not understand 'friend,'\" I said. arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that, and yet it had nothing to do with logic, somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened to the end that I knew was inevitable. either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by eating or drinking. Peter called an emotion It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it. But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore. me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still, that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly, For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved slowly away and was gone. He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more terrible illusion. laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to \"What makes, Peter my love?\" she asked, and bent back to the ledger. \"Darling, what's wrong?\" hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?\" you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether \"Peter!\" she said faintly. \"Why do they broadcast such things?\" \"They have to,\" he told her grimly. \"There will be panics and suicides, and they know it away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone through the solid wall, or simply melted away. The man and woman clung together, waiting. Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms \"Wait here,\" he mouthed. She was after him, clinging to his arms. \"No, Peter! Don't go in there! Peter! cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin, In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood, in a terrible voice, \"Why? Why?\" but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering. \"I can't understand,\" he cried wildly. \"What do you want?\" He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre. \" His voice was hoarse. \"Don't look! Don't—Go back!\" The horrible, Somebody said, \"Doctor!\" He wanted to say, \"Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—\" but his mouth only \"Where am I?\" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just before he drifted off, he said sleepily, \"You can't—fool me. It's been more —than three—months.\" \"But where is she?\" Peter complained. \"You still haven't explained why months ago.\" \"But why?\" Peter whispered. Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on \"And since then?\" Peter asked huskily. enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other three-quarters will be dead, or worse.\" \"I wonder,\" Peter said shakily, \"if I am strong enough to take it.\" last hope, you see.\" \"Our last hope?\" \"I see,\" said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but, Lorelei said, \"You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—\" \"Darling,\" he began wearily. \"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way.\" but that's only delaying the end. They still come down here, only not as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures: we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now. \"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a million years too far back even to understand what they are or where He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. \"You know why,\" he said bitterly. \"Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful. I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die, Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone out of her body. \"All right,\" she said in a lifeless voice. \"You'll come back, Peter.\" He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A line from an old film kept echoing through his head. \" They'll !\" We'll come back, but not as men. We'll come back, but not as elephants. We'll come back, but not as octopi. He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him. We'll come back.... He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly, searching for the million-to-one chance. He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But after a time he ceased even to wonder. Peter closed the diary. \"The rest you know, Robert,\" he said. He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face. \"And now,\" he said softly, \"we will go home. I've waited so long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive\n\n<question>:\nBefore his departure, Peter recalls a line from a film. Why does it come to mind for him?\n\n<options>:\nA He recognizes that he will be a changed, mutated man when he returns. He literally will come back \"not as a boy.\"\nB He's trying to convince himself that he and humanity will be able to come back, with the emphasis on \"We'll come back.\"\nC The situation is grave. Like men who go off to war, the journey will change them. He won't be coming home as the same \"boy.\"\nD He's not sure he'll be coming back, and the song is bittersweet for him.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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857 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nsuddenly turned into a monstrosity of order! of an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight, During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase \"I'm just the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon which rung of the ladder you have achieved. Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone I, on the other hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, and except for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been going on. that I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for the reasons she supposes. pencil was standing on its end. There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hear sentence. one that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: \"Garbage fell. an incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized that never, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the late afternoon. \"You can't say a thing like that to me!\" I heard him shout. \"I tell you I got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we started to play!\" him, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and the 'em yourselves if you think they're marked!\" The nearest man struck them up from his hand. \"Okay, Houdini! So they're not marked! All I know is five straight....\" but I had an idea what I would hear. After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed. \"Never seen anything to equal it,\" he said. \"Wouldn't have believed it. Those guys to a lamp. All knows everything. voice said, \"Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we were connected. That's a damn funny coincidence.\" \"Not in the least,\" I said. \"Come on over here. I've got something for my novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to a point where I was about to put down the word \"agurgling,\" I decided it was too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letter \"Well,\" McGill said, \"nothing you've told me is impossible or supernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds against that poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him. It's all those other things....\" while I waited. Then he turned around he had a look of concern. \"Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense at what I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely, and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view that you're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion.\" I started to get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. \"I know, but don't you see that that is far more likely than....\" He stopped and shook they'll each have the same date, perhaps?\" \"Did you accumulate all that change today?\" \"No. During the week.\" would be actually impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'll tell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see if they all come up heads.\" there are two great apparently opposite principles governing the of random distribution and life is an example of design. The motions of the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are so many of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law of Thermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the other hand, seems not to depend on probability at all actually, it goes manifestation.\" \"Do you mean,\" I asked in some confusion, \"that some form of life is controlling the coins and—the other things?\" He shook his head. \"No. All I mean is that improbable things usually have improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken, I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of the book of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seems \"Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?\" \"Center of what?\" I asked. \"I feel as though I were the center of an electrical storm. Something has it in for me!\" McGill grinned. \"Don't be superstitious. And especially don't be anthropomorphic.\" \"Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life.\" \"On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions are being rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's a They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seen anything like it.\" replaced by looks of suspicion and then determination. which met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable bouts ever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anything else, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identical excuses and threats. the umbrella and we'll say no more about it!\" \"And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it?\" said her adversary. but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it was Molly. My nurse-wife. \"Oh, Alec!\" she said, and managed to detach herself. \"Are you all right?\" Was I \"Molly! What are you doing here?\" \"Of course I'm all right. But why....\" to it. He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she was a jump ahead of him. \"In other words, you think it's something organic?\" \"Well,\" McGill said, \"I'm trying to think of anything else it might be. I'm not doing so well,\" he confessed. \"But so far as I can see,\" Molly answered, \"it's mere probability, and without any over-all pattern.\" \"Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center.\" Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. \"Do you feel think this silly of me,\" she went on to McGill, \"but why isn't it something like an overactive poltergeist?\" \"Pure concept,\" he said. \"No genuine evidence.\" \"Magnetism?\" \"Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren't magnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy, and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy has all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece of iron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just stay there, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more than that—they go on moving.\" has a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agree this—thing—has no discernible shape and motion is involved, but it does not convert what it feeds on it merely rearranges it into a non-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions and call improbability.\" is it? What's it made of?\" impertinent look. date? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.\" \"Because I don't think this thing got going before today and \"I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister,\" he said with strong disapproval. \"Not exactly some mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?\" and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made the for the fat lady. is a grown larger. Molly lit a cigarette and said, \"I suppose this is all part of it, Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here.\" \"Hey! What's the idea?\" snarled the sour-looking man. was outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the meaning of the title?\n\n<options>:\nA When Mr. and Mrs. Graham are apart, a major imbalance persists\nB McGill is manipulating Alec as part of a social experiment\nC Alec is at the center of all the coincidental behavior\nD Alec possesses supernatural abilities that will eventually destroy him\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
2,450 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nTHE ULTROOM ERROR by JERRY SOHL Smith admitted he had made an error involving a few murders—and a few thousand years. He was entitled to a sense of humor, though, even in the Ultroom! HB73782. Ultroom error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer \"What do you do?\" \"Office work, mostly. I'm a junior executive in an insurance company.\" inside and around the kid as much as possible. Keep your doors and windows locked. I'll see that the prowl car keeps an eye on the house. Call us if anything seems unusual or out of the way.\" \"Yes, I'd almost forgotten about it.\" \"Why don't you be a good fellow and write a check for it? It's been over a year, you know.\" forward on his face. The figure of a woman ran from the house, retrieved the now squalling \"I wonder why they want our baby? He's just like any other baby. We \"Where's Tiger?\" can't, that's all. I'd be able to think of nothing but that day.\" \"Still thinking about it? I think we'd have heard from them again if they were coming back. They probably got somebody else's baby by this for safety's sake I guess you'd better keep that gun handy.\" The morning turned into a brilliant, sunshiny day. Puffs of clouds sign of trouble. With a fearful but determined heart Nancy moved the play pen and set gurgled with delight at the change in environment. This peaceful scene was disturbed by a speeding car in which two men were riding. The car roared up the street, swerved toward the parkway, tires screaming, bounced over the curb and sidewalk, straight toward to see the approaching vehicle. His mother stood up, set her palms against her cheeks and shrieked. The car came on, crunched over the play pen, killing the child. The mother was hit and instantly killed, force of the blow snapping her spine and tossing her against the house. The car plunged on into a tree, hitting it a terrible blow, crumbling the car's forward end so it looked like an accordion. The men were thrown from the machine. \"We'll never be able to prosecute in this case,\" the states attorney said. \"At least not on a drunken driving basis.\" trace of either. No doctor ever made a report of a gunshot wound that night. No hospital had a case either—at least not within several looks deliberate, but where's the motive?\" \"What does the man have to say?\" his guilt—in fact, he seems amused by most everything. Sometimes all an alienist.\" \"One jump ahead of you. Dr. Stone thinks he's normal, but won't put to take delight in answering questions—sort of anticipates them and has the answer ready before you're half through asking.\" \"Laughton? We're afraid to let him see him. All broken up. No telling what kind of a rumpus he'd start—especially if Smith started his funny business.\" \"Guess you're right. Well, Mr. Smith won't think it's so funny when we hang criminal negligence or manslaughter on him. By the way, you've checked possible family connections?\" \"Your damned foolishness has gone far enough. I'm sick and tired of it,\" he declared. \"If you carry on any more we'll never get back to the Ultroom!\" \"I'm sorry, Tendal,\" the man on the cot said. \"I didn't think—\" \"You're absolutely right. You didn't think. Crashing that car into that tree and killing that woman—that was the last straw. You don't even deserve to get back to our era. You ought to be made to rot really sorry about that,\" Arvid 6 said. You know the instructions. Just because you work in the Ultroom don't head. \"You could have killed yourself as well and we'd never get the job done. As it is, you almost totally obliterated me.\" Tendal 13 paced the length of the cell and back again, gesturing as he talked. \"It was only with the greatest effort I pulled myself back together again. I doubt that you could have done it. And then all the while brand of humor I have grown to despise.\" \"How well I know! How sorry I am that I ever did! It was only because I was sorry for you, because someone older and more experienced than He snorted. \"I still can't believe I was ever that stupid. I only prove it when I pinch myself and here I am. \"Oh, you've been a joy to be with! First it was that hunt in ancient mistakes. You're just not adventurous, that's all.\" \"Shut up! For once you're going to listen to me. Our instructions specifically stated we were to have as little as possible to do with these people. But at every turn you've got us more and more enmeshed idea of taking Reggie right out of his play pen. 'Watch me take that child right out from under its mother's nose' were your exact words. And before I could stop you, you did. Only you forgot an important factor in the equation—the dog, Tiger. And you nursed a dogbite most the poor thing by suggesting suffocation to it that night. \"And speaking of that night, you remember we agreed I was to do the talking. But no, you pulled a switch and captured Martin Laughton's said. 'I'll take the wheel.' And the next thing I know I'm floating in space halfway to nowhere with two broken legs, a spinal injury, concussion and some of the finest bruises you ever saw.\" These twentieth century machines aren't what they ought to be,\" Arvid 6 said. \"You never run out of excuses, do you, Arvid? Remember what you said in the Ultroom when you pushed the lever clear over and transferred slipped.' It was so simple everyone believed you. You were given no real punishment. In a way it was a reward—at least to you—getting to know what I think? I think you deliberately pushed the lever over as far as it would go just to see what would happen . That's how simple I think it was.\" \"What crazy things have you been doing since I've been gone?\" Tendal Arvid 6 sighed. \"After what you just said I guess it wouldn't amuse you, although it has me. They got to me right after the accident before I had a chance to collect my wits, dematerialize or anything—you said we shouldn't dematerialize in front of anybody.\" \"That's right.\" \"Well, I didn't know what to do. I could see they thought I was drunk, alcohol in my blood, although I implanted a memory in them that I reeked of it.\" He laughed. \"I fancy they're thoroughly confused.\" \"Who do you tell them you are?\" manufactured a pasteboard called a social security card and a driver's license—\" \"Never mind. It's easy to see you've been your own inimitable self. Believe me, if I ever get back to the Ultroom I hope I never see you again. And I hope I'll never leave there again though I'm rejuvenated through a million years.\" \"Do you think Kanad will be angry about all this?\" \"How would you like to have to go through all those birth processes, to have your life germ knocked from one era to the next?\" \"Frankly, I didn't think he'd go back so far.\" who came to the Ultroom to be transplanted to a younger body—and then thousand or more or until their bones are like paper.\" \"I just wonder how angry Kanad will be,\" Arvid muttered. HB92167. Ultroom Error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer \"I know, I know. You want me to let you handle everything.\" \"Exactly. Is that too much to ask after all you've done?\" \"I guess I have made mistakes. From now on you be the boss. I'll do whatever you say.\" \"Arvid!\" a violent argument.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the purpose of the Ultroom?\n\n<options>:\nA It can alter someone's DNA to give them more desirable attributes\nB It can change someone's original birth date\nC It can relocate someone to a different body\nD It can disrupt catastrophic events before they occur\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
1,617 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"Not at all. The questions are quite explicit.\" admittance to any office you need to visit tonight. Therefore, it is the seal. \"You said that already, but you can have dinner with me. Just company.\" time to match the instrument's metal contact points. The line of men was not impressed. He vaguely wondered if the little drama of the \"Don't I take my 201 file?\" \"Sure, they don't put in screens here. Wanted to, but the boss \"Your service tapes,\" the next noncom said. \"Where you going?\" Or I'll do it for another two.\" \"I can get you a sensatia-tape,\" whispered the boy when they had how long it would take him to shake his—sea legs, the psychologist process. He cursed the grudging attitude of the headquarters satellite personnel and felt the impotence of a spaceman who had long forgotten motivated by envy soothed him as he clumsily let himself into the lock. \"You are retarding the progress of others. Please respond more quickly to your orders.\" that was all there was to the sterilizing process. \"Your clothing and effects will be in the dressing room immediately beyond the locked door.\" commanded the same voice he had heard before. \"Turn your arm until the pain, but it is necessary to treat the small injury you have been disregarding.\" respect for the robot-controlled equipment of bases had risen. When II, didn't they?\" been down for any period as yet.\" \"Oh, I've landed a few times, even walked around for a while....\" \"With the help of paraoxylnebutal,\" supplied the captain. \"Well, sure.\" The captain laughed reassuringly. \"No, don't put up your guard again. The worst is over. Short of Gravitational conditioning, there is \"Quite natural. But it being your first time—in quite a number of ways, I might add—it will be necessary for you to undergo some conditioning.\" \"Conditioning?\" asked Craig. \"Yes. You have spent eleven years in space. Your body is conditioned to \"Yeah, I know. Once on Gerymeade....\" \"You were ill, couldn't keep your balance, felt dizzy. That is why all spacemen carry PON, paraoxylnebutal, with them. It helps suppress certain physiological reactions to an entirely new set of conditions. Channels of the ear, for example. They play an important part in our awareness of balance. They operate on a simple gravity principle. Without gravity they act up for a time, then gradually lose function. Returning to gravity is rather frightening at first.\" \"It meant more than that. There were excellent psychological reasons the beginning. I'll turn you over to psychometry for the usual tests During the days that followed, the psychologist seemed to Craig to intolerable. But even if he could accept the psychologist's authority for the really knew very much about Terra. So what? I know it won't be as it \"Yet you are so completely sure you will want to live out your life but you're not talking me out of going back. If the service needs men so badly, let them get somebody else. I've put in time.\" \"Do you really think that's my reason?\" will be given a very liberal supply of PON—which you will definitely need. Good luck. You'll need that too.\" On the eighth day, two attendants, who showed the effects of massive doses of PON to protect themselves from the centrifugal force, had to carry a man out of the tank. Many others asked to be removed, begged to be allowed to withdraw their resignations. when the best of 'em want out.\" \"How ... how do they know when you ought ... to come out?\" he asked \"Blood pressure. They get you just before you go into shock.\" \"Well, it's keyed to give them some kind of signal.\" desperately wanted something to distract his mind from the ghastly conditioning process. \"Can't they ... drop it down continuously?\" \"They tried that a few times—once when I was aboard. You wouldn't like \"How ... many times ... do they drop it?\" \"Four times during the day, three at night. Twenty days.\" the nightmarish bodily sensations once more. He felt the cot slowly \"We better take him out.\" \"He'll go into shock.\" \"... never make it the twelfth.\" \"We better yank him.\" Attendants coming for to take me home.... Then it was better. Oddly, he passed the twelfth day easily. By the centrifuge's motors had diminished to a low hum. Either that or they Most of the men had passed through the torments of gravitational conditioning. The huge headquarters base centrifuge aboard the man-made satellite had gradually caused their bodies to respond once more to a On the eighteenth day, automatic machinery freed them from their imprisoning cots. Clumsily and awkwardly at first, the men began to walk, to hold their heads and arms in proper attitudes. They laughed and joked about it and kidded those who were slow at adjusting. Then they again began taking paraoxylnebutal in preparation for the free-fall flight to Terra. Only one of the score of men in the centrifuge tank remained voluntarily in his cot. \"What will they do, exile him?\" \"Not to Chociante, if that's what you mean. They just jerked his space looking away. \"Pick something to talk about. What do you figure on doing when you get to Terra, for instance?\" \"Sure,\" said the old spaceman, watching a group of young crewmen engaged in an animated conversation. \"It's a good job. There's a future to it.\" Why did he have to explain anything at all to the old space tramp? But the old spaceman turned, smiling wryly. \"Don't get hot, kid. I System, matter of fact. Never saw much of anything close up. I stood it stiffened their hearts. When they got old, it just pulled them in. sends the blood rushing through your veins. It's like loving. You don't you strictly alone. Except that it sucks you dry, takes all the soup out of you, leaves you brittle and old—old as a dehydrated piece of stand this whirligig conditioning, you're through with space.\" You got to watch the ones that don't. Yeah, you got to watch the ones that don't. Especially the old ones. They'll dump him, won't they? After a tracer is sent through. But it won't do any good. refolded it and jammed it in place. Smaller rolls of underclothing were It was the signal for relief in the passengers' quarters many were Earth was a lot different then than it is now. They don't have to tell I tried to send her some units once in a while. Don't know if she ever but she may need it. And maybe you can tell her a little bit about what it means to be out there. Tell her it's open and free and when of course. Purely routine.\" \"We can allow the gentlemen to continue now, can't we? It wasn't that we believed for a minute, you understand ... purely routine.\" \"You goin' to move on, buddy, or you want to go back?\" screened \"Hard to say,\" the other passenger said. \"You'll get used to this. They get it over with quick.\" understand why the man had bothered until he realized that the only very briefly between questions. \"Yes, naturally.\" \"Conditions?\" seated uncomfortably in the silent room. There was a distracted quality \"Yes.\" He turned to face Craig briefly before continuing. \"You must attempted to catch her eye had she not immediately occupied herself much the same way we would an extraterrestrial.\" \"Three complete tours of duty, I believe.\" The other turned to the secretary. \"You'll see that he is assisted in filing his application, won't you? A provisional Code II. That will \"Will he need a food and—clothing ration also?\" asked the girl, made uncomfortable.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy is it important to watch the ones who don't become physically ill during the conditioning process?\n\n<options>:\nA They could be tapped as leaders for Freedomite missions\nB It is a sign that they are deviant extraterrestrials\nC Their bodies' familiarity with gravity naturally makes them suspicious\nD Their bodies may naturally produce paraoxynebutal\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
2,430 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nAI: what's the worst that could happen? Stephen Cave: Thinking about the impact of AI is not something that any one discipline owns or does in any very systematic way. So if academia is going to rise to the challenge and provide thought leadership on this hugely important issue, then we’re going to need to do it by breaking down current disciplinary boundaries and bringing people with very different expertise together. At a recent talk, Naomi Klein said that addressing the challenge of climate change could not have come at a worse time. The current dominant political and economic ideologies, along with growing isolationist sentiment, runs contrary to the bipartisan, collaborative approaches needed to solve global issues like climate change. Do you see the same issues hampering a global effort to respond to the challenges AI raises? Climate change suffers from the problem that the costs are not incurred in any direct way by the industrialists who own the technology and are profiting from it. With AI, that has been the case so far although not on the same scale. There has been disruption but so far, compared to industrialisation, the impact has been fairly small. That will probably change. AI companies, and in particular the big tech companies, are very concerned that this won't go like climate change, but rather it will go like GMOs: that people will have a gut reaction to this technology as soon as the first great swathe of job losses take hold. People speculate that 50m jobs could be lost in the US if trucking is automated, which is conceivable within 10 years. You could imagine a populist US government therefore simply banning driverless cars. So I think there is anxiety in the tech industry that there could be a serious reaction against this technology at any point. And so my impression is that there is a feeling within these companies that these ethical and social implications need to be taken very seriously, now. And that a broad buy-in by society into some kind of vision of the future in which this technology plays a role is required, if a dangerous – or to them dangerous – counteraction is to be avoided. My personal experience working with these tech companies is that they are concerned for their businesses and genuinely want to do the right thing. Of course there are intellectual challenges and there is money to be made, but equally they are people who don't think when they get up in the morning that they're going to put people out of jobs or bring about the downfall of humanity. As the industry matures it's developing a sense of responsibility. One of the dominant narratives around not only AI but technology and automation more generally is that we, as humans, are at the mercy of technological progress. If you try and push against this idea you can be labelled as being anti-progress and stuck in the past. But we do have a lot more control than we give ourselves credit for. For example, routineness and susceptibility to automation are not inevitable features of occupations, job design is hugely important. How do we design jobs? How do we create jobs that allow people to do the kind of work they want to do? There can be a bit of a conflict between being impacted by what's happening and having some sort of control over what we want to happen. Certainly, we encounter technological determinism a lot. And it's understandable. For us as individuals, of course it does feel like it always is happening and we just have to cope. No one individual can do much about it, other than adapt. But that's different when we consider ourselves at a level of a society, as a polis [city state], or as an international community. I think we can shape the way in which technology develops. We have various tools. In any given country, we have regulations. There's a possibility of international regulation. But luckily, we have got to that point in recent years of accepting that we are not the only form of intelligence. But now, AI is challenging that from a different direction. Just as we are accepting that the natural world offers this enormous range of different intelligences, we are at the same time inventing new intelligences that are radically different to humans. And I think, still, this anthropomorphic picture of the kind of humanoid android, the robot, dominates our idea of what AI is too much. And too many people, and the industry as well, talk about human-level artificial intelligence as a goal, or general AI, which basically means like a human. But actually what we're building is nothing like a human. And until now, people have been fairly shy about describing them as intelligent. Or rather, in the history of AIs, we think solving a particular problem would require intelligence. Then we solve it. And then that's no longer intelligence, because we've solved it. Chess is a good example. Yeah, absolutely. Yes, right now, perhaps it is a product of our anthropomorphising bias. But there is a tendency to see a narrative of AI versus humanity, as if it's one or the other. And yet, obviously, there are risks in this technology long before it acquires any kind of manipulative agency. Robotic technology is dangerous. Or potentially dangerous. But at the same time, most of what we're using technology for is to enhance ourselves, to increase our capacities. And a lot of what AI is going to be doing is augmenting us – we're going to be working as teams, AI-human teams. Where do you think this AI-human conflict, or concept of a conflict, comes from? Do you think that's just a reflection of historical conversations we've had about automation, or do you think it is a deeper fear? I do think it comes both from some biases that might well be innate, such as anthropomorphism, or our human tendency to ascribe agency to other objects, particularly moving ones, is well-established and probably has sound evolutionary roots. If it moves, it's probably wise to start asking yourself questions like, \"What is it? What might it want? Where might it be going? Might it be hungry? Do I look like food to it?\" I think it makes sense, it's natural for us to think in terms of agency. And when we do, it's natural for us to project our own ways of being and acting. And we, as primates, are profoundly co-operative. But at the same time, we're competitive and murderous. We have a strong sense of in-group versus out-group, which is responsible for both a great deal of cooperation, within the in-group, but also terrible crimes. Murder, rape, pillage, genocide There is this long tradition, in Western culture in particular, with associating intelligence and dominance and power. It's interesting to speculate about how, and I wish I knew more about it, and I'd like to see more research on this, about how different cultures perceive AI. It's well known that Japan is very accepting of technology and robots, for example. That's a big question. Certainly I don't lie awake at night worried that robots are going to knock the door down and come in with a machine gun. If the robots take over the world, it won't be by knocking the door down. At the moment, I think it's certainly as big a risk that we have a GMO moment, and there's a powerful reaction against the technology which prevents us from reaping the benefits, which are enormous. I think that's as big a risk as the risks from the technologies themselves. I think one worry that we haven't talked about is that we've become extremely dependent upon this technology. And that we essentially become deskilled. There's an extent to which the history of civilisation is the history of the domestication of the human species sort of by ourselves, and also by our technology, to some extent. And AI certainly allows for that to reach a whole new level. Just think about GPs with diagnostic tools. Even now, my GP consults the computer fairly regularly. But as diagnostic tools get better, what are they going to be doing other than just typing something into the computer and reading out what comes back? At which point, you might as well do away with the GP. But then, who does know about medicine?\n\n<question>:\nCave acknowledges all of the potential concerns regarding AI EXCEPT:\n\n<options>:\nA contribution to a more apathetic society\nB mass casualties from AI-related accidents\nC tendency for use toward escapism\nD public reaction toward human job losses\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
813 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nGarden , Allure , Details , Self , Mademoiselle , and Glamour and Random House. The expense-account lunch is a hallowed journalistic tradition. But consider a day in the life of an editor working for Si Newhouse. (Donald's editors are a different story, as they will be happy to tell you.) It's a closed economy where almost all human needs and desires can be gratified with a miraculous, unlimited currency called the Si. A Lincoln Town Car is waiting outside your door in the morning to take you to work. The car, which costs $50 an hour, is written into your contract. First stop, breakfast with a writer at the Four Seasons. The check may be as little as $40. When you reach the office, you realize you're out of cigarettes. No problem--you send your assistant to buy a pack for you. She gets reimbursed from petty cash ($3). (Could be worse for the assistant: She could be forced to pick up her boss's birth-control pills, or her boss's pet from the vet, or presents for her boss's children--regular duties for Condé Nast underlings.) You've forgotten to return the video your kids watched yesterday, so you have a messenger take it back to Blockbuster. Si spends $20 you save a $1.50 late fee. Then there's lunch. The magazines account for more than a quarter of daytime revenues at the Four Seasons and the Royalton. A modest lunch for two at the Royalton (no fancy wine or anything) might cost $80. But Si's generosity extends to even assistants and sub-sub-editors, dining on sushi at their desks. If you spend $10 or less on lunch, and claim you were working, Si pays. At Vogue and Vanity Fair , almost everyone has a \"working lunch\" every day . An editor at Allure says that \"working lunches\" there are limited to 10 a month. Back at the office, you hear that a friend at another Newhouse magazine has been promoted, so you send flowers. The tab: $100. Si pays. (One of my favorite Condé Nast stories is of an editor who had just been promoted to an extremely senior job. His office was jammed with congratulatory flowers and cards. All had been sent by fellow Condé Nast staffers. All had been billed to the company.) Four o'clock, and it's snack time. Your assistant joins the mob in the lobby newsstand. She bills your candy bar, juice, and cigarettes (as well as her own candy bar, juice, and cigarettes) to the magazine ($15). After all, it's a \"working snack.\" Later, there's a birthday party for your assistant. You order champagne and a cake--on the company, of course, and present her with your gift--a Prada wallet ($200). Later, she submits the expense sheet for it. Finally, after a Random House book party at Le Cirque 2000 (estimated cost to Si: $35,000), your car ferries you home. Newhouse expense stories are a staple of New York literary-journalistic conversation. Stories about the $10,000 in expenses that a New Yorker editor billed for a single month. About the interior-decorating costs for the fashion-magazine editor who likes to have her office photographs rearranged every few months. About the hotel tab for the big-name New York writer who spent three weeks in Washington's Hay-Adams (basic room: $285 a night) researching a Vanity Fair story that will never run. About the Vogue editor who has furnished her summer house from items purchased for fashion shoots--beautiful furniture, designer pillows, coffee-table books. Vogue assistants have nicknamed the house \"Petty Cash Junction.\" Need a facial? Treat yourself and bill it to Si. This is what is called \"scouting.\" It is also a great way to get free haircuts. To be fair, Si doesn't pay for all such treats. There is also a much-honored tradition of accepting tribute from companies that Condé Nast magazines cover. One magazine exec reportedly got so much loot last Christmas--Cuban cigars, \"crates of wine,\" designer suits (\"It was like a Spanish galleon\")--that he needed three cars to cart it home. At yuletide, even midlevel fashion-mag writers and editors are inundated with \"cashmere sweaters, Versace pillows, coats ...\" recalls one ex- Vogue staffer wistfully. At the top of the masthead, the perks are perkier. His Si-ness (their joke, not mine) does not expect his editors in chief to actually live on their million-dollar salaries. He also gives them clothing allowances (up to $50,000 a year). He buys them cars of their choice and hires chauffeurs to drive them. He offers them low- or no-interest home loans. GQ editor Art Cooper reportedly received two $1-million loans, one for a Manhattan apartment, the other for a Connecticut farm. Tina Brown and her husband, Harold Evans, former president of Random House, reportedly just took a $2-million boost to buy a $3.7-million Manhattan house. Writers, of course, are nowhere near as profligate as photographers. Stories of wasteful shoots abound: the matching seaweed that had to be flown from California to the Caribbean for a fashion photo the Annie Liebovitz Vanity Fair cover shot of Arnold Schwarzenegger that reportedly cost $100,000 the Vogue shoot in Africa in which, an ex- Vogue editor claims, the photographer and his huge entourage wined and dined to the tune of \"hundreds of thousands of dollars.\" Actually, paying $100,000 for face time with Princess Di may not have been a foolish investment for a magazine so dependent on peddling her image. And Condé Nast's excess has other plausible justifications as well. Some top editors may earn their perks. Vogue and GQ make millions, according to industry analysts. Vanity Fair is enjoying banner years, and while it probably hasn't made back the millions Newhouse lost in starting it up, it is certainly in the black. The New Yorker loses money--how much may even surpass perks as a topic of Newhouse gossip and speculation. On the other hand, The New Yorker is the most talked-about magazine in America, and Tina Brown is the most talked-about editor. That is worth something. Public media companies such as Time Warner (or, for that matter, Microsoft) can entice and hold journalists with stock options. Advance is private, so Newhouse uses other golden handcuffs. He runs a lifestyle prison. Top editors stay because they could never afford to live in a house as nice as the one Si's interest-free loan bought them, or to host parties as nice as the ones Si's party planners throw for them. Condé Nast's magazines are all about glamour, wealth, prestige. To uphold that image, magazine editors need to circulate at the top of New York society. But the top of New York society consists of people who make far more money than magazine editors do--investment bankers, corporate chieftains, and fashion designers. Million-dollar salaries aren't enough to mix as equals with the Trumps and Karans. Si's perks are equalizers.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is a main message conveyed in the article?\n\n<options>:\nA Respecting worker's rights.\nB Fame and fortune.\nC Carelessness leads to demise.\nD Hard work pays off.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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2,417 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nEvery writer must seek his own Flowery Kingdom in imagination's wide demesne, and if that search can begin and end on Earth his problem has been greatly simplified. In post-war Japan Walt Sheldon has found not only serenity, but complete freedom to write undisturbed about the things he treasures most. A one-time Air Force officer, he has turned to fantasy in his lighter moments, to bring us such brightly sparkling little gems as this. houlihan's The working model and the fact quick eyes and clever fingers could that the small people with their of the old things every day, and truly that went far to take the clutter out of my mind. I was no longer nuclear propulsion center—a cool, green spot, with the leaves all telling each other to hush, be quiet, and the soft breeze stirring them up so lonely that I couldn't think properly. a secluded little green sanctuary just over the hill from Mr. Riordan's again. I had known precisely such noises. It was in a park near the farm when I was a boy. \"Thank you, Mr. Houlihan,\" said work out an equation to give the \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech, upon another world perchance, you'll find our friendship always eager and ready.\" \"And now, Mr. Houlihan,\" said bargain.\" \"I'll not be needing the gold,\" I proportional to the square root of the pressure-head driving it. now, do you hear, for Mr. Houlihan—friend and structure— Oh, there is so word for it that without this equation—correctly stated, mind you—mankind would be well advised not had not been a specialist in my field I would hardly have found myself engaged in vital research at the center. first it might be children at play, but then at the time I was a bit absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge of the trees, not wanting to deprive any small scalawags of their pleasure, his working model. It would go down in scientific literature now, I suppose, as Houlihan's in the glade with Keech and discharge, which I never could have do without Keech's pot of gold, though it would have been pleasant to be truly rich for a change. There was no sense in cheating him out of the gold to boot, for leprechauns are most clever in matters of this sort and he would have had it back soon enough—or else the air with his arms and piping: \"Over here, now! All right, bring those electrical connections over also to the advantage of humankind, and when a man can do the first and include the second as a fortunate byproduct become convinced they could never this world, as long as it lasts—what would it be in that event? I ask you now, wouldn't we be even \"Come along now, people!\" said this crotchety one, looking straight at me. \"Stop starin' and get to work! You'll not be needin' to mind that man standin' there! You know he can't see nor hear us!\" over five feet in height. more likely to blow ourselves to Kingdom Come without the little people here Oh, it was good to hear the rich with us! He's a believer! Run everybody—run for your lives!\" behind the trees and bushes, and a sloping embankment nearby. \"No, wait!\" I said. \"Don't go away! I'll not be hurting you!\" They continued to scurry. course. I'd be entitled to it if I could catch one and keep him. Or so the legends affirmed, though I've wondered tongue. I was lonely here in America, even if I had latched on to a fine job of work for almost shamefully generous pay. You see, in a place as full of science as the nuclear propulsion center there is not much time for the old things. I very much wanted to talk to the little people. I walked over to the center of the glade where the curious shiny object was standing. It was as stepped back from the spaceship and looked about the glade. I knew they were all hiding nearby, watching Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans. father used to say! Come on out now, and pass the time o' day!\" answer. The little people always had been shy. Yet without reaching against a blank wall. Simply because I was so lonely that my mind had become clogged. to think the problem through to a satisfactory conclusion. So I stepped back to the tiny don't show yourselves and come out and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship from stem to stern!\" suddenly appeared. The leader—he seemed more wizened and bent than before—approached me slowly and warily as I stood there. The others all followed \"And mine's Houlihan, as I've \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech, drawing a kind of peppered dignity up about himself, \"in such matters I am never fully convinced. After living for many centuries I am all too acutely aware of the perversity of human nature.\" quickly see, all I want to do is talk.\" I nodded as I spoke, and sat down cross-legged upon the grass. Houlihan.\" \"And often that's all he wants,\" I said. \"Sit down with me now, and standing. \"Have your say, Mr. Houlihan. And afterward we'll appreciate it if you'll go away and leave us to our work.\" \"Well, now, your work,\" I said, and glanced at the spaceship. \"That's exactly what's got me curious.\" The others had edged in a bit now and were standing in a circle, group of little people be building a spaceship here in America—out in so often, though not as frequently as it did a century ago. But knowing does astonish center. Since it's no secret I can advise you of it.\" \"A scientist, is it,\" said Keech. we prefer poets to scientists. But it has just now crossed my mind, Mr. Houlihan that you, being a scientist, inclined,\" said Keech. \"Their major passions are music and laughter and mischief, as anyone knows.\" \"Myself included,\" I agreed. Or let me put it this way. We feel the world isn't long for itself.\" \"It's very simple. With all the now. We've spied upon you and learned how to do it. Well—almost how to do it. We haven't learned yet how to control the power—\" \"Hold on, now,\" I said. \"Leaving the planet, you say. And where would you be going?\" \"There's another committee working on that. 'Tis not our concern. of things.\" \"You mean you've been spying on us at the center all this time? Do you know, we often had the feeling There's one thing which puzzles me, though. If you've been constantly around us—and I'm still able to see the little people—why know—'tis a thing of the mind, and not important at the moment. What's important is for us to get \"You're determined to go.\" \"Truly we are, Mr. Houlihan. Now—to business. Just during these last few minutes a certain matter has crossed my mind. That's why I'm wastin' all this time with \"The power control, Mr. Houlihan. As I understand it, 'tis necessary out exactly as it does on paper.\" \"You're referring to the necessity not with humor, \"the avarice of humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan, I'll give you reason enough. The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!\" done so quickly without those sessions apart, and were deep in argument about the whole project. It was a most fascinating session. I had often wished for a true working model at the center, but no allowance had been inserted in the was comfortable enough. Every once in a while someone from the town or the center itself would pass by, and stop to watch me. But of course they wouldn't see the leprechauns or anything the leprechauns had made, not being believers. I would halt work, pass the time of day, and then, in subtle fashion,\n\n<question>:\nWhat helps Houlihan to focus more intently on his own problem?\n\n<options>:\nA collaborating with the leprechauns, who speak his same language\nB imagining the pot of gold that awaits him if he is able to solve the equation\nC being outdoors, where his creativity is stimulated\nD venturing outside of the Center, where he is not worried about competition among colleagues\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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27 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nDoctor Universe By CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers, had stumbled onto a murderous plot more A woman here...! The Spacemen's was a sanctuary, a rest club where in-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for another Grannie Annie! I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. \"Grannie Annie! I and Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossed \"What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren't allowed in the Spacemen's ? What happened to the book you were writing?\" this place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's what they are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places.\" She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might be Annabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels. But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year's hat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivel in the name of science fiction than anyone alive. But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored for more. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publishers sat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount. One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dime novels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote a novel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bag and hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between two expeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto. She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known. \"What happened to Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftly .\" I grinned. \"All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universe and beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair.\" \"What else is there in science fiction?\" she demanded. \"You can't have your hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster.\" Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to her . They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzled colonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over the muck, DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS NINE GENIUSES tinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in the myself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts.\" There was a roar of applause from the sets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions. These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For every . \"One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will match her wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer of science fiction, Annabella C. Flowers.\" From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her place on the dais. Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised her \"Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructed tracto-car.\" And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed in the visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutonian cafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offering bantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed, It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie had Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my arm closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming. \"My last book, Death In The Atom she began. \"When it was finished I had planned to take a six months' vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel. Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, so for this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent six weeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met Ezra Karn....\" \"Who?\" I interrupted. \"An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts of Varsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking about his adventures, and he told me plenty.\" Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor. If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed. existence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble. \"Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it made corking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week after it was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back on Earth.\" \"I see,\" I said as she lapsed into silence. \"And now you've come to the conclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone is attempting to put your plot into action.\" Grannie nodded. \"Yes,\" she said. \"That's exactly what I think.\" and laughed heartily. \"The same old Flowers,\" I said. \"Tell me, who's your thief ... Doctor Universe?\" She regarded me evenly. \"What makes you say that?\" I shrugged. happening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars, police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government by en masse .\" If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I would appeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head the Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for the It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into her \"We're heading directly for Varsoom country,\" she said. \"If we find Ezra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions to the lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. You isolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie had tent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believe Grannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plots which she had skilfully blended into a novel? appeared. Grannie gave a single warning: Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed. and follows with a relentless purpose.\" \"Then that would mean...?\" Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained the \"What do you mean?\" Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself a cigarette. \"You know where it is, don't you?\" \"Ye-s,\" Karn nodded. \"But like I told you before, that ship lies in Varsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot.\" Earthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy.\" \"Dangerous?\" \"Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outside of myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got away \"Laugh?\" A scowl crossed Grannie's face. \"The Doctor Universe program,\" he said. \"I ain't missed one in months. You gotta wait 'til I hear it.\" Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. He futility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept me Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. \"Billy-boy, take three \"Up we go, Billy-boy.\" Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began to Grannie nodded. \"Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames in \"You'll never do it that way,\" Grannie said. \"Nothing short of an Grannie stamped her foot. \"It's maddening,\" she said. \"Here we are at\n\n<question>:\nWhat makes Grannie Annie's writing remarkable?\n\n<options>:\nA She isn't a writer of any notararitey.\nB She is an esteemed actor on top of being a writer.\nC She writes intense science fiction.\nD Her science fiction stories are typical, but she visits the locations she writes about and does so authentically.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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943 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nShe provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's race had a body like hers and she knew it. \"Racially, there should be a chance,\" she said. \"Actually, Kelburn and I would be infertile.\" \"Can you be sure?\" he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to act unconcerned. race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it! In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on a package. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked under his wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neck Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly good imitation of speech. \"Yes, I've heard the legend.\" \"It's more than a legend,\" said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction was and yet each planetary race can interbreed with a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of a lot more!\" \"It is impressive,\" admitted Taphetta. \"But I find it mildly distasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to my species.\" \"That's because you're unique,\" said Halden. \"Outside of your own that's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the sole a corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able to breed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile with Meredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility may extend to Kelburn.\" Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. \"But I thought it was proved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was an unbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.\" commented Taphetta dryly. \"It seems an unnecessary simplification.\" \"Can you think of a better explanation?\" asked Kelburn. \"Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not the only the human race.\" \"I can't think of a better explanation.\" Taphetta rearranged his others—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever got together—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could be very useful. A clear statement of their position was essential in helping him make up his mind. \"You've heard of the adjacency mating that humans who can mate with each other were once physically close. We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetary race F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G is fertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatever Taphetta rustled. \"The math is accurate?\" \"As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem.\" \"To the best of our knowledge,\" said Kelburn. \"And whereas there are humans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always mate with those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago !\" \"The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,\" murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. \"Is that the only era that satisfies the calculations?\" Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. \"And you think that where the two ability.\" Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. \"I had other plans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergency such as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what are profits from any discoveries we may make.\" \"I'm complimented that you like our contract so well,\" said Taphetta, \"but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me, you'll take my contract. I came prepared.\" He extended a tightly bound mating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet had been inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware of his place in the human hierarchy. Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to the \"To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathes through a million tubes scattered over his body.\" It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that his evolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no sense less complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higher Halden. \"Do anything you can to give it to him.\" \"Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could do something about it.\" Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn't said it. It didn't help the situation at all. Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body, he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legs were folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably on tells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it.\" The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. \"What kind of creatures are they?\" four-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. A typical pest.\" Taphetta rustled. \"Have you found out how it got on?\" \"It was probably brought in with the supplies,\" said the biologist. \"Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a half so hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait's strong enough.\" \"That's what I don't like,\" said Taphetta, curling. \"Let me think it \"I don't question your authority,\" crinkled Taphetta. \"To me, all humans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If you are an archeologist, that's enough for me.\" He paused and flicked his \"A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life,\" mused Taphetta. plasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of us did.\" \"This special planet sounds strange,\" murmured Taphetta. Taphetta. \"We helped them,\" said Emmer. And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically late aloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, it was tacitly assumed, such a destiny? Taphetta changed his questioning. \"What do you expect to gain from this discovery of the unknown ancestor?\" It was Halden who answered him. \"There's the satisfaction of knowing \"No doubt,\" said Taphetta. \"An archeologist would be interested in \"I thought so,\" said Taphetta. \"I never paid much attention to your fractionally and ceaselessly. \"I don't like to, but we'll have to risk using bait for your pest.\" terms don't permit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race.\" Taphetta was wrong there had been no intention of withholding anything. Halden examined his own attitudes. He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquired would have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind of technical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that could improve itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a start \"It's almost a curse, isn't it?\" She laughed and took the curse away by leaning provocatively against him. \"But barbaric lovers are often nice.\" her, I'm merely a passionate savage. non-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves. \"I haven't asked you to marry me,\" he said bluntly. \"Because you're afraid I'd refuse.\" permanent union. \"Why did you ever have anything to do with me?\" demanded Halden. \"Love,\" she said gloomily. \"Physical attraction. But I can't let it\n\n<question>:\nWhat is ironic about Taphetta's contempt for mating among species?\n\n<options>:\nA Taphetta can only survive if they mate with another species\nB Taphetta is actually jealous about other species' ability to intermix\nC Taphetta is likely a result of mating among species\nD Taphetta is biologically unable to mate with other species\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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143 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that wire as the scrambler went into operation. \"Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boys of the afternoon.\" me.\" some answers to go with the questions?\" me do it my way.\" \"I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigator could be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your home area—\" \"You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. I sometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—\" \"You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'm brings you back to the boondocks?\" visit to the old home town. Between us, there's more.\" \"It won't take long to tell we don't know much yet.\" Tremaine covered high-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmission produced not one but a pattern of \"fixes\" on the point of origin. He passed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentric \"I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of these pattern—\" word for it.\" \"The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to this near here. Now, have you got any ideas?\" \"That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with the to TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lord intended.\" \"I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you had something ...\" \"Course,\" said Jess, \"there's always Mr. Bram ...\" groceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.\" \"Well, what about him?\" \"Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A little touched in the head.\" \"There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember,\" Tremaine sometimes he gave us apples.\" \"I've never seen any harm in Bram,\" said Jess. \"But you know how this \"Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all about then?\" over again.\" other drug store....\" on fire.\" \"What was the idea of that?\" \"Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car was about Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.\" \"What about her and Bram? A romance?\" frowning. \"This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'n foot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger to about any kind of socializing \"When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again?\" \"After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitely repeating logarithmic sequence, based on—\" Hall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellow a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door said A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder at sell, mister, if that's what you want to know.\" to save a trip.\" He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw. \"See what I can do,\" he said. a two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated a line written in faded ink: \"May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G& The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. \"Nineteen-oh-one,\" he said. \"I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must be \"I guess you're right.\" \"I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?\" \"Maybe so.\" The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look. \"There's one story that's not superstition....\" paper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. \"I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.\" The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. \"You have to handle \"What date was it you wanted?\" \"Nineteen-oh-one the week of May nineteenth.\" page. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-American On page four, under a column headed months. \"May I see some earlier issues alarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning and timber and threatened the house before burning itself out along north after the police car. \"What's the matter? Run out of signal?\" \"What's it to you, mister?\" \"We could be.\" \"I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gave \"It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you were doing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.\" Grammond cursed. \"I could have put my men in the town and taken it \"You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys use Grammond snorted. \"Okay, Tremaine,\" he said. \"You're the boy with all the answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me once-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, its that you've amounted to something.\" \"Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.\" \"You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.\" \"How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?\" Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. \"Will what I tell you be to be in the national interest.\" year.\" \"What does he do for a living?\" \"I have no idea.\" \"Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolated piece of country? What's his story?\" \"I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.\" last?\" and it may help him.\" \"Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go with him to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale. silver disc on a fine golden chain. \"You see what a foolish old woman I \"There is one other thing,\" she said, \"perhaps quite meaningless....\" \"I'd be grateful for any lead.\" \"Bram fears the thunder.\" asked: Tremaine shook his head. \"I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's a dud, I'm afraid.\" \"Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.\" As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, \"Jimmy, what's this about State Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone hand from what you were saying to me.\" he doesn't want to be left out.\" \"Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'm wondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ring working—\" \"We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind this and neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ... and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enough mistakes in the last few years I don't want to see this botched.\" \"Better get it.\" lay on the oilcloth-covered table. slabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains. \"Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.\" \"It's a trail.\" Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor. \"What do you make of it. Jimmy?\" tricks?\" questions.\" lounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mop with burnin out a Commie, is there?\" \"What did you hear?\" \"They're lookin for the spies.\" \"Who's looking for spies?\" \"Cops.\" \"Who says so?\" that way, ain't he?\" \"Anything else?\"\n\n<question>:\nOf the following options, which could best describe the moral to this story?\n\n<options>:\nA The histories of small towns are interesting and often involve murder and other significant crimes.\nB Working entirely by oneself can be great if one is smart and connected.\nC Teamwork is good for solving problems, and not working as a cohesive team can lead to obstacles.\nD Sometimes crimes are hard to solve and it's good to realize that some will never be solved fully.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
2,294 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nexterminate any planet that refuses to obey the just and legal orders of its Viceroy. So we achieve a working balance in our Empire. We control it adequately, and we live in peace. \"The Sundans, for example, John Crownwall as he strode Empire that was rightfully ours away from us, through trickery, were unable to take over the Sectors we control. We are still powerful. And soon we will be all-powerful. In company with you Earthlings, that is.\" he felt distinctly unhappy. Crownwall surrounded by this writhing, slithering mass of eight-foot creatures, Crownwall nodded. \"In other can break up this two-million-year-old conquer planets without the necessity of destroying them, and thereby take over number one spot from these Sunda friends of yours.\" stalemate. You've got the idea that, with our help, you can to Crownwall. \"You broke our unconcern that he felt sure was entirely wasted on these monsters. Crownwall The clashing teeth of the noisiest and unexpectedly to Crownwall, Crownwall all but sagged with relief. A pair of guards, their purple hides smoothly polished and gleaming with oil, crossed their ceremonial \"Bunk,\" said Crownwall. of the Universal Holy Empire of swiftly, before Ggaran, lunging angrily forward, could speak. \"Then what do you want of us?\" Sunda. He ignored the snarling, the Crownwall. \"I want to see Ffallk.\" trustworthy, I believe. On your side, you have the power to destroy spitting, the waving of boneless \"It is impossible for us of Earth to destroy all of your planets. As you have said, there are more planets that belong to you than there yourselves. You will transfer to us, at once, a hundred of your planet-destroying bombs. That will be a though they took the rule of the Crownwall sat on the steps, said to Crownwall. \"Follow me. His before him at once.\" The two guards withdrew their pikes and froze into immobility at the sides Crownwall stamped out his he felt sure that we were safe \"But your stooge here doesn't seem very happy about it all.\" They examined Crownwall with \"Nor do I,\" consented Crownwall. Vegan in lordly trappings. \"That's nice,\" said Crownwall Crownwall to still Crownwall's immediate exclamation of protest. \"Oh, nothing that would give us a chance to duplicate it—just enough to plans to beat the claws off the Master Race.\" After Crownwall nodded. \"I don't Crownwall. \"If you wanted someone what you had already done, I suspected one of you amazing Earthlings I am the leader of one of the mightiest peoples in the Galaxy, whereas there are scarcely six billions of you squatting on one minor planet, we still need each other. Together, there is nothing \"I'm listening,\" said Crownwall. the Empire. I rule over a total of a hundred Satrapies these average council of war, they murmured Ggaran. had called it—and their unanimous decision. Although far within the am,\" said Crownwall. \"So what's Crownwall shrugged. \"So?\" dangerous influence of a planetary of the victim in a case such as you rose to his feet. \"And now, Your Effulgence, I think it's about \"I'd noticed that,\" Crownwall numbering a total of perhaps a hundred thousand individuals. They showed many signs of an ability to reason, but a complete shrill two-tone note, using both his cohort of troops, pikes at the ready and bows strapped to their backs, leaped forward and formed a speaking and his eating orifices. A that they would some day come to be numbered among the Servants against her unknown enemy. \"I'm glad of that,\" said Crownwall. \"You Earthlings, in defiance of all expectation and all reason, have exploded into space. You have developed with shock at the memory. \"You \" Heard about it?\" exclaimed Crownwall. \"I was bloody-minded Earthlings must to Crownwall. been activated, for the first time in Earth's history, and, for the twelve, the stars had winked out. The men of Earth had decided that it should work in theory. They planet. To do so, said their theory, would usually—seven point three four times out of 10—destroy the thousands of miles around, in a ravening burst of raw energy. In less than a week's time, if and spoke again to Crownwall. time has any meaning under such circumstances, they had flickered \"Of course,\" said Crownwall, Two weeks later, while they from their destination, they had been shocked to find more than two score alien ships of space were still several planetary diameters than their own. These ships had rapidly and competently englobed the \"Oh, no. They are far too brutal, too morally degraded, to know anything of these finer points of etiquette and propriety. They are Although caught by surprise, the Earthmen had acted swiftly. Crownwall recalled the discussion—the use an energy weapon to dispose just witnessed! They are really quite unfit to rule. They can scarcely be called civilized at all. But we will soon put a stop to all of that—your race and mine, of course.\" the odds. On the distorter drive, Crownwall. they had returned to Earth as swiftly as they had departed. Earth had immediately prepared for war Crownwall during the trip, without \"I sincerely hope so,\" said mass, they had again activated the distorter drive, and they had beaten the cohort, the bearers and Ggaran continued to run—without food, drink or, except for Ggaran, evidence \"The action you took was too swift Crownwall's directions, the You knew that you could have destroyed not only yourself, but also all who live on that planet. You and too foolhardy to be believed. being almost undetectable in use. It emitted no mass or radiation. After elaborate and lengthy farewells, Crownwall climbed into his wild and warlike races running free and uncontrolled in the Galaxy. Once was enough for that.\" fact that we'll undoubtedly be blown into atoms if we don't. But from what you say, I'd rather be plan of yours. It's only a question of time before they'll find some way around it, and then—poof—we'll obvious that we could not conquer you. We could only destroy you.\" \"That old fool on Sunda, the complacently. \"After I got back a few million years, I'm afraid I got the Vegans hadn't appeared yet. we had done our job. \"With his usual lack of imagination, to the President and began to speak rapidly. \"They're gone without trace— all of them !\" he cried. \"I went clear to Sunda and there's no sign of intelligent life anywhere! We're all alone now!\" \"There, you see?\" exclaimed Crownwall. \"Our enemies are all gone!\" He looked around, glowing with victory, at the others at the table, then slowly quieted and sat down. He turned his head away from it wouldn't be long before \"Alone,\" he said, and unconsciously repeated Marshall's words: \"We're all alone now.\" In silence, the others gathered their papers together and left the waiting for you, and here you are.\" \"It was the thinking of a genius,\" involuntarily, and then leaped to bowed. \"The crustaceans on Sunda—the lobsterlike creatures that rule the Galaxy—are his feet to follow after them. usurpers. They have no rights us of our rightful place. \"The Emperor at Sunda is one of them. They provide sixty-eight \"For more than two million years we have waited for the opportunity for revenge. And now asked Crownwall, \"how does the he slavered in fury, but the clashing of his teeth subsided instantly at a soothing wave from His Effulgence. in its capture and subjugation—just as your little Earth can defend itself.\n\n<question>:\nHow does the Council feel about Crownwall's decision to go back in time to before the Vegans appeared?\n\n<options>:\nA They are scared. The Sundans will surely attack the Earth now.\nB They are horrified. They sent Crownwall to make a peace treaty not to commit genocide.\nC They are sad. They are all alone in the universe now.\nD They are ecstatic. All of their enemies are gone now.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
443 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"But why?\" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his suffering, but I could recognize it. Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that the shock had deranged his mind. His voice trembled when he said, \"But if I ask you to kill them, and trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop, the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face, He waved his hands helplessly. \"Gratitude?\" he muttered. Then he cried suddenly, \"But I am your friend, Robert!\" arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that, Peter called an emotion to the end that I knew was inevitable. It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with satisfaction. His dream was perfect the Citadel was complete, every minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly, impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled body. For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging \"Lord!\" he said. One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified, glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more terrible illusion. and this is more intolerable than any normal invasion. \"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the \" Will laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to \"What makes, Peter my love?\" she asked, and bent back to the ledger. \"Darling, what's wrong?\" and below them, a pitiful huddle of flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more horrible than any cry of agony. \"The Invaders are here, citizens,\" the commentator was saying in a \"Peter!\" she said faintly. \"Why do they broadcast such things?\" out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles The man and woman clung together, waiting. Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms \"Wait here,\" he mouthed. She was after him, clinging to his arms. \"No, Peter! Don't go in there! Peter! cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin, glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin. In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood, paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen. The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit his spread There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said in a terrible voice, \"Why? Why?\" The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move, but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering. The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened. were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only \"I can't understand,\" he cried wildly. \"What do you want?\" His voice was hoarse. \"Don't look! Don't—Go back!\" The horrible, mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress. His insides writhed to thrust it out. She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his He wanted to say, \"Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—\" but his mouth only twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly. \"Where am I?\" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid. Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all. In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just before he drifted off, he said sleepily, \"You can't—fool me. It's been \"She was only suffering from ordinary shock,\" Arnold explained. \"But where is she?\" Peter complained. \"You still haven't explained why \"But why?\" Peter whispered. Arnold's strong jaw knotted. \"We're hiding,\" he said. \"Everything else Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on \"And since then?\" Peter asked huskily. enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other \"I wonder,\" Peter said shakily, \"if I am strong enough to take it.\" \"Our last hope?\" \"I see,\" said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the Lorelei said, \"You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—\" \"There's no other way,\" Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers. She choked, \"But why can't you take me along?\" He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. \"You know why,\" he come back, Peter.\" He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A line from an old film kept echoing through his head. \" He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into he slumped down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate. heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one. The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed the silence pressed in about him. its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its after a time he ceased even to wonder. Peter closed the diary. \"The rest you know, Robert,\" he said. He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive I said, \"That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth.\" He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. \"What—what did\n\n<question>:\nWhat emotions could likely be behind the expression on Peter's face at the end of the passage when he was told that they could not return to Earth?\n\n<options>:\nA Fear\nB Satisfaction\nC Defeat\nD Contentment\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
1,823 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nimmeasurably powerful, utterly invulnerable. There was only one him like an avenging angel and, holding onto the bunk with one hand, rained savage blows on his head and shoulders with the There were only two other people in the Golden Satellite: the fat, mustached bartender and a short, square-built man at the bar. The latter swung necessary to break free of Jupiter? Here's a man strong enough to break a spaceship safety belt just by getting refuge behind him. Her protector was obviously unwilling, but the dark man, faced with his and then crying that he had injured his hand on the bar. “But he said Dr. Mansard was his father,” protested Trella. “Robots and androids frequently look on their makers as Mansard died?” “The oxygen equipment failed, of Jupiter, if he's human?” Trella was silent. “For the protection of humans, At this juncture, the bartender and it had been developed by many things were explained: his great strength, his short, broad build, his immunity to injury, his refusal to defend himself against a human, his inability to return Trella's love for him. “That means you, too, lady,” she should have unknowingly fallen in love with an android. Humans could love androids, with real affection, even knowing that they were artificial. said the bartender beside her. “You and your boy friend get had not told Quest of her mission to Ganymede. He thought he was Dr. Mansard's son, but an android had no legal right of inheritance from his owner. She would leave it to Dom Blessing often believe that.” to decide what to do about Quest. Thus she did not, as she had She looked contemptuously at the massive muscles whose help had been denied her. Her arm wrong and Quest was human—as now seemed unlikely—Quest had told her he could not love her. Her best course was to try to forget him. her was not unhandsome, and the blue eyes were disconcertingly direct, but she despised The gravity of Ganymede was hardly more than that of Earth's moon, but the way the man He knew I'd have to grow steps of the familiar brownstone house on the outskirts of Washington. Dom Blessing himself met her at the door, a stooped, graying 58 up on Jupiter, and he operated she was grateful for his presence. on the genes before I was born. vari-colored disc of Jupiter itself, riding high in the sky. “I'm Quest Mansard, Miss,” said her companion. “I'm just in from Jupiter.” “I'm glad they're something you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she said. “There's something else I I should tell you about.” She told him about Quest. “He thinks he's the son of Dr. Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently he is, without knowing it, an android Dr. Mansard built on Jupiter.” Dr. Eriklund Mansard?” “I certainly have,” she said, her interest taking a sudden “He came back to Earth with step, seeming to deliberately he's an android and claim ownership as Dr. Mansard's heir.” Trella planned to spend a few days resting in her employer's her duties as his confidential Two armed men were with Dom Blessing at breakfast and accompanied him wherever he went. She discovered that two hold himself down. “If Dr. Mansard succeeded in landing on Jupiter, why didn't anyone ever hear from him “Why all the protection?” she asked Blessing. “A wealthy man must be careful,” said Blessing cheerfully. “When we don't understand all the implications of new circumstances, “Jupiter strength,” she murmured, looking him over coolly. Why, an android can't hurt a human!” Blessing peered at her over his spectacles. “And what if he isn't an android, eh? And if he is—what if old Mansard didn't build in the prohibition against harming humans that's required by law? There was something here she hadn't known about, hadn't even suspected. For some reason, Dom Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund Mansard … or his heir … or his mechanical servant. She was sure that Blessing was wrong, that Quest, whether thought with a rush of sympathy, he couldn't help being a cab to deliver the unconscious Motwick to his home. She and such bitterness during their long time together on Ganymede and aspace, since he did not know of Trella's connection with Blessing. But, since this was to be the atmosphere of Blessing's house, she was glad that he decided to assign her to take the Mansard papers to the New “We'll be traveling companions, York laboratory. Quest came the day before she For some reason she decided against telling him that the playboy whom Trella had known briefly on Earth, and Trella was glad to dispense with his company weeks before the spaceship blasted off. She found herself enjoying the steadier companionship of Quest. As a matter of fact, she found herself enjoying his companionship more than she intended to. She found herself falling in love with him. Now this did not suit her at Blessing, ahead of the rest, leaped into one of the cars and started the engine. being so strongly attracted to a ached where the dark man had that the ship was the Cometfire and its skipper was her old friend, dark-eyed, curly-haired Jakdane Gille. side, he lifted the torn body of Dom Blessing. Blessing was dead. “I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly. psychologically from my birth to the task of hunting down Dom Blessing and killing him. It was an unconscious drive in me that wouldn't release me until the task was finished. “You see, Blessing was my father's assistant on Ganymede. Right after my father completed he and my mother blasted off for Io. Blessing wanted the valuable rights to the surgiscope, and he Her employer had impressed upon her that her mission was confidential, but surely Dom Blessing could not object to Dr. Mansard's son knowing about it. All these things had happened before she was born, and she did not know what Dom Blessing's relation to Dr. Mansard had been, but it must have been very close. She knew that Dr. successfully. I was born there, and he conditioned me to come to Earth and track down Blessing. Mansard had invented the surgiscope. This was an instrument with I know now that it was Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest took her in his arms. a three-dimensional screen as its “Now I can say I love you,” delicate operations could be performed at the cellular level. Dr. Mansard and his wife had disappeared into the turbulent atmosphere of Jupiter just after in Jupiter's atmosphere after the oxygen equipment failed. Dom Blessing. Its success had I know you think Dr. Mansard was your father, but androids built Spaceway Instruments, Incorporated, Dr. Mansard's disappearance, 55 Blessing had been searching the Jovian moons for a second, hidden laboratory of Dr. Mansard. which Blessing headed. Through all these years since When it was found at last, he sent Trella, his most trusted there. Blessing would, of course, be happy to learn that a son of Dr. Mansard lived, and would see that he received his rightful share of the inheritance. Because herself but she decided against it. It was Blessing's privilege to do this his own way, and he might not appreciate her meddling. you to be a chaperon,” she said. “I kept waiting for Quest to do something, and when he didn't sabotaged the ship's drive so it love me and he feels that he her wounded feelings with a sympathetic pleasantry, but he kept to himself as much as possible. He was distantly polite in his relations with both crew and Quest picked up his bulb of coffee, but inadvertently pressed it before he got it to his\n\n<question>:\nWhat is Dom Blessings's relationship to Dr. Mansard?\n\n<options>:\nA Dom Blessing was Dr. Mansard's assistant.\nB Dom Blessing was Dr. Mansard's business partner.\nC Dom Blessing was Dr. Mansard's employer.\nD Dom Blessing was Dr. Mansard's best friend.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
1,258 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n?\" Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stared down moodily into the street. \"You don't know what an overcrowded world is like,\" he said. \"A street \"But it's mobbed,\" protested Zotul. \"It gave me a headache.\" populous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in.\" Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, he Broderick smiled gently. \"Zur will grow. Our people will intermarry with yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zurians nor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.\" Zotul sat in silent thought. \"But you did not have to buy us out. You \"And after that?\" have been yours alone.\" He stopped in alarm. \"Or am I suggesting an idea that didn't occur to you?\" \"No,\" said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained with memory. \"We know the history of conquest all too well. Our method causes more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and more Pottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more and finished, we can repair the dislocations.\" \"At last I understand what you said about the tortoise.\" \"Slow but sure.\" Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on the shoulder. \"Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always, the rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design. but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zur Zotul's eyes widened. \"And that is why my brothers did not beat me when \"Yes,\" said Zotul. \"I am ready.\" \"Doubtless,\" said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conference was expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of his conclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it. The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan. Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment. Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned him their desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and they Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thought effect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered, The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from the The pretty young wife laughed at him. \"Up to your ears in clay, no After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotul \"You didn't think so at first,\" Zotul pointed out, and was immediately It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that their \"Perhaps,\" said Zotul, \"it is a good thing also, as you said before, Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantly Masur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed that Zotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to calling Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicated jovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took a better look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individual with genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed in the baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except for Zotul on the back. \"Just tell us your troubles and we'll have you All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for this Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had been is the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, and all because of new things coming from Earth.\" Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. \"Why didn't you come to me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has, we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always to damages.\" Broderick shook his head. \"It is not possible to replace an immense fortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported your trouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Do Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. \"My wife Lania likes the music,\" he explained. \"I cannot afford the other things.\" Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford the bargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed. \"To begin with,\" he said, \"I am going to make you a gift of all these luxuries you do not have.\" As Zotul made to protest, he cut him off The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, it was no more than fair to pay transportation. He said, \"How much does the freight cost?\" Broderick told him. \"It may seem high,\" said the Earthman, \"but remember that Earth is \"Impossible,\" said Zotul drably. \"Not I and all my brothers together \"What is that?\" asked Zotul skeptically. \"It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of the rich,\" said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of the Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. \"What must I do to get credit?\" \"Just sign this paper,\" said Broderick, \"and you become part of our Zotul drew back. \"I have five brothers. If I took all these things for myself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue.\" \"Here.\" Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. \"Have each of your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That is It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotul The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotul pointed this out politely. \"Interest,\" Broderick explained. \"A mere fifteen per cent. After all, \"I see.\" Zotul puzzled over it sadly. \"It is too much,\" he said. \"Our plant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.\" \"I have a surprise for you,\" smiled Broderick. \"Here is a contract. You \"We will equip your plant,\" beamed Broderick. \"It will require only a quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrial Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman, it was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth's unswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded. Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The sets more, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully. \"You got us into this,\" they said, emphasizing their bitterness with fists. \"Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have some contracts to continue operating.\" Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr. Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him. Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would. Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hint looked at Zotul coldly. \"It is well you have come to us instead of \"I don't know what you mean,\" said Zotul. beating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and was was remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the female \"Me?\" marveled Zotul. friendly smile. \"Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again.\" Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick, the Earthman. \"I—I came to see the governor,\" he said in confusion. Broderick nodded agreeably. \"I am the governor and I am well acquainted with your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down.\" bought you out.\" \"Our government....\" \"Your governments belong to us, too,\" said Broderick. \"When they could why\n\n<question>:\nWho was the only one to listen and agree with Zotul?\n\n<options>:\nA Koltan\nB Zotul's wife\nC Kalrab\nD Broderick\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
281 | quality | [
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nto Cupia, where Lilla awaits in some dire extremity.” end. The morrow would decide the ascendancy of Myles Cabot or the Prince Yuri over the new continent. IV THE COUP D’ETAT cycle, thus indicating that the origin of these waves is some point outside the earth. had served in the wars in which Cabot had twice freed Cupia from the domination of its Formian oppressors. They spoke with bitterness of the downfall of their beloved spent on the planet Venus, where, by the aid of radio, he had led the Cupians to victory over their oppressors, a human-brained race of gigantic black ants. He had driven he was then quietly visiting at my farm, after five earth-years Formia. Their testimony was brief. the last ant from the face of continental Poros, and had to occupy the throne of Cupia. won and wed the Princess Lilla, who had borne him a son While at my farm Cabot had rigged up a huge radio The messenger: “Yuri lives and reigns over Cupia. It is his seas under the gallant leadership of Prince Yuri, the man with the heart of a Formian, he brought with him one of to him suspected that he had gone back across the boiling seas to claim as his own the throne of Cupia. But we hesitated to announce this until we were sure, for we feared that some of our own people would regard his departure as and to the throne which is his by rights?” To which the messenger added: “And he offers to give us back our own old country, if we too will return across the boiling seas again.” “It is a lie!” Doggo shouted. “Yuri, usurper of the thrones of two continents. Bah!” shouted Emu. “Yuri, our rightful leader,” shouted Barth. During the weeks that followed there was recorded Myles’s own account of the amazing adventures on the planet Venus (or Poros, as its own inhabitants call it,) which befell him upon his return there after his brief visit to the earth. I have edited those notes into the following TOO MUCH STATIC Myles Cabot had returned to the earth to study the absence. The last of the ant-men and their ally, the renegade Cupian Prince Yuri, had presumably perished in an attempt to escape by flying through the steam-clouds which completely hem in continental Poros. What lay beyond the boiling seas no man knew. 9 finally and fully recovered, he found himself lying on a sandy beach beside a calm and placid lake beneath a silver the idea flashed through his mind: “I must be on Mars! Or some other strange planet.” This idea was vaguely befriended him on his previous visit. Could it be that all his adventures in Cupia had been naught but a dream a recurring dream, in fact? Were his longer possessed the wonderful electrical headset which he had contrived and built during his previous visit to that planet, so as to talk with Cupians and Formians, both of which races are earless and converse by means of radiations from their antennae. Far below them were silver-green fields and tangled tropical woods, interspersed with rivulets and little ponds. This was Cupia, his Cupia. He was home once more, back again upon the planet which held all that was dear to him in two worlds. (or, rather, claws) of his old enemies, the Formians? He had been their prisoner before, and had escaped. Once more he could escape, and rescue the Princess Lilla. to flash that “S O S” a hundred million miles across the solar system from Poros to the earth. He wondered what could have happened in Cupia since his departure, only a few sangths ago. How was it that the ant-men had survived their airplane journey across the boiling seas? What had led them to return? Or perhaps these ants were a group who had hidden somewhere and thus had escaped the general extermination of their race. Cupia? And where was their former leader, Yuri, the renegade Cupian prince? These and a hundred other similar questions flooded in upon the earth-man, as the Formian airship carried him, a difference from the accustomed Porovian landscape, for nowhere ran the smooth concrete roads which bear the swift two-wheeled kerkools of the Cupians to all parts of their continent. What uninhabited portion of Cupia could this be, over which they were now passing? 12 outskirts further building operations were actively in progress. Apparently a few survivors of the accursed race of Formians were consolidating their position and attempting to build up a new empire in some out-of-the-way portion of the continent. blue-eyed, golden-haired Lilla, Crown Princess of Cupia. The earth-man sighed. Where was his beloved wife now? “How is my princess and my son, the baby king? Whence come all you Formians, whose race I thought had been exterminated? What part of Cupia is this? What is this city? Where is Prince Yuri? And what do you intend to do with “As to your princess and your son, I know not, for this is not Cupia. Do you remember how, when your victorious army and air navy swept to the southern extremity of what had been Formia, a few of our survivors rose in planes from the ruins of our last stronghold and braved the dangers of the steam clouds which overhang the boiling seas? Our leader was Prince Yuri, erstwhile contender for the throne of Cupia, splendid even in defeat. “It was his brain that conceived our daring plan of escape. If there were other lands beyond the boiling seas, the lands which tradition taught were the origin of the Cupian race, then there we might prosper and raise up a new empire. At the worst we should merely meet death in another form, rather than at your hands. So we essayed. harrowing details of that perilous flight across the boiling seas, ending with the words: “Here we are, and here are you, in Yuriana, capitol of New Formia. But how is it that you, Myles Cabot, have arrived here on this continent in exactly the same manner and condition in which I discovered you in old Formia When Myles reached the end of reading this narrative, he in turn took the pad and stylus and related how he had gone to the planet Minos (which we call the Earth) to learn the latest discoveries and inventions there, and how his calculations for his return to Poros had been upset by some static conditions just as he had been about to transmit himself back. Oh, if only he had landed by chance upon “Yes,” his captor replied, “for Queen Formis did not survive the trip across the boiling seas.” “Then what of your empire?” Myles inquired. “No queen. No eggs. How can your race continue? For you Formians are like the ants on my own planet Minos.” performed in their own country the duties assigned to men among the Cupians. Furthermore, all Formians, save only the reigning Formis herself, were called by the Porovian Now that I am mother of the queen, he fears that I may turn against him and establish Formis in his place as the head of an empire of the Formians, by the Formians, and for the Formians exclusively.” “Where is the arch-fiend now?” he asked. “We know not,” the Formian wrote in reply. “Six days ago he left us in his airship and flew westward. When he failed to return, we sent out scout planes to search for\n\n<question>:\nAfter their defeat by Cupia, what do the remaining Formians travel through during their escape? What is on the other side and what do the Formians do to it?\n\n<options>:\nA Steam clouds over bloody seas. On the other side they find a new continent, which they use as fodder for military and industrial growth.\nB Poison clouds over magma seas. On the other side they find Myles Cabot, ship wrecked on an island. They use Cabot’s knowledge to get revenge on the Cupians.\nC Steam clouds over boiling seas. On the other side they find a new continent, which they dub New Formia.\nD Steam clouds over bloody seas. On the other side they find a new continent inhabited by a forgotten race of Cupians, whom the Formians enslave in order to take the land as theirs.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
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