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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 Bell Curve Flattened Charles Murray is a publicity genius, and the publication of his and Richard Herrnstein's book, The Bell Curve: Intelligence and Class Structure in American Life , in the fall of 1994 was his masterpiece. Virtually all ambitious trade hardcover books are preceded by an edition of 100 to 200 flimsy \"galley proofs.\" These are sent out to people who might generate buzz for the book: blurbists, bookers for television talk shows, editors, and--most important--book critics. There is an ethos of letting the chips fall where they may about the sending out of galleys: Now the book will begin to receive uncontrolled reaction. (For example, back in 1991, Murray somehow got hold of the galleys of my own last book, and wrote me heatedly denying that he was working on a book about black genetic intellectual inferiority, as I had asserted. I left the passage in, but softened it.) The Bell Curve was not circulated in galleys before publication. The effect was, first, to increase the allure of the book (There must be something really hot in there!), and second, to ensure that no one inclined to be skeptical would be able to weigh in at the moment of publication. The people who had galley proofs were handpicked by Murray and his publisher. The ordinary routine of neutral reviewers having a month or two to go over the book with care did not occur. Another handpicked group was flown to Washington at the expense of the American Enterprise Institute and given a weekend-long personal briefing on the book's contents by Murray himself (Herrnstein had died very recently), just before publication. The result was what you'd expect: The first wave of publicity was either credulous or angry, but short on evidence, because nobody had had time to digest and evaluate the book carefully. The Bell Curve isn't a typical work of trade nonfiction. It is gotten up as a work of original scholarly research. Most works containing fresh regression analysis and historical argument from primary sources would be published in academic quarterlies that send manuscripts out for elaborate, lengthy evaluation before deciding whether to publish them. Herrnstein and Murray didn't do this, so it wasn't until a full year or more after The Bell Curve was published that the leading experts on its subject had a chance to go through the underlying data with care. Therefore, as time went on, the knowledgeability of the Bell Curve discussion grew, but the attention paid to that discussion inevitably shrank. The debate on publication day was conducted in the mass media by people with no independent ability to assess the book. Over the next few months, intellectuals took some pretty good shots at it in smaller publications like the New Republic and the New York Review of Books . It wasn't until late 1995 that the most damaging criticism of The Bell Curve began to appear, in tiny academic journals. What follows is a brief summary of that last body of work. The Bell Curve , it turns out, is full of mistakes ranging from sloppy reasoning to mis-citations of sources to outright mathematical errors. Unsurprisingly, all the mistakes are in the direction of supporting the authors' thesis. First, a quick précis of The Bell Curve . IQ tests, according to Murray and Herrnstein, measure an essential human quality, general intelligence. During the second half of the 20 th century, this quality has risen to supreme importance, because society has become increasingly complex. The intelligent have therefore gone through an \"invisible migration,\" from points of origin all over the class system to a concentration at the top of business, government, and the professions. They are likely to become ever more dominant and prosperous. The unintelligent are falling further and further behind. Because intelligence is substantially inherited, nothing is likely to reverse this process. Blacks are overrepresented among the unintelligent. Any efforts government might make to improve the economic opportunities of poor people, especially poor black people, are likely to fail, because their poverty is so much the result of inherited low intelligence. About the best that can be done for these people is an effort to create a world of simple, decent, honorable toil for them. The next problem with The Bell Curve 's thesis is in the idea of the rise to dominance of the cognitive elite. To the book's initial audience of Ivy Leaguers, this idea seemed valid on its face. Everybody knows that the best universities, law firms, hospitals, investment banks, and the State Department used to be run by preppies whose main virtue was fortunate birth, and are now open to one and all on the basis of merit. But the larger premise--that intelligent people used to be scattered throughout the class structure, and are now concentrated at the top--is almost impossible to prove, simply because the mass administration of mental tests is such a recent phenomenon. High scorers on mental tests do \"bunch up\" (as Herrnstein and Murray put it) in elite-university student bodies. But this is tautological: Any group selected on the basis of scores on mental tests will be composed disproportionately of people who score high on mental tests. Proving The Bell Curve 's thesis would require proving that success increasingly correlates with IQ in areas of life where mental tests are not the explicit gatekeepers. To see how The Bell Curve tries and fails to get around these inherent problems, see and . Having conditioned its audience to view IQ as all-important, The Bell Curve then manipulates statistics in a way that makes IQ look bigger, and everything else smaller, in determining Americans' life-chances. The basic tool of statistical social science in general, and of The Bell Curve in particular, is regression analysis, a technique used to assign weights to various factors (called \"independent variables\") in determining a final outcome (called the \"dependent variable\"). The original statistical work in The Bell Curve consists of regression analyses on a database called the National Longitudinal Study of Youth. The authors claim to demonstrate that high IQ is more predictive of economic success than any other factor, and that low IQ is more predictive of poverty and social breakdown. Virtually all the early commentators on The Bell Curve were unable to assess the merits of the regression analysis. \"I am not a scientist. I know nothing about psychometrics,\" wrote Leon Wieseltier (who was otherwise quite critical) in a typical disclaimer. But by now the statistics have been gone over by professionals, who have come up with different results. The key points of their critique of The Bell Curve are as follows: What Herrnstein and Murray used to measure IQ is actually a measure of education as well as intelligence. All the people tracked in the National Longitudinal Study of Youth took the Armed Forces Qualifying Test, which Herrnstein and Murray treat as a good measure of intelligence. Because the material covered in the test includes subjects like trigonometry, many academic critics of The Bell Curve have objected to its use as a measure only of IQ and not at all of academic achievement. Herrnstein and Murray concede in the footnotes that scores tend to rise with the subjects' education--but they seriously underestimate the magnitude of this rise, as shows. And they resist the obvious inference that the test scores are measuring something other than intelligence. At the beginning of The Bell Curve , Herrnstein and Murray declare that \"the concept of intelligence has taken on a much higher place in the pantheon of human virtues than it deserves.\" And they claim that their view of IQ tests is \"squarely in the middle of the scientific road.\" They end by expressing the hope that we can \"be a society that makes good on the fundamental promise of the American tradition: the opportunity for everyone, not just the lucky ones, to live a satisfying life.\" Throughout, Herrnstein and Murray consistently present themselves as fair- (or even liberal-) minded technicians who have, with great caution, followed the evidence where it leads--which, unfortunately, is to a few unassailable if unpleasant scientific truths that it is their reluctant duty to report.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the main purpose of a “galley proof”?\n\n<options>:\nA To give editors a final version to proofread.\nB To give readers a chance to pre-order the book.\nC To offer experts an opportunity to critique the book.\nD To generate buzz about a book before its publication.\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>:\nas it had in his own time. Oceans, mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts, are fairly permanent even Brett-James on the second day that Joe said, \"How about Mexico? Could I make the get to Mexico?\" getaway. After I give it to this Howard Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on the run, don't I?\" Prantera. unit. Today, there are only eight nations \"Where's the nearest?\" \"South America.\" \"That's a helluva long way to go on in the world.\" on me?\" Brett-James grimaced in amusement. \"Mr. Prantera, this will probably He brought his thinking to the present. So far as he could remember, he hadn't completely pulled the trigger. That at least meant that whatever \"If I understand your idiom correctly, you mean prison. There are no prisons in this era, Mr. Prantera.\" the rap was it wouldn't be too get him off with a couple of years at Quentin. Prantera began to sense an alienness—a century ago.\" Joe had given up. Now he merely stared. Brett-James said reasonably, \"We where's this guy Temple-Tracy you want knocked off?\" Reston-Farrell and Brett-James this character could have known that. Joe had been born in Naples and his mother had died in childbirth. His father hadn't brought him to the flatly, \"or let me outta here.\" Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, \"You are not being constrained. There are Brett-James said, \"Why not just go to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah, dispose of him?\" of a faint nausea, which brought back memories of that extreme condition he'd suffered during ... during what? He hadn't the gives it to me instead.\" Dr. Reston-Farrell said, \"Howard would be quite simple for you to enter his establishment and dispose of him. I assure you, he does not possess weapons.\" Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid, Mr. Salviati-Prantera, that these are the only garments available. I suggest eh?\" he said sarcastically. \"Then what happens? How do I get out of the you look out the window there.\" Joe was indignant. \"Just like that, should get caught with the gun on me? I'd wind up in the gas chamber so quick—\" \"See here, Mr. Prantera,\" Brett-James said softly. \"We no longer have have no jails any more.\" \"This is difficult for you to understand, I imagine,\" Reston-Farrell told \"I wanta get out of here,\" Joe said. \"Where would you go?\" The fear of police, of Al Rossi's vengeance, of the measures that might be taken by Big Louis on his failure, were now far away. Reston-Farrell had approached the door by which he had entered and it to somebody?\" \"You will be turned over to a medical institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy is the last man you will ever kill, Mr. Prantera.\" A chillness was in the belly of Joe Prantera. He said very slowly, very \"Yes,\" Brett-James said evenly. \"Well then, figure something else. You think I'm stupid?\" \"Mr. Prantera,\" Dr. Reston-Farrell said, \"there has been as much progress to you guys? How do you know I won't rat on you?\" Brett-James said gently, \"The moment after you have accomplished Prantera, wouldn't it? The maternal 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, he matures at approximately the age of thirteen. However, mental maturity and adjustment is often not fully Warren Brett-James said soothingly, \"Prepare yourself for somewhat of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no \"Ta where?\" \"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to the year—\" Brett-James looked at his companion. \"What is the date, Old \"I am afraid you have no alternative,\" Brett-James said gently. \"Without 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 year 2133.\" He said, uncomprehendingly, \"You He let the sentence fall away as he realized the impossibility. Mr. Prantera.\" Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid we you, I suppose one might 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 If they allowed him to call it off today, they'd talk themselves into it again before the week was through. taken much for them to cancel the project. It wasn't any answer though. eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt suddenly at bay. He said, \"Maybe Reston-Farrell said, \"Mr. Prantera, Warren Brett-James said, \"Quite sure. He is a student of history.\" \"And he won't think it's funny I talk American to him, eh?\" \"He'll undoubtedly be intrigued.\" his feet. \"I'm gettin' outta here.\" For the second time, Reston-Farrell said, \"Where would you go, Mr. Prantera?\" room but they left on Joe's arrival, without bothering to look at \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice soft. \"They are all dead, Mr. Prantera. Their children are all dead, and their grandchildren.\" The two men of the future said ... transported that they had got in the clutch, the Brett-James said, \"Mr. Prantera, others were on the verge of chickening Prantera's irritation over this whole windows. He looked out, as though unseeing. Then, his back turned, he said, \"We have tried, but it is simply not in us, Mr. Prantera.\" \"No, if by that you mean afraid. It is simply not within us to take the most surely would have destroyed itself. Wars? Our pedagogues are hard put to convince their students that the reasons for international conflict. For that matter,\" he added musingly, \"we eliminated most international found, Mr. Prantera, that it is difficult for a man to be free so long as others are still enslaved. Today the new strain—has found the human race unprotected from its disease. We had thought our vaccines immunized us.\" \"Mr. Prantera, have you ever heard of \"Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin?\" not considered.\" Brett-James said to Joe Prantera, \"Had we not, ah, taken you at the would have happened?\" \"Sure,\" Joe grunted. \"I woulda let old Al Rossi have it right in the guts, plane back to Chi.\" Brett-James was shaking his head. \"No. You see, by coincidence, a police 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. Mr. Prantera, we have already told going back to my own—\" Brett-James was shaking his head again. \"I am afraid there is no return, Mr. Prantera. Time travel works but in one direction, with the flow of the time stream. There can be no return to your own era.\" Joe Prantera had been rocking with the mental blows he had been assimilating, but this was the final haymaker. He was stuck in this squaresville of a world.\n\n<question>:\nAll of the following motivate Prantera to accept the proposal from Brett-James and Reston-Ferrell EXCEPT:\n\n<options>:\nA He does not need to worry about Temple-Tracy's followers seeking revenge\nB He does not have to fear being arrested by the police\nC He is unlikely to encounter someone with weapons during the job\nD He does not have a chance of being sent back to 1960\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>:\nthere isn't a trap, the Karna can't satisfy Braynek, because he's convinced that there has to keep Nordon from getting unconfused. \"These two men are honestly doing their best to win at the peace conference, and they've got the Karna reeling. The Karna can see that we're not trying to stall our men are actually working at trying to reach a decision. But what the Karna don't see is that those men, as a team, are unbeatable because, in this situation, they're psychologically incapable of losing.\" Again the Secretary of State nodded his approval, but there was still Diplomatic Corps who developed a twitch or a quirk was shipped to Saarkkad IV to work under Bertrand know all that, couldn't you have handled it yourself?\" \"Maybe, but I doubt it. They might showed the complete psychological analysis of the man. Psychopathic Couldn't go, Mr. Ambassador?\" if he were faced with two or more calendar just above it. Fifty-nine Somewhere out there, the ships of Earth were ranged against the ships of the alien Karna in the most important war that Mankind had yet fought. it was necessary to keep the drug supply lines flowing from Saarkkad, and that meant keeping on good terms with the Saarkkadic government. The Saarkkada themselves were humanoid to one of them would have meant instant loss of prestige. To their way of thinking, an important official was aloof. The greater his importance, the greater must be handful of picked nobles, who, themselves, were never seen except by their underlings. It was a long, roundabout way of doing business, but it was the social setup of Saarkkad would mean the instant closing off of the supply of biochemical products that the keep the production output high and to keep the materiel flowing towards Earth and her allies and outposts. The job would have been a snap the Saarkkada weren't difficult to get along with. A staff of top-grade men could have handled them without half trying. men. They couldn't be spared from work that required their total capacity. work very well in the total darkness of an infrared-film darkroom. Partial But Malloy didn't like to stop at merely thwarting mental quirks he liked to find places where they were bring it in?\" \"Bring it in, Miss Drayson.\" Miss Drayson was a case in point. She was uncommunicative. She liked to gather in information, but she direct order. It had taken Malloy a right—even desirable—for her to keep secrets from everyone except Malloy. ordered to tell someone. through, fighting to keep his emotions in check. Miss Drayson stood you know as soon as I reach a decision, Miss Drayson. I think I hardly need say that no news of this is to was over—at least for a while. He looked down at the papers again. The Karna, slowly being beaten back on every front, were suing for peace. They wanted an armistice conference—immediately. Earth was willing. Interstellar war is too costly to allow it to continue any longer than necessary, and this one had been going on for more than thirteen years now. Peace was necessary. But not peace at any price. The trouble was that the Karna had a reputation for losing wars and winning at the peace table. They were clever, persuasive talkers. They could twist a disadvantage to an advantage, and make their own strengths look like weaknesses. If they won the armistice, they'd be able to retrench and rearm, and the war would break out again within a few years. Now—at this point in time—they could be beaten. They could be forced to allow supervision of the production potential, forced to disarm, rendered impotent. But if the armistice went to their own advantage ... Already, they had taken the offensive in the matter of the peace talks. They had sent a full delegation to the Saarkkad sun, a chilly world inhabited only by low-intelligence animals. The Karna considered this to be fully neutral territory, and Earth couldn't argue the point very well. In addition, they demanded that the conference begin in three days, Terrestrial time. for an armistice. They objected. The Karna pointed out that the Karn as it was from Earth, that it was only a few million miles from a planet which was allied with Earth, armistice. Why hadn't Earth been prepared? Did they intend to fight to the utter destruction of Karn? It wouldn't have been a problem at all if Earth and Karn had fostered the only two intelligent races in the galaxy. The sort of grandstanding the Karna were putting on had to be played to an audience. But there were other intelligent races throughout the galaxy, most of whom had remained as neutral as possible during the Earth-Karn war. They had no intention of sticking their figurative noses into a battle between the two most powerful races in the galaxy. But whoever won the armistice would find that some of the now-neutral races would come in on their side if war broke out again. If the Karna played their cards right, their side would be strong enough next time to win. So Earth had to get a delegation to meet with the Karna representatives within the three-day limit or lose what might be a vital point in the negotiations. And that was where Bertrand Malloy He had been appointed Minister and Plenipotentiary Extraordinary to the Earth-Karn peace conference. He looked up at the ceiling again. \"What On the second day after the arrival tell Braynek to wait.\" Nordon nodded slowly. \"Yes, sir.\" Malloy explained the problem of the Karna peace talks. \"We need a man who can outthink them,\" Malloy finished, \"and judging \"You'll be leaving within an hour \"Not necessarily. He's a pretty shrewd operator, though. He knows a lot about interstellar law, and he's capable of spotting a trap a mile away. to study it and get it into your head before the ship leaves. That isn't much time, but it's the Karna who are doing the pushing, not us.\" As soon as Nordon had left, Malloy Again Malloy went through the explanation of the peace conference. \"Naturally, they'll be trying to trick you every step of the way,\" Malloy went on. \"They're shrewd and underhanded we'll simply have to them. Don't antagonize them, but don't baby them, either. If you see anything underhanded going on, let Nordon know immediately.\" \"They won't get anything by me, Mr. Malloy.\" By the time the ship from Earth got there, the peace conference had been going on for four days. Bertrand \"Tense. They're waiting to see what is going to happen on Five. So good team, instead. Would you like to see the reports?\" When Blendwell looked up from the reports at last, he said: \"Amazing! They've held off the Karna at every point! They've beaten them back! They've managed to cope with and outdo the finest team of negotiators the Karna could send.\" \"I thought they would,\" said Malloy, trying to appear modest. Is this one of your ... ah ... successes?\" Malloy nodded. \"I think so. The Karna put us in a dilemma, so I threw a dilemma right back at them.\" \"How do you mean?\" admits of no alternatives, he can't move at all. \"As you can see, the Karna tried to give us several choices on each point, and they were all rigged. Until they backed down to a single point and proved that it this was, and the more importance there is attached to his decisions, the more incapable he becomes of making them.\" The Secretary nodded slowly. thinks everyone is plotting against him. In this case, that's all to the good because the Karna are plotting against him. No matter what they put forth, Braynek is convinced that there's a trap in it somewhere, and he digs to find out what the trap is. Even if\n\n<question>:\nWhy do the Karna demand the conference begin in three days?\n\n<options>:\nA There is an immediate threat to the planet of Karn, and the Karna desperately need help from Earth.\nB The Karna are hoping to disrupt Earth's supply chain.\nC The Karna want to make Earth look bad in the eyes of the other planets.\nD The Karna are skilled negotiators and want to control the peace talks.\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>:\nTHE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It has happened a hundred times in the long history of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again! It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the connection. The population of the states affected was in places as low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area. The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer air. Rock slides, they guessed be. Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer Times ). The idea was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more plausible theory. Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct. They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the 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 everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety. 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, and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south. 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. the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam. The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet, declared the Governor of Nebraska. \"We must sit this thing out. Be churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now streaming east. Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take. to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion. 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 autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its inexorable descent. The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its wake the earth to the north \"just seemed to collapse on itself like a punctured balloon,\" read one newspaper report. \"Like a cake that's failed,\" said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the astounding rate of about six feet per hour. draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping 2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The \"Memphis Tilt\" is today one of the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge. Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the because of the spray.\" Salt spray. The ocean had come to New Mexico. 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 Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way. 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. Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on and about half a ton of vanilla cookies,\" he explained to his eventual rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea came to America. Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean, it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in contribute no small part to the nation's economy. Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea? The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri, our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana, is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent. Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was. And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade and the ferment of world culture. It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have developed on the new harbors of the inland sea. 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 which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to\n\n<question>:\nHow has the new Nebraska Sea changed the climate in America?\n\n<options>:\nA Because everything is now along a coastline, it's much cooler.\nB For most of the states, it's about the same.\nC It's much muggier in many places now, and unlivable in others.\nD It's brought on much warmer, more tolerable weather.\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>:\nLet Si Get This During a typical lunch time at the Royalton Hotel restaurant in midtown Manhattan, The New Yorker 's Tina Brown might be installed at her usual table, and Vogue 's Anna Wintour might be at her usual table (chewing on her usual meal--a $25 hamburger). Vanity Fair 's Graydon Carter might be there too, although he has transferred his main allegiance to a place called Patroon. Filling out the room are other editors, publicists, and writers from these magazines and GQ and House & Garden and so on. And one man, who probably isn't there himself, picks up every tab. Some of the lesser fry may even utter the Condé Nast mantra--though it is hardly necessary at the Royalton--as they grab for the check: \"Let Si get this.\" S.I. \"Si\" Newhouse Jr. and his younger brother, Donald, control Advance Publications, one of America's largest privately held companies. (Estimate of their combined wealth: $13 billion.) Donald tends to Advance's hugely profitable newspaper, radio, and TV holdings. Si runs the less profitable but more glamorous properties. These are the 15 Condé Nast magazines, including (in descending order of fabulousness) Vogue , Vanity Fair , GQ , Condé Nast Traveler , House & 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.\" None of the 39 past and present Newhouse employees I spoke to for this story would talk on the record, for . And the nature of the subject makes it hard to separate apocrypha from the truth. Did Condé Nast pay, as sources insist it did, hundreds of thousands of dollars in back taxes on behalf of an editor who didn't bother to file tax forms? Did an editor really expense $20,000 in a weeklong trip to Paris? The people who pay the bills are not talking. But every example of excess cited here was told to me by at least one source (and usually more than one) in a position to know. 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. And then there are the parties. Last month The New Yorker spent--and this is not a joke--$500,000 on a two-day \"Next Conference\" at the Disney Institute in Florida, in connection with a special issue on the same theme. In order to get Vice President Gore, who was traveling in California at the time, The New Yorker paid for him and his entourage to fly Air Force Two from California to Florida and back. And vice presidents are not the only things that Condé Nast flies in for parties. The New Yorker once shipped silverware from New York to Chicago for a dinner. (\"What, they don't have silverware in Chicago?\" asks a New Yorker staffer.) Vanity Fair toted food from New York to Washington for this year's party on the night of the White House Correspondents Dinner. (What, they don't have food in Washington?) That annual Washington do has grown from an after-dinner gathering for drinks at a contributor's apartment to two huge blasts--before and after the dinner itself--at a rented embassy. VF 's annual Oscar-night party has become a similar institution in Hollywood. In addition to the parties themselves, Si also naturally pays to fly in VF staffers and to put them up at top hotels. (What, they don't have editors in Washington or L.A.?) Some Condé Nast parties are so ridiculous that even other Condé Nasties make fun of them. This week's New Yorker , for example, mocks a recent Vogue party in honor of food writer Jeffrey Steingarten. According to The New Yorker , Wintour so detested the carpet at Le Cirque 2000 that she ordered the florist to cover it with autumn leaves (handpicked, of course). The apogee of party absurdity is Vanity Fair 's sponsorship of an annual London dinner for the Serpentine Museum in Hyde Park. As one observer puts it, \"Vanity Fair , an American magazine, pays more than $100,000 to a British art museum solely so that it can sponsor a dinner where Graydon Carter gets to sit next to Princess Diana.\" The princess was the museum's patron. 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. And they say it's not as good as it used to be. In 1992, according to Thomas Maier's biography of Newhouse, the editor of Self held a birthday party for Si Newhouse's dog . (Owners ate caviar dogs drank Evian.) The lowliest assistants used to take car services home. But new Condé Nast CEO Steve Florio has restricted cars and catering. Editors who used to fly the Concorde now fly first-class those who used to fly first-class now fly business. Expense accounts are scrutinized. Even so, today's Condé Nast is economical only by Condé Nast standards. The belt is tighter, but it's still hand-tooled, hand-tanned, and fashioned from the finest Italian leather.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the name of Si’s younger brother? Which of his are a “different story”?\n\n<options>:\nA Donald Newhouse—his photographers\nB Donald Newhouse—his writers\nC Donald Newhouse—his editors\nD Donald Newhouse—his temps\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>:\nwere over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms and laboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep after spawning its first-born. first! Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. \"I don't see 'em, Ben,\" he whispered. \"Where do you suppose they are?\" I blinked. \"Who?\" That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died in a strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of those \"You are cordially invited\" cards. Just one, which I'd sent to Charlie My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. It a hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do. I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared. At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge, babbling wave. His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shining like a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rear rows. tonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate as good spacemen should!\" Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again, introduction of Charlie. His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing. And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, the Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: \"Still going to spend the weekend with us, aren't you, Ben?\" Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to the Moon?\" Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knew that he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martian fizzes and Plutonian zombies. But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration. a tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professor should look. \"Ben,\" he called, \"don't forget that offer. Remember you've got two months to decide.\" \"No, thanks,\" I answered. \"Better not count on me.\" A moment later Mickey said, frowning, \"What was he talking about, Ben? Did he make you an offer?\" Then your last words came back and jabbed me: \"That's what Mickey used to want.\" \" You bit your lip, not answering. \"What did she mean, Mickey?\" Mickey looked down at his feet. \"I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben. We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But—\" My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. \"What are you trying to say, Mickey?\" of White Sands Port.\" He raised his hand to stop me. \"I know. It's not so exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben.\" I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of my knees with the blast of a jet. \"It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still have a good weekend.\" Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about to reach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot.\" That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all. Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night, \"Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he's I smiled and shook my head. \"If he had, he never mentioned it. Charlie I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, \"Give up what ?\" fill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonous dust. \"I'm sorry,\" you said. \"I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben.\" \"It's all right,\" I said, clenching my fists. \"You made sense—a lot of sense.\" The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed his scarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin, tight coughs. I scowled, not understanding. \"Why, Charlie? What for?\" He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. \"Oh, I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk about We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I. \"When will you be back?\" you asked. Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. \"Maybe a Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man. I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would kill the doubt worming through my brain. But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he was gone. \"Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoy Earth life while you can. Okay?\" I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wanted someone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale of courage that would put fuel on dying dreams. much as I loved the stars. And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, \"Sure, I'll stay, Mickey. Sure.\" One morning I thought, Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have both Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for You had to finish. \"It was a monster.\" That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let me sleep. , I told myself. You can't stay here. You've got to make a choice. line in a history book. I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, \"Get the hell out of there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Get out there on the That's what he'd say. And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always. \"Oh God,\" I moaned, \"what shall I do?\" Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door and My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie! I pressed the stud again. \"... regret to inform you of death of Charles ...\" voice droned on. You ran to it, shut it off. \"I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly—\" Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. I remembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze. The metallic words had told the truth. I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed at Charlie's faded tin box. This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space. Charlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that they could tell me what he could not express in words. no compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose. Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So he live to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. He He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heaven knows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and was kind—but that doesn't matter now. he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn't want to die in the clean, cool air of Earth? be lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways? Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted us to celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be his last night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebration to you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it. Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explain\n\n<question>:\nWhat isn't a reason that Charlie came to visit?\n\n<options>:\nA he wanted to convince him to stay on Earth\nB he cared for him like a father\nC he wanted to celebrate Ben's graduation\nD he wanted to say goodbye\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 dancers at the center of the circle finally bowed out with small garlands of flowers on their heads that signified their reaching where he had achieved average grades and had given his instructors the normal amount of trouble. Later, when he had made up his mind to enter later in college, he was the well-balanced type, athletic, popular, hard-working. How long would it be before memories faded and all there was left fate would play a trick on a hero-worshiping public and there would actually be kids like that. But they wouldn't be human they wouldn't sent and naturally he had gone alone. There was no need to send more. Tunpesh had been inspected and certified and approved. The natives were primitive and friendly. Or maybe the Service had slipped up, as it sometimes did, and Tunpesh had received something less than a thorough survey. Tunpesh had been Pendleton's second assignment. with drowsiness, his eyelids a heavy weight that he knew he couldn't keep open much longer. But that wasn't the real reason. Maybe Eckert thought so, but he knew better. The real reason they were going there was to find out why quite. There was something buzzing about in the dim recesses of his mind. Their information on Tunpesh was limited. They knew that it had no suddenly, acutely aware that he and Templin would be stranded for six time in a place where the sun was warm and inviting. I must be getting old , he thought, thinking about the warmth and comfort. Like old dogs and octogenarians. Templin was looking at the scenery with a disappointed expression on \"It's rather hard to think of danger in a setting like this.\" Eckert nodded agreement. \"It wouldn't fit, would it? It would be like a famous singer suddenly doing a jazz number in an opera, or having the seem cluttered or dirty and you didn't feel like beating a hasty retreat when the wind was blowing toward you. A few adults were watching them curiously and the usual bunch of kids that always congregated around rocketports quickly gathered. Eckert stared at them for a moment, wondering what it was that seemed odd about them, and they stared back with all the alert dignity of childhood. They finally came out on the field and clustered around him and Templin. Templin studied them warily. \"Better watch them, Ted. Even kids can be dangerous.\" It's because you never suspect kids , Eckert thought, But the idea still didn't go with the warm sun and the blue sky and the piny scent of the trees. One of the adults of the village started to walk toward them. He couldn't be blamed for being jumpy, Eckert realized. This was his first time out, his first mission like this. And, of course, Pendleton had been a pretty good friend of his. \"I'd be very careful what I did,\" Eckert said softly. \"I would hate to and made a few mental notes. He wasn't bowing and scraping like most natives who weren't too familiar with visitors from the sky, and yet he was hardly either friendly or hostile. He paused a moment to say something in his native tongue to the kids who were around. They promptly scattered and picked up the luggage. \"While you are here, you will need a place to stay. There is one ready, if you will follow me.\" He was polite, Eckert thought. He didn't ask what they were there for or how long they were going to stay. But then again, perhaps the natives were a better judge of that than he and Templin. furnished, in a rustic sort of way, and what modern conveniences they didn't have they could easily do without. The youngsters who had carried their luggage left it outside and quietly faded away. It was getting dark impressed. \"I am grateful,\" he said finally, \"but there is nothing I want.\" He turned and walked away into the gathering darkness. \"The incorruptible native.\" Templin laughed sarcastically. Eckert shrugged. \"That's one of the things you do out of habit, try and buy some of the natives so you'll have friends in case you need them.\" He stopped for a moment, thinking. \"Did you notice the context? lot, aren't they?\" \"Too healthy,\" Templin said. \"There didn't seem to be any sick ones or ones with runny noses or cuts or black eyes or bruises. It doesn't seem natural.\" \"They're probably just well brought-up kids,\" Eckert said sharply. \"Maybe they've been taught not to get in fights or play around in the mud on the way home from school.\" He felt faintly irritated, annoyed at the way Templin had put it, as if any deviation from an Earth norm was potentially dangerous. \"Ted.\" Templin's voice was strained. \"This could be a trap, you know.\" \"In what way?\" The words came out slowly. \"The people are too casual, as though manner. They couldn't have seen rockets more than three or four times before. It should still be a novelty to them. And yet how much curiosity did they show? Hardly any. Was there any fear? No. And the cute, harmless little kids.\" He looked at Eckert. \"Maybe that's what we're supposed to think—just an idyllic, harmless society. Maybe that's what Pendleton thought, right to the very end.\" He was keyed up, jumpy, Eckert realized. He would probably be seeing things in every shadow and imagining danger to be lurking around every corner. were advantages in taking him along that Templin probably didn't even realize. He wondered what Templin would do if he ever found out that the actual reason he had been chosen to go was that his own There were disadvantages in taking Templin, too. \"Just how primitive do you think the society is, Ted?\" \"I don't think it's primitive at all. There are too many disparities. Their knowledge of a lot of things is a little more than empirical knowledge among the Tunpeshans, and he'd have to watch Templin to see that he \"Why?\" \"The Tunpeshans know why we're here. We've dropped enough hints along \"They grow their women nice, don't they?\" \"Physically perfect, like the men,\" Templin grumbled. \"You could get an inferiority complex just from watching the people here. Everybody's so He looked at Templin, sitting across from him in the huge circle, and shrugged mentally. Templin looked as if he was about to break down and enjoy himself, but there was still a slight bulge under his tunic, where he had strapped his power pack. Any fool should have known that nothing would happen at a banquet like this. The only actual danger lay in Templin's getting excited and doing something he was bound to regret later on. And even that danger was not quite as likely now. if Templin ever finds out certain aura of authority. \"I was wondering if my countryman Pendleton had offended your people in Nayova had said was something he'd make sure Templin never heard about. which would make it difficult to talk about. That would make it even harder for him to find out by direct questioning. A native fife trilled shrilly and a group of young men and women walked into the room. The circle broke to let them through and they came and knelt before Nayova. When he clapped his hands sharply, they retreated to the center of the circle and began the slow motions of a native dance. drums took its place. The beat slowly increased and so did the rhythm of the dancers. The small fires at the corners of the hut were allowed to dwindle and the center of the circle became filled with the motions of shadows intermixed with the swift, sure movements of glistening limbs. Eckert felt his eyebrows crawl upward. Apparently the dance was obscene .\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy was Templin leery of the children on Tunpesh?\n\n<options>:\nA They seemed to be much older than children and only disguised as such.\nB Their appearance gave him an eerie feeling about their potential danger.\nC He knew even children were capable of doing damage with a weapon.\nD They were too eager to come near strangers and that made him uneasy.\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>:\nInventing an alternative to sterling might sound far-fetched, even illegal. But it's not that strange. In the UK we think of the pound like fish think about water, which is to say not at all. It might never have occurred to many of us that there are other types of exchange that can stand in for ragged bank notes tucked away in pockets, or other objects that can stand in for those notes. 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. 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. The founders of the Brixton Pound wanted to do something to stop 80p of every £1 spent locally from leaking out of the area into the pockets of corporations, at the expense of small local traders. So they printed a currency that would have the same value as the pound, but could only be traded in independent Brixton shops, where the shopkeeper would also have to spend it locally. This year the Brixton Pound got its own cashpoint, from where people can withdraw local banknotes bearing colourful images of local heroes, like David Bowie and secret Agent Violette Szabo, to spend in over 150 local shops. It can also be used by residents to pay council tax and by employers to pay wages. No two local currencies are exactly the same. But the Brixton Pound and other recent schemes follow the example ten years ago of the Totnes Pound, a 'complementary currency': that is, one supplementing the national currency. As fears for financial stability took hold during the recession, complementary currencies grew in popularity. The Bank of England does not consider these forms of currency legal tender, but the notes hold value in the same way as a gift-card from a department store, with the same kind of restrictions about where they can be spent. Proponents say complementary currencies boost spending in smaller geographical areas, which can have environmental benefits as businesses cut transport distances to deal with local suppliers. Detractors say they have no real economic impact and work only as a game for the middle classes, who can afford to buy from independent shops rather than chains. 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? 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. \"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.\" More than a third of children grow up in poverty in Glasgow. A Glasgow Pound might struggle to get poorer families to buy into a local currency that ties them to shopping at more expensive, independent shops, rather than getting deals at big supermarket chains. 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.\" 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>:\nWhen did people start using the Bristol Pound?\n\n<options>:\nA 2012\nB 2015\nC 2016\nD 2010\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>:\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. This is not cinema vérité , and nothing has been left to chance. The director selected his four subjects from many hundreds of potential candidates, followed them around for months, and then scripted their monologues and dialogues to reflect what he says he saw. Calling his own film \"an exercise in mendacity,\" Barker goes on, \"I'm quite happy to tell lies about my characters and even collude with their self-delusions if it enables me to communicate larger dramatic truths.\" Spurned by U.S. distributors, Unmade Beds opened two weeks ago in a small screening room in downtown Manhattan, where it proceeded to set box office records and generate lots of (largely favorable) press. In part due to smart publicity, which has bannered some of the bad reviews and commentary (\"I have to tell you that this film upset me so much that I really don't want to have anything to do with it\"--a New York publicist), it threatens to become a cause célèbre --and to be coming soon to a theater near you. It's always nice to see distributors proved wrong about the merits of \"difficult\" films, but in this case I think they did the decent thing. Unmade Beds isn't just bad--it's obnoxiously, noxiously bad, a freak show for the empathetically challenged. The outrage it has prompted isn't the Puritan kind it's more like legitimate revulsion at watching a blowhard pervert people's lives in the name of \"larger dramatic truths.\" Those truths are large, all right. Take Michael, the 40-year-old, 5 foot 4 inch lonely guy who has been looking for a wife for almost two decades. If you were to walk past him on the street, you might think that a man of his small stature might have some trouble getting dates and be rather bitter about it. The larger dramatic truth is that Michael has lots of trouble getting dates and is very bitter about it. Just in case you feel too sorry for him, however, Barker is careful to include a homophobic monologue in which Michael complains about young women who waste their lives hanging out with effeminate males. 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. So what are Barker's \"larger dramatic truths\"? Single people in big cities can be desperate. Single people fear they're going to die alone--unloved and unloving. People are judged and, in turn, judge others by how they look. Big news. One could argue, charitably, that the movie is meant to be prescriptive, that Barker intends for us to regard the ways in which his subjects delude themselves and thereby learn to see through our own self-delusions. But Barker hasn't concocted a larger dramatic structure that would hold those larger dramatic truths together and help us comprehend where these people went wrong. He dramatizes right up to the point where a dramatist would be expected to provide some insight--and then, hey, he's a documentarian. 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\n\n<question>:\nHow does Barker view his own film?\n\n<options>:\nA He considers the film to be an original, unprecedented view of the human psyche\nB He realizes that his characters likely don't represent the average single person\nC He feels justified in bending the truth about his characters in order to depict a more important point to his audience\nD He knows that the rejection of his film by US distributors is part of the larger hypocrisy he is trying to reveal\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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2,201 | 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\"The biggest, most convincing liar wins. It's as simple as Meyerhoff followed the huge, bear-like Altairian guard Zeckler was on his feet, his eyes suddenly bright with excitement. \"Wait a minute,\" he said tensely. \"To tell them a lie that they'd have to believe—a lie they simply couldn't regarded Meyerhoff from beneath uneven black eyebrows, and Zeckler's eyes flashed, and a huge grin broke out on his sallow face. His thin body fairly shook. He started hopping Meyerhoff scowled, and turned abruptly to the guard. \"We'll Meyerhoff stared at him. \"Oh, come now. Have you gone \"Look, Zeckler, the name is Meyerhoff, and I'm not your and the judge banged the gavel for silence. As soon as Zeckler The judge stared down at Zeckler as if he were a bug on a rock. \"Oh, yes. You had something else to say. Well, go ahead and say it.\" Zeckler looked sharply around the hushed room. \"You want Meyerhoff stared at the little man with a mixture of pity and Zeckler's eyes widened. \"What do you mean, fool? So I spend a couple of weeks in this pneumonia trap. The deal was worth it! I've got three million credits sitting in the Terran The judge stared at him, and then at Meyerhoff, then back. 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 going to get you.\" Zeckler stood up shakily. \"You can't believe anything the Meyerhoff's face was purple with anger. \"Oh, indeed it did! natives say,\" he said uneasily. \"They're pathological liars. Why, you should see what they tried to sell Meyerhoff turned on him fiercely. \"Oh, you got off just fine. Meyerhoff. \"They'll probably drop a little fine on me and let Meyerhoff turned to him, and a twinkle of malignant glee Not me! Oh, no. Sorry, but no thanks.\" Meyerhoff Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. He brushed an imaginary lint fleck from his lapel, and looked up at Zeckler slyly. \"That—uh—jury trial. The Altairians weren't any too happy to Meyerhoff watched the man's pale face, and shook his head. Zeckler went white. \"But that money was in banking custody!\" \"Is that right? My goodness. You don't suppose they could little con-man. \"And incidentally, you're under arrest, you know.\" A choking sound came from Zeckler's throat. \" Arrest! \" straight back to Terra. And there I think you'll face a jury trial.\" Zeckler spluttered. \"There's no evidence—you've got nothing on me! What kind of a frame are you trying to pull?\" \"A so frequently used—but there was always somebody, Meyerhoff Zeckler puffed nervously on his cigarette, his narrow face Meyerhoff pulled a pipe from his pocket, and began stuffing Meyerhoff grinned at the little man's horrified face. \"Never Zeckler snorted. \"But how could they possibly have a legal 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 chunk of land at the same time, all armed with title-deeds.\" Meyerhoff sighed. \"You've got twelve mad Altairians in your hair. You've got a mad planet in your hair. And in the meantime, Terra's most valuable uranium source in five centuries Meyerhoff smiled coolly. \"You're going to get your sly little With that Meyerhoff walked to the door. He jerked it inward with twelve chairs—larger chairs, with a railing running along the front. The rest of the room was filled almost to the door with seats facing the bench. Zeckler followed the shaggy-haired In the back of the room a door burst open with a bang. Loud, harsh voices were heard as half a dozen of the huge Altairians attempted to push through the door at once. Zeckler flanked by two clerks, who took their places beside him. The prosecutor eyed Zeckler with cold malevolence, then turned and delivered a sly wink at the judge. court. \"We are reading the case of the people of Altair I,\" the judge's voice roared out, \"against one Harry Zeckler—\" he paused for a long, impressive moment—\"Terran.\" The courtroom immediately burst into an angry growl, until the judge hereby accused of the following crimes,\" the judge bellowed. \"Conspiracy to overthrow the government of Altair I. Brutal murder of seventeen law-abiding citizens of the village of after his arrival. Desecration of the Temple of our beloved Goddess Zermat, Queen of the Harvest. Conspiracy with the in a public square. Four separate and distinct charges of jail-break and bribery—\" The judge pounded the bench for order—\"Espionage with the accursed scum of Altair II in preparation \" Now wait a minute! \" Zeckler was on his feet, wild-eyed. \"What kind of railroad job—\" muttered. \"Have the prosecutor call his first witness,\" said Meyerhoff. Zeckler leaned over, his face ashen. \"These charges,\" he whispered. \"They're insane!\" Zeckler—\"stopped me in my tracks with a vicious cry. He had cruel glint in his eyes that there was no warmth, no sympathy in his heart, that I was—\" \"Objection!\" Zeckler squealed plaintively, jumping to his feet. \"This witness can't even remember what night he's talking about!\" his bundle of notes. \"Overruled,\" he said abruptly. \"Continue, please.\" The witness glowered at Zeckler. \"As I was saying before Meyerhoff. \"Listen to him! Why should I care where their A third witness took the stand, continuing the drone as the room grew hotter and muggier. Zeckler grew paler and paler, his eyes turning glassy as the testimony piled up. \"But it's not low intelligence. The only thing in the world they have any respect for is a liar bigger and more skillful than they are.\" Zeckler jerked around abruptly as he heard his name bellowed out. \"Does the defendant have anything to say before the jury delivers the verdict?\" \"Do I have—\" Zeckler was across the room in a flash, his The judge blinked, and shuffled through his notes hurriedly as a murmur arose in the court. \"Our land?\" \"Your lives, your land, everything you hold dear,\" Zeckler 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 Somebody in the middle of the court burst out laughing. One by one the natives nudged one another, and booed, and guffawed, until the rising tide of racket drowned out Zeckler's words. \"The defendant is obviously lying,\" roared the prosecutor Meyerhoff nodded. The judge shrugged, pointing over his Somehow, Zeckler managed to stumble from the witness stand, amid riotous boos and hisses, and tottered into the anteroom. Zeckler puffed hungrily on a cigarette, and looked up at Meyerhoff's eyes were worried, too. For some reason, he Zeckler sat in silence for a moment. \"This lying business,\" he said finally, \"exactly how does it work?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Meyerhoff arrest Zeckler?\n\n<options>:\nA He arrests Zeckler for perjury.\nB He arrests Zeckler for undermining the authority of the Terran Trading Commission.\nC He arrests Zeckler for murdering eighteen Altairians.\nD He arrests Zeckler for selling the same plot of land to a dozen different Altairians.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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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>:\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 suffering, but I could recognize it. \"You yourself have said it,\" I told him. \"I am a being of logic, just Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would 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, somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened to the end that I knew was inevitable. 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. For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within perhaps even a new biochemistry. 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, \"Lord!\" he said. He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the world had grown suddenly unreal. One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition. It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and decided that this was probable. newsbox on his desk, and switched it on. There were flaring red headlines. Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified, of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more terrible illusion. the Invaders!\" Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the first time. a halt in front of the door marked \"Radiation.\" She had set her door mechanism to \"Etaoin Shrdlu,\" principally because he hated double-talk. He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened far enough to admit him. Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said, \"Darling, what's wrong?\" He said, \"Have you seen the news recently?\" horrible than any cry of agony. \"The Invaders are here, citizens,\" the commentator was saying in a strangled voice. \"Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the streets....\" His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it. Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately. \"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 through the solid wall, or simply melted away. The man and woman clung together, waiting. There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty gurgle and died, leaving silence again. Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away from him and started toward the inner room. \"Wait here,\" he mouthed. 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. \" Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami.... ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom.... \" \"I can't understand,\" he cried wildly. \"What do you want?\" \" ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous. \" 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, 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 floor. 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 fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in the room. It was a scream to split eardrums a scream to wake the dead. Somebody said, \"Doctor!\" 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. He tried again. \"Doctor.\" \"Yes?\" A gentle, masculine voice. He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean, starched odor. \"Where am I?\" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand pressed him back into the sheets. \"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please.\" He tried to get up again. \"Where's Lorelei?\" Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid. 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 been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much sooner. \"She was only suffering from ordinary shock,\" Arnold explained. \"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out, months ago.\" \"But why?\" Peter whispered. Arnold's strong jaw knotted. \"We're hiding,\" he said. \"Everything else has failed.\" thought, there's a chance .... line from an old film kept echoing through his head. \" They'll 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.... the silence pressed in about him. Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working 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. accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face. \"And now,\" he said softly, \"we will go home. I've waited so 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 you say?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy was Peter Karson initially relieved when he first heard the news of the invasion?\n\n<options>:\nA He was glad to know he wasn't the only person who had seen something.\nB He was glad to hear it reported, rather than ignored.\nC It confirmed that what he saw was real, and he wasn't losing his mind.\nD He feared he was going mad and was relieved to hear something from the real world.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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2,119 | 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>:\nsatisfaction, never earned me a penny—and now it had me fighting for my life in ... Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I made the discovery. I had finished reading the Chronicle , folded and put it beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see the I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, a togetherness-type-magazine reader. Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing I should be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angeles for, and not wanting to. same as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tell if there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Just the feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned to object with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a small book, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few bills and coins. Not much else. be gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard during her absence, which I dutifully did. Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk for her favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, and I was sent home with a stinging note. Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was able people are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine. I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, but how? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of the things I sense in probing really are. about a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I dropped quite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up. So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except that it amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane. Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so I contented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think about Amos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusement chain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices were maybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mind wandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece of luggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went through slips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and a thought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it was was numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'd panic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me. paper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrapped doughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and a napkin. I goggled at her, managed to croak, \"No, thanks.\" She gave me an odd look and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing at the cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her. I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spent a frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop that balance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I tried to close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, the woman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock and \"Must have been dreaming,\" I said as I rang for the stewardess. When she came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else, just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammy with sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good. All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead to the landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel would I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybe calling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions. Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before the bomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life would be changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a man literally with gimlet eyes. it without a word and went away. \"Were you really asleep that time?\" unconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walking through the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. I had my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other. the bomb and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast to determine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left was \"Thanks,\" I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward the remaining bag. \"One left over, eh?\" \"Yeah.\" He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. But he was eying me with a \"well-why-don't-you-get-along?\" look. over. \"Cab?\" I shook my head. \"Just waiting.\" Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb. I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggage claim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ran through my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfied me. I should not have been there, that much I knew I should be with a man named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussing something very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what could I do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take the bag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able to live with myself. No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—until what? whole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my own business. But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and started \"No. I'm waiting for someone.\" I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against the escaped my grasp. after her. She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door. \"It's a matter of life or death,\" I said. I wanted to wrest the bag from her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but I restrained myself. She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpled or anything else right now if it had. control again. \"This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit my sister.\" Her smile was bleak. \"I see now why he wanted to put in those books. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd put must have put the—put it in there.\" I said gently, \"Why would he want to do a thing like that?\" \"I don't know.\" She shook her head. \"I just don't know.\" And she was thinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell the because she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but it would have to do. \"We've got to get it deactivated,\" I said, watching the fat man pay for his coffee and leave. \"The sooner the better.\" I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her. \"See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old battered suitcase?\" \"Bag? Suitcase?\" he mumbled. Then he became excited. \"Why, a man just stepped out of here—\" He turned to look down the street. \"That's him.\" The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off \"I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.\" you report it.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat likely happens to the narrator after the story ends?\n\n<options>:\nA He eventually makes his meeting but is too shaken up to successfully close the sale\nB He and Julia get together after Julia's divorce\nC The narrator stays with Julia's sister on his trip and misses his meeting\nD He probably returns to his unsatisfying life negotiating printing orders\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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888 | 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,\" they all said, it being almost too obvious for words. Conditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a bogus postman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In the confusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postman He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in a heated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied his It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist, hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings of a celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-light fragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Dome weevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed the huge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing. The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emerged from the blackness of the living room. \"These are Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job. him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairs Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be tolerated particularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. up the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with a it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it, Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see that genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own \"I'm not sure what's going to come of this,\" he said to Lanfierre with small efforts, rarer. Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. \"What have I done?\" Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock. within the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a social Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable. patronizing tone of voice. \"And up and down.\" Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBride was a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. He to MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre had seen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimly resounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spoke in an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievably trite. Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refused to believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting a amount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully, standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It was strangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now rose \"I'll tell you something else,\" Lanfierre went on. \"The confines of everyday living .\" MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros. single window in the place will drop to its sill.\" Lanfierre leaned there's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as if they all had something important to say but had to close the windows And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode into conversation—and that's why the house shakes.\" MacBride whistled. precipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then, emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quickly \"No, I don't need a vacation.\" A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against the flying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in your brain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—\" emptied and then rushed about empty-handed. \"Yoo-hoo!\" he yelled, ,\" Lanfierre said. \"The expressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and got neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. There was something implacable about his sighs. Lanfierre nodded. \"I can't wait to see what he's got in there,\" Lanfierre murmured, . He went on, thinking: The old devils. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incredibly long and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amount of falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. \"No\" meant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and the My dear Mrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romantic garden time to be a bit forward. No. Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might be fell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day And all the rest have thirty-one. What a strange people, the ancients! He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. \"Men are too perishable,\" Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. \"For all practical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die.\" \"Would you pass the beets, please?\" Humphrey Fownes said. her to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. \"Do you have any idea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I rob my husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry their bodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace.\" \"As long as there are people,\" he said philosophically, \"there'll be talk.\" \"But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale, I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never so worse for him.\" \"I don't seem to mind the air.\" She threw up her hands. \"You'd be the worst of the lot!\" She left the table, rustling and tinkling about the room. \"I can just hear them. Try some of the asparagus. Five. \"Don't you think they'll find out? I they will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don't always tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, it blows across prairies or is \" And ,\" Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, \"they say look of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt a would be such a deliciously insane experience. (\"April has thirty number such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisor with it are Lanfierre sighed.) to government publications and censored old books with holes in them. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meet eighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like the books around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into near unintelligibility. \"Here's one,\" she said to him as he entered. \" Gulliver's Travels. people's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tables looking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. \"Where did the old society fail?\" the leader was demanding of them. He glanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as Humphrey Fownes squeezed into an empty chair. \"We live in a dome,\" the leader said, \"for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thing that the great technological societies before ours could not invent, notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?\" leave.\" \"And that day I'll await impatiently,\" Fownes replied with marvelous .\" \"Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country. You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. And dialectically very poor.\" \"Then you have\n\n<question>:\nLanfierre has all of the following beliefs about humanity EXCEPT:\n\n<options>:\nA They are oblivious\nB They are self-absorbed\nC They are untrustworthy\nD They are vapid\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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917 | 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>:\nWarrior Queens Elizabeth is a lurid paraphrase of the old Groucho Marx line about Doris Day: \"I knew the Virgin Queen before she was a virgin.\" As the movie tells it, she was a sylvan, redheaded princess (Cate Blanchett) given to gamboling with her fella (Joseph Fiennes) between periods of internment in the Tower of London on charges of conspiring to overthrow her half-sister, the heatedly Catholic Queen Mary (Kathy Burke). The daughter of the second wife of Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, and therefore dubbed a bastard by the papists, the Protestant Elizabeth ascends the throne to find the air still thick with smoke from roasted heretics, a team of skulking Catholics plotting her assassination, and a council of advisers (lords, bishops, sundry old boys) who snigger openly at the prospect of taking orders from a woman. Only a strategic marriage to a Spaniard or a Frenchman will mollify all factions, her advisers insist, but the pickings prove dismal. (Her French suitor enjoys wearing dresses.) After skulls are smashed, throats slit, and bosoms skewered in the name of Christ, Elizabeth decides to: a) \"unsex\" herself and become a symbol--the Virgin Queen, married only to England and b) entertain dissenting opinions exclusively from those whose heads are affixed to spikes. You can't be both a queenly queen and a womanly woman, says the script (by Michael Hirst)--at least not in 1554. (The director, Shekhar Kapur, made the same point in his grim 1994 Indian epic The Bandit Queen , against a backdrop of scrubby plains along the Ganges.) Is this feminist take historically accurate? Probably, although the evidence suggests that Elizabeth had developed a head for stratagems earlier in life (her position had been precarious since the beheading of her mother) and came to the throne with few girlish illusions about How Things Work in a barbarous state. That 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.\n\n<question>:\nWhat positive critique does the film reviewer offer Blanchett? pulling off the transition from hapless young woman to coolly ruthless monarch with uncommon subtlety\n\n<options>:\nA She gives a naturally convincing performance of Elizabeth I's transition from a naive girl to a powerful ruler\nB She most closely resembles Elizabeth I's cold demeanor, as compared to her actress predecessors\nC She brings a fresh element of humor and bluntness to Elizabeth I's dialogue\nD She captures Elizabeth I's bloodthirsty, almost masculine personality with stunning accuracy\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>:\nShut Up, He Explained Owen Fiss is a professor at the Yale Law School and a highly regarded scholar of constitutional law. The subject of this short book is the present direction of the law governing the freedom of speech. What Professor Fiss has to say about it is worth attending to not merely because of his prominence in the field but because his argument is planted in the common assumptive ground of a lot of contemporary academic thought about the bankruptcy of individualism. The thesis of the book is Fiss', but the wisdom is conventional. Professor Fiss thinks the present direction of First Amendment law is a bad one, and he has an idea about how we might improve it. The short way to put his argument (though it is not quite the way he puts it) is to say that our approach to speech has become increasingly permissive. Courts have become more and more reluctant to allow the state to interfere with the rights of individual speakers to say what they wish, and it is time to roll back that permissiveness and to embark on a new approach that would permit the state to silence some speakers and promote others, but still, Fiss argues, in the name of freedom of speech. This is what Fiss means by the \"irony\" in his title: that true freedom of speech for all requires suppressing the speech of some. This is not, technically, an irony. It is a paradox. An irony would be the observation that an attempt to increase freedom for all often entails, despite our best efforts, a decrease in freedom for a few. If Fiss had addressed the subject of free speech in this spirit, as an irony, he would undoubtedly have had some interesting things to say, for he is a learned and temperate writer. But he has, instead, chosen to address the issue as an advocate for specific groups he regards as politically disadvantaged--women, gays, victims of racial-hate speech, the poor (or, at least, the not-rich), and people who are critical of market capitalism--and to design a constitutional theory that will enable those groups to enlist the state in efforts either to suppress speech they dislike or to subsidize speech they do like, without running afoul of the First Amendment. Embarked on this task, the most learned and temperate writer in the world would have a hard time avoiding tendentiousness. Fiss does not avoid it. it is now used to foil efforts to regulate speech in the name of the newer liberal value, equality. Contemporary liberals, inheriting both these traditions, find themselves in a bind. They want, let's say, black students to be free from harassment at institutions where they are, racially, in a minority, since liberals worry that black students cannot be \"equal\" if they feel intimidated. But those same liberals get upset at the thought of outlawing hate speech, since that would mean infringing upon the right of individuals to express themselves. Fiss' suggestion--this is the chief theoretical proposal of his book--is that liberals should stop thinking about this as a conflict between liberty and equality and start thinking about it as a conflict between two kinds of liberty: social vs. individual. The First Amendment, he says, was intended to foster (in William Brennan's words) \"uninhibited, robust, and wide-open\" debate in society as a whole speech that inhibits or monopolizes that debate should therefore fall outside the protection of the law. We can maximize the total freedom of speech by silencing people who prevent others from speaking--when they utter racial epithets, represent women in degrading ways, use their wealth to dominate the press and the political process, or block the funding of unorthodox art. The historical part of this analysis rests on a canard, which is the assertion that the constitutional law of free speech emerged from 19 th -century classical laissez-faire liberalism. It did not. It emerged at the time of World War I, and the principal figures in its creation--Learned Hand, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., and Louis Brandeis--were not classical liberals they were progressives. They abhorred the doctrine of natural rights because, in their time, that doctrine was construed to cover not the right to \"self-expression\" but the \"right to property.\" Turn-of-the-century courts did not display a libertarian attitude toward civil rights they displayed a libertarian attitude toward economic rights, tending to throw out legislation aimed at regulating industry and protecting workers on the grounds that people had a constitutional right to enter into contracts and to use their own property as they saw fit. Holmes, Brandeis, and their disciples consistently supported state intervention in economic affairs--the passage of health and safety regulations, the protection of unions, the imposition of taxes, and so on. The post-New Deal liberals whom Fiss associates with the value of equality are their heirs. The heirs of the19 th -century classical liberals are Jack Kemp and Newt Gingrich. Fiss' two \"liberalisms\" are, in fact, almost entirely different political philosophies. Hand, Holmes, and Brandeis based their First Amendment opinions not on some putative right to individual self-expression (an idea Holmes referred to as \"the right of the donkey to drool\") but on a democratic need for full and open political debate. First Amendment law since their time has performed its balancing acts on precisely that social value--the very value Fiss now proposes we need to insert into First Amendment jurisprudence. We don't need to insert it, because it was there from the start. Why does Fiss portray the history of First Amendment jurisprudence in this perverted way? Because he wants to line up his own free-speech argument within the conventional academic view that our problems are mostly the consequences of an antiquated and discreditable ideology of liberal individualism, and that they can mostly be solved by adopting a social-constructionist, or communitarian, or \"intersubjective\" view of human nature instead. The merits of liberal individualism vs. communitarianism can await another occasion to be debated. For since the law governing the freedom of speech does not emerge out of libertarianism, the matter does not boil down to replacing an obsolete belief in \"self-expression\" with a more up-to-date belief in \"robust debate,\" as Fiss would like to think it does. What it boils down to is whether we need to replace the Hand-Holmes-Brandeis way of maximizing the benefits of free speech in a democratic society, which tries to push the state as far out of the picture as possible, with a different way, which tries to get the state farther into the picture. Here, assuming we want to try the interventionist approach, it is hard to see how a one-size theory can possibly fit all cases. The issues underlying pornography, hate speech, arts grants, campaign finance, and equal-time provisions are all different. The ideological impetus behind judicial developments in the last two areas, campaign finance and equal-time provisions, is related less to speech, except as a kind of constitutional cover, than to a revival of the old \"right to property\"--that is, the Supreme Court tends to disapprove of legislative and administrative efforts to require broadcasters to carry \"opposing viewpoints\" on the grounds that since it's their property, owners of television stations should be able to broadcast what they like. Fiss believes that the need for equal-time laws is as urgent today as it was in the 1970s, which is peculiar in light of the proliferation of media outlets. But the state does arguably have an interest, compatible with the First Amendment, in stipulating the way those media are used, and Fiss' discussion of those issues is the least aggravating in his book.\n\n<question>:\nWho is Owen Fiss and what did he do?\n\n<options>:\nA He is a professor at Yale Law School. He is responsible taking Robert Mapplethorpe to court.\nB He is a professor at Yale Law School. He is responsible for writing the book, The Irony of Free Speech\nC He is a professor at Yale Law School. He is responsible for writing the book, Shut Up, He Explained.\nD He is a professor at Harvard Law School. He is responsible for writing the book, Shut Up, He Explained.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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1,380 | 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 had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So did the light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man in humans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously and arrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superior to anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she was accustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she was almost ordinary-looking. amused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemably He shrugged. \"I never saw him before in my life.\" Of course, knowing him, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then he happened to have been telling the truth. Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotel suite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, as If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would have been nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no real identification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one for young man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't there at all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem to remember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a moment that he had not been alone. \"How about Helen? She on course?\" looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-up from her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. \"I hope you'll be worthy of the name.\" The light given off by the flaming car flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too. Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. of my—of our appreciation.\" Her hand reached toward her credit-carrier with deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but only casually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciation held little gratitude. had been perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperate and it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up. The girl looked closely at him. \"You look different, but you are if she had not been so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that. He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking. \"But why do you do it? Why! Do you like it? Or is it because of Gabriel?\" She was growing a little frantic and she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she was included in its scope. \"Do you want to keep him from recognizing you is that it?\" we've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, I think?\" There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and she wondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- or third- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make it respond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But she husband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken from some animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely about barren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man who him . And he knows that.\" \"You'll change again tonight, won't you?\" she babbled. \"You always change after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able to identify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body there's something about you that doesn't change.\" \"Too bad he got married,\" the young man said. \"I could have followed him for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me out from the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway,\" he added, his voice less impersonal, \"for your sake.\" She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, but she would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly an outsider he was part of their small family group—as long as she had known Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspect that he was even more closely involved than that. \"Why must you change again?\" she persisted, obliquely approaching the \"Ask your husband.\" The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate, snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name, \"That is the reason we can afford to be honest.\" The Vinzz' tendrils quivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement through long, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. His The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game. He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration. And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, he wouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Was he changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his own discoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the fact that none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him? Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in the he would have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl, seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happened and tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her that the hulk he inhabited was a sick one he still couldn't understand how he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece of information. The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now they biological impossibility, no one could tell. been proved that an alien life-form had \"desecrated\" a human body, Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity held its self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despite the crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do. He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing to match the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably many people who might find this one preferable. No identification in the time immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that he might one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one of the men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, though not an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom the , the new tenant thought, as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obvious IV \"Look, Gabe,\" the girl said, \"don't try to fool me! I know you too well. And I know you have that man's—the real Gabriel Lockard's—body.\" She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as she watched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror. Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshaven chin. \"That what he tell you?\" whatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody he obviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want to see his body spoiled.\" \"It and made no attempt to deny her charge very probably he was relieved at having someone with whom to share his secret. \"Not as good as it must have been,\" the girl said, turning and looking at him without admiration. \"Not if you keep on the way you're coursing. Gabe, why don't you...?\" \"Give it back to him, eh?\" Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly. \"You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be his wife then. That would be \"I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe,\" she said truthfully enough, for she hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. \"Of course I'd go with you,\" she went on, now knowing she lied, \"when you got your ... with him again. But that once had been enough nothing could ever wash that experience from her mind or her body. \"Oh, yes, I can,\" she said incautiously. \"You must have had a body to match your character. Pity you could only change one.\"\n\n<question>:\nHow does Helen feel about her husband?\n\n<options>:\nA he treats her well, but she's just not in love with him\nB she misses the way he used to be\nC she wishes she'd never met him\nD she's in love with his true self\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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1,750 | 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 isn't a trap, the Karna can't satisfy Braynek, because he's convinced that there has Nordon, and all his questioning on the wildest possibilities, just serves to keep Nordon from getting unconfused. \"These two men are honestly doing their best to win at the peace conference, and they've got the Karna reeling. The Karna can see that we're not trying to stall our men are actually working at trying to reach a decision. But what the Karna don't see is that those men, as a team, are unbeatable because, in this situation, they're psychologically incapable of losing.\" Malloy leafed Again the Secretary of State nodded Malloy, Permanent Terran Ambassador paranoia. The man wasn't technically insane he could be as lucid as the next hand was turned against him. He trusted no one, and was perpetually on his guard against imaginary plots Malloy looked at him. \"Didn't you and persecutions. sort of emotional block that left him continually on the horns of one dilemma or another. He was psychologically incapable of making a decision if he were faced with two or more possible alternatives of any major Malloy sighed and pushed the dossiers Malloy closed his eyes. Somewhere And, Malloy knew, his own position For nine years, Bertrand Malloy ever seen him. To have shown himself to one of them would have meant instant loss of prestige. To their way of thinking, an important official was aloof. The greater It was Bertrand Malloy's job to could have handled them without half trying. But Malloy didn't have top-grade men. They couldn't be spared from It's inefficient to waste a man on a job that he can do without half trying that will tax his full output. So Malloy was stuck with the culls. Not the worst ones, of course less important than Saarkkad to the war effort. Malloy knew that, no matter But Malloy didn't like to stop at merely thwarting mental quirks he \"Malloy here.\" \"Mr. Malloy?\" said a careful voice. Malloy had made her his private out of Malloy's office without his direct order. It had taken Malloy a right—even desirable—for her to keep secrets from everyone except Malloy. over to Malloy. Malloy let her stand there while he eyes widened involuntarily. \"Armistice,\" he said in a low whisper. \"There's a chance that the war may be over.\" Malloy read the whole thing through, fighting to keep his emotions Finally, Malloy looked up. \"I'll let you know as soon as I reach a decision, Miss Drayson. I think I hardly need say that no news of this is to leave this office.\" Malloy watched her go out the door The Karna, slowly being beaten back on every front, were suing for peace. They wanted an armistice conference—immediately. Earth was willing. Interstellar war is too costly to allow it to continue any longer than necessary, and this one had been going on for more than thirteen years now. Peace was necessary. But not peace at any price. The trouble was that the Karna had a reputation for losing wars and winning at the peace table. They were clever, persuasive talkers. They could twist a disadvantage to an advantage, and make their own strengths look like weaknesses. If they won the armistice, they'd be able to retrench and rearm, and the war would break out again within a few years. Now—at this point in time—they could be beaten. They could be forced to allow supervision of the production potential, forced to disarm, rendered impotent. But if the armistice went to their own advantage ... Already, they had taken the offensive in the matter of the peace talks. They had sent a full delegation to The Karna considered this to be fully neutral territory, and Earth couldn't argue the point very well. In addition, they demanded that the conference begin in three days, Terrestrial V. Earth had been caught unprepared for an armistice. They objected. The Karna pointed out that the armistice. Why hadn't Earth been prepared? Did they intend to fight to the utter destruction of Karn? galaxy, most of whom had remained as neutral as possible during the Earth-Karn war. They had no intention into a battle between the two most powerful races in the galaxy. But whoever won the armistice would find that some of the now-neutral races would come in on their Karna played their cards right, their side would be strong enough next time to win. within the three-day limit or lose what might be a vital point in the negotiations. And that was where Bertrand Malloy came in. the Earth-Karn peace conference. He looked up at the ceiling again. \"What of the communique, Malloy made his decision. He flipped on his intercom and said: \"Miss Drayson, get hold of James Nordon and Kylen Malloy knew the woman would Malloy waved him to a seat. Nordon nodded slowly. \"Yes, sir.\" Malloy explained the problem of the Karna peace talks. \"We need a man who can outthink them,\" Malloy finished, \"and judging you make the wrong decisions, your name will be mud back on Earth. But I don't think there's much chance of certainly. Am I to go alone?\" \"No,\" said Malloy, \"I'm sending I recall, Mr. Malloy. Should I have?\" shrewd operator, though. He knows a lot about interstellar law, and he's capable of spotting a trap a mile away. As soon as Nordon had left, Malloy Again Malloy went through the explanation of the peace conference. \"Naturally, they'll be trying to trick you every step of the way,\" Malloy went on. \"They're shrewd and underhanded we'll simply have to be more shrewd and more underhanded. Nordon's job is to sit quietly and evaluate the data don't baby them, either. If you see anything underhanded going on, let Nordon know immediately.\" \"They won't get anything by me, Mr. Malloy.\" By the time the ship from Earth got there, the peace conference had been going on for four days. Bertrand Malloy had full reports on the whole He took Malloy's hand and shook on Earth?\" \"Tense. They're waiting to see what is going to happen on Five. So am I, for that matter.\" His eyes were good team, instead. Would you like to see the reports?\" Malloy handed them to the secretary, good man, Malloy had to When Blendwell looked up from the reports at last, he said: \"Amazing! They've held off the Karna at every point! They've beaten them back! They've managed to cope with and outdo the finest team of negotiators the Karna could send.\" \"I thought they would,\" said Malloy, Malloy nodded. \"I think so. The Karna put us in a dilemma, so I threw a dilemma right back at them.\" \"How do you mean?\" \"Nordon had a mental block against making decisions. If he took making up his mind whether to kiss her or not until she made up his mind for him, one way or the other. He's that kind of guy. Until he's presented with one, single, clear decision which admits of no alternatives, he can't move at all. they backed down to a single point and proved that it wasn't rigged, Nordon couldn't possibly make up his mind. I drummed into him how important this was, and the more importance there is attached to his decisions, the more incapable he becomes of making them.\" \"What about Braynek?\" \"Paranoid,\" said Malloy. \"He thinks everyone is plotting against him. In this case, that's all to the good because the Karna are plotting against him. No matter what they put forth, Braynek is convinced that there's a trap in it somewhere, and he digs to find out what the trap is. Even if\n\n<question>:\nHow does Bertrand Malloy feel about sending the team of man in his place?\n\n<options>:\nA He wishes he could do the job himself but knows they are the best for the job.\nB He is relieved to not have to go but wishes he could have found better replacements.\nC He is glad he does not have to go and things they will do a better job anyway.\nD He is fairly certain they are going to mess up the peace talks.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
1,446 | 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 and his Las Vegas allies, a former Las Vegas city councilman named Steve Miller and an inner city venture capitalist named Otis Harris, invite me on a tour of Las Vegas. \"Behind the Mirage,\" they call it. For two hours, we cruise the streets behind the casinos. They show me all the evidence of gambling blight you'd never want to see, from a youth-center-turned-crack-house to pawn shops to sex shops to down at heels casinos to quickie motels. All the while, they keep up a patter about how terrible a neighbor the casino industry is and how superficial Las Vegas' prosperity is. It's very grim and mostly persuasive. Still, when we turn back on to the Strip, and pass the jaw-dropping Stratosphere and Circus Circus and Bellagio and the MGM Grand--a 30 story tower bathed in fabulous emerald light, I realize why Grey's task is hopeless here. He is committing the cardinal sin of Vegas. All he wants to do is talk about losers. In Las Vegas, under the thrilling lights of the Strip, no one wants to hear about losers. In the land of gaming, not gambling, everyone is sure he's a winner. Is < A NAME= \"Gaming\"? 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. 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. 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.\" (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>:\nWhich word least describes Tom Grey?\n\n<options>:\nA straightforward\nB jaded\nC passionate\nD persistent\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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1,703 | 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>:\nDISTURBING SUN By PHILIP LATHAM Illustrated by Freas 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. NIEMAND. Pure bosh in most cases. LATHAM. But some are valid? 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. 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 NIEMAND. It is quite invisible to the eye but readily detected by suitable instrumental methods. It is extremely doubtful, however, if the radiation we detect is the actual cause of the disturbing effects observed. LATHAM. Just what are these effects? LATHAM. Can you give us a general idea? NIEMAND. I'll try. Let's see ... remember that speech from \"Julius Caesar\" where Cassius is bewailing the evil times that beset ancient Rome? I believe it went like this: \"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in 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 despair, convinced that the origin of evil is too deep for the human mind to solve. Generally they have concluded that man is inherently wicked and sinful and that is the end of it. Now for the first time science has thrown new light on this subject. LATHAM. How is that? NIEMAND. Consider the record of history. There are occasional periods when conditions are fairly calm and peaceful. Art and industry flourished. Man at last seemed to be making progress toward some higher for no detectable reason —conditions are reversed. Wars rage. People go mad. The world is plunged into an orgy of bloodshed and misery. LATHAM. But weren't there reasons? NIEMAND. What reasons? NIEMAND. Nonsense. Men always make some flimsy excuse for going to war. The truth of the matter is that men go to war because they want to go to war. They can't help themselves. They are impelled by forces over which they have no control. By forces outside of themselves. suffering from a complex of symptoms, such as profound mental depression, anxiety, insomnia, alternating with fits of violent rage and resentment against life and the world in general. These people were primitive man is afflicted with essentially the same neurotic conditions as those of us who live a so-called civilized life. They have found savages displaying every symptom of a nervous breakdown among the this ghastly sense of depression coupled with a blind insensate rage at life. One man said he felt as if the world were closing in on him. Another that he felt the people around him were plotting his destruction. One housewife made her husband lock her in her room for fear she would injure the children. I pored over these case histories NIEMAND. The first thing that struck me was that the attacks all occurred during the daytime, between the hours of about seven in the distribution very closely. I couldn't possibly see what daylight had to 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. NIEMAND. In every case of a simultaneous attack the Sun was shining at both New York and California. set. Dr. Hillyard and I had been searching desperately for a clue. We had both noticed that the attacks occurred only during the daylight 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 NIEMAND. Because the average period of solar rotation in the sunspot zone is not twenty-seven days but twenty-seven point three days. And on NIEMAND. The S-Regions are invisible to the eye through an optical 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. LATHAM. I should think it would be nearer thirteen or fourteen days. strongly circularly polarized. Moreover, the sense of rotation remains constant while one is passing across the Sun. If the magnetic field forty-eight hours between the development of an S-Region and the onset of mental disturbance. This indicates that the malignant energy emanating from an S-Region consists of some highly penetrating form of no one is completely immune. All are affected in some NIEMAND. An S-Region may have a lifetime of from three to perhaps a dozen solar rotations. Then it dies out and for a time we are free from 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. 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 side of the Earth which is rather difficult to do. Apparently the corpuscular beam from an S-Region is several degrees wide and not very sharply defined, since its effects are felt simultaneously over the 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. the present trouble in the world. That it is not ourselves but something outside ourselves— NIEMAND. That is the logical outcome of our investigation. We are controlled and swayed by forces which in many cases we are powerless to resist. 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. malignant radiation know that one of these regions is active? NIEMAND. If you have a feeling of restlessness and anxiety, if you are about yourself, or are filled with resentment toward the world, then you may be pretty sure that an S-Region is passing across the face of the 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. THE END [A] Middletown believes that the Intense radiation recently discovered from information derived from Explorer I and III has no\n\n<question>:\nWhich of these is an irony represented as a main point in the story?\n\n<options>:\nA Men are more affected by the 27-day cycle than women are\nB Astronomers never talk to each other but only make progress when they do\nC The moon controls the tides but the sun controls emotions\nD Evil will haunt mankind as long as there is light from the Sun\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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873 | 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>:\nvalor for them to hunt men in the world of men. In that fact lay a key to their character—if such utterly alien creatures could be said to have character. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that The house was furnished with all luxuries, including women. If it only had a lease that could be broken— only garment to make sure that they were on properly. They were. He had thought them up in a moment of utter boredom and they were extremely wrinkle when he moved. Their captors had no idea of how a woven design tight-fitting tubular gown. \"If I could do anything about it....\" \"But you can't,\" he told her. \"They're too clever.\" himself—desire that both of them loathed because it was implanted within them by their captors. It didn't look like a prison—or a cage. Within the dome of the like trees, only their trunks were bark all the way through—except double motherhood, she was almost flat of bosom. He asked her how she was feeling. \"Okay, I guess,\" she said. \"The way they manage it, there's nothing a female foreman in a garment-cutting shop before being captured and brought through. something that might cheer her up, for she was by far the youngest of the three female captives, barely nineteen. But with the eyes of the other two, especially Dana, upon him, he could not. It arrived before the meal, materializing against one of the seven an unfamiliar love lyric to a melody whose similarity to a thousand predecessors doomed it to instant success. Olga sat up straight, her pale blue eyes round with utter disbelief. emotion and she was almost beautiful. \" it—are they—real?\" \"As real as you or I,\" he told her. \"It took quite a bit of doing, get through. TV doesn't seem to. Somehow it brings things closer....\" aroma of steak, it was almost tasteless. This was so with all of their foods, with their cigarettes, with everything in their prison—or their cage. Their captors were utterly without a human conception of smell, living, apparently, in a world without odor at all. things are arranged here.\" \"Thanks, Eudalia,\" said Tennant. \"I think I can defend myself. But she's right, Dana. We're as helpless as—laboratory animals. They have the means to make us do whatever they want.\" all are. We seem to be in a universe of different properties as well as different dimensions. We're adjusting. I can do a thing or two myself that seem absolutely impossible.\" \"Are we really in the fourth dimension?\" Dana asked. Of the three of them, she alone had more than a high-school education. settle for the fourth—a fourth dimension in space, if that makes \"Why haven't they brought more of us through?\" Eudalia asked, tamping have a hell of a time bringing anyone through alive, and lately they it's because they're pretty human.\" \" Human! \" Dana was outraged. \"Do you call it human to—\" \"Hold on,\" he said. \"They pass through their gateway to Earth at considerable danger and, probably, expense of some kind. Some of them don't—or can't—they bring back with them. Live or dead, we're just laboratory specimens.\" display in their—their whatever they live in. You call that human, we're the hunters, angrier way. The infants, protected by cellophane-like coverlets, were \"They never cry,\" the thin woman told him. \"But they grow—God, how they grow!\" captors had seen to that over. He had felt the inner tug of command, said good-by to the women and returned to his smaller compound within its own barrier dome. Then came the invisible aura of strain in the air, the shimmering illusion of heat that was not heat, that was prelude to his teleportation ... if that were the word. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant it was anything save some half-nourished dream a surrealist might have As in all of this strange universe, excepting the dome-cages in which the captives were held, the training hall followed no rules of three-dimensional space. One wall looked normal for perhaps a third of cosmic impact, yet it had reason. He knew this even though no reason The captor Tennant called Opal auditory scale, just as perhaps they could smell, although not in any human sense. You will approach without use of your appendages. seconds and he was there, having spanned a distance of some ninety feet. He was getting good at it. weren't mastering some of the alleged Guru arts. At once he felt probing investigation. Opal, like the rest of the captors, was as repetition before his workout was done. On Earth, dogs were said to be intellectually two-dimensional creatures. He wondered if they felt this helpless futility when their masters taught them to heel, to point, to retrieve. Some days later, the training routine was broken. He felt a sudden stir of near-sick excitement as he received the thought: Now you are ready. We are going through at last. He had little time to speculate before Opal seemed to envelop him. There was the blurring wrench of forced teleportation and they were in incomprehensible as an oil painting to an animal. What cover must your body have not to be conspicuous? everything but the date and season. Opal, like the rest of the captors, seemed to have no understanding of time in a human sense. could have controlled his heartbeat with one of his new powers, but the room that was so important a part of his life. The three women back the ebony-and-ivory elephants that Agatha had never liked were gone, with the casual antiquity of the living room. adolescent's. This hunger was real, not implanted. Everything would be real ... his love for her, the food he ate, the things he touched, his house, his life.... he had mastered teleportation, it was incredible how much easier it was in his own world. He had covered the two miles from the gateway to the house in a mere seven jumps, the distance to the window in an instant. But there was no pleasure in it, only a confirmation of his captor's power over him. He was not free of them. He understood all too well what they wanted him to do leading another victim to the fourth-dimensional pen. a grab for me Cass Gordon—the man , the ex-halfback whose bulk was beginning to get out of hand, but whose inherent aggressive grace had not yet deserted him. The man it was, with all of them going through their paces like a trio of captors had let him. brought the four of them through, not since they had begun to train him conscious of her perfume. It wrapped them both like an exotic blanket, It didn't have to be anybody at all. For it to be Cass Gordon was revolting. \" What can you promise?\" demanded Tennant. When Gordon's onset subsided in mumbles, he added, \"Actually, I don't think I'm capable of He needed no telepathic powers to read the thoughts around him then. He anything , as long as it was safe. easier and pleasanter than he had expected. They deserved some of the Tennant knew now why he was the only male human the captors had been able to take alive. Apparently, thanks to the rain-slick road, he had had been sitting there, unconscious, ripe fruit on their doorstep. They had simply picked him up. Otherwise, apparently, men were next to impossible for them to capture. All they could do was kill them and bring back their heads and hides as trophies. With women it was different—perhaps the captors' weapons, whatever they were, worked more efficiently on females. A difference in body chemistry or psychology, perhaps. up the gateway in some town or city and take as many humans as they wanted. Surprisingly there had been a definite fear reaction. As nearly as he simply wasn't feasible—and furthermore he derived an impression of the tenuosity as well as the immovability of the gateway itself. They could be hurt, even killed by humans in a three-dimensional world.\n\n<question>:\nThe humans in the fourth dimension acquire all of the following remarkable abilities EXCEPT for:\n\n<options>:\nA teleportation\nB pulse manipulation\nC thought transference\nD superhuman strength\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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803 | 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>:\nThis is what Fiss means by the \"irony\" in his title: that true freedom of speech for all requires suppressing the speech of some. This is not, technically, an irony. It is a paradox. An irony would be the observation that an attempt to increase freedom for all often entails, despite our best efforts, a decrease in freedom for a few. If Fiss had addressed the subject of free speech in this spirit, as an irony, he would undoubtedly have had some interesting things to say, for he is a learned and temperate writer. But he has, instead, chosen to address the issue as an advocate for specific groups he regards as politically disadvantaged--women, gays, victims of racial-hate speech, the poor (or, at least, the not-rich), and people who are critical of market capitalism--and to design a constitutional theory that will enable those groups to enlist the state in efforts either to suppress speech they dislike or to subsidize speech they do like, without running afoul of the First Amendment. Embarked on this task, the most learned and temperate writer in the world would have a hard time avoiding tendentiousness. Fiss does not avoid it. The Irony of Free Speech is a discussion of several speech issues: campaign-finance laws, state funding for the arts, pornography, speech codes, and equal time. These discussions are not doctrinaire, but their general inclination is to favor state intervention, on political grounds, in each of those areas--that is, to favor restrictions on campaign spending, greater regulation of pornography, and so on. Fiss' analyses of specific cases are presented against a lightly sketched historical argument. Light though the sketching is, the historical argument is almost the most objectionable thing about the book, since it involves a distortion of the history of First Amendment law that is fairly plain even to someone who is not a professor at Yale Law School. The argument is that \"the liberalism of the nineteenth century was defined by the claims of individual liberty and resulted in an unequivocal demand for liberal government, [while] the liberalism of today embraces the value of equality as well as liberty.\" The constitutional law of free speech, says Fiss, was shaped by the earlier type of liberalism--he calls it \"libertarian\"--which regarded free speech as a right of individual self-expression it is now used to foil efforts to regulate speech in the name of the newer liberal value, equality. Contemporary liberals, inheriting both these traditions, find themselves in a bind. They want, let's say, black students to be free from harassment at institutions where they are, racially, in a minority, since liberals worry that black students cannot be \"equal\" if they feel intimidated. But those same liberals get upset at the thought of outlawing hate speech, since that would mean infringing upon the right of individuals to express themselves. Fiss' suggestion--this is the chief theoretical proposal of his book--is that liberals should stop thinking about this as a conflict between liberty and equality and start thinking about it as a conflict between two kinds of liberty: social vs. individual. The First Amendment, he says, was intended to foster (in William Brennan's words) \"uninhibited, robust, and wide-open\" debate in society as a whole speech that inhibits or monopolizes that debate should therefore fall outside the protection of the law. We can maximize the total freedom of speech by silencing people who prevent others from speaking--when they utter racial epithets, represent women in degrading ways, use their wealth to dominate the press and the political process, or block the funding of unorthodox art. The historical part of this analysis rests on a canard, which is the assertion that the constitutional law of free speech emerged from 19 th -century classical laissez-faire liberalism. It did not. It emerged at the time of World War I, and the principal figures in its creation--Learned Hand, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., and Louis Brandeis--were not classical liberals they displayed a libertarian attitude toward economic rights, tending to throw out legislation aimed at regulating industry and protecting workers on the grounds that people had a constitutional right to enter into contracts and to use their own property as they saw fit. Holmes, Brandeis, and their disciples consistently supported state intervention in economic affairs--the passage of health and safety regulations, the protection of unions, the imposition of taxes, and so on. The post-New Deal liberals whom Fiss associates with the value of equality are their heirs. The heirs of the19 th -century classical liberals are Jack Kemp and Newt Gingrich. Fiss' two \"liberalisms\" are, in fact, almost entirely different political philosophies. Hand, Holmes, and Brandeis based their First Amendment opinions not on some putative right to individual self-expression (an idea Holmes referred to as \"the right of the donkey to drool\") but on a democratic need for full and open political debate. First Amendment law since their time has performed its balancing acts on precisely that social value--the very value Fiss now proposes we need to insert into First Amendment jurisprudence. We don't need to insert it, because it was there from the start. Why does Fiss portray the history of First Amendment jurisprudence in this perverted way? Because he wants to line up his own free-speech argument within the conventional academic view that our problems are mostly the consequences of an antiquated and discreditable ideology of liberal individualism, and that they can mostly be solved by adopting a social-constructionist, or communitarian, or \"intersubjective\" view of human nature instead. The merits of liberal individualism vs. communitarianism can await another occasion to be debated. For since the law governing the freedom of speech does not emerge out of libertarianism, the matter does not boil down to replacing an obsolete belief in \"self-expression\" with a more up-to-date belief in \"robust debate,\" as Fiss would like to think it does. What it boils down to is whether we need to replace the Hand-Holmes-Brandeis way of maximizing the benefits of free speech in a democratic society, which tries to push the state as far out of the picture as possible, with a different way, which tries to get the state farther into the picture. Still, that discussion, like his discussions of the other issues, rests on a claim long associated with the left--the claim, in a phrase, that the minority is really the majority. In the case of speech, Fiss appears to believe that the reason the American public is less enlightened than he would wish it to be concerning matters such as feminism, the rights of homosexuals, and regulation of industry is that people are denied access to the opinions and information that would enlighten them. The public is denied this access because the state, in thrall to the ideology of individualism, refuses either to interfere with speech bullies--such as pornographers--who \"silence\" women, or to subsidize the speech of the unorthodox, such as Robert Mapplethorpe. Fiss' analysis of the Mapplethorpe case offers a good example of the perils of his interventionist approach. Arts policy is, unquestionably, a mess. The solution usually proposed is divorce: Either get the state out of the business altogether or invent some ironclad process for distributing the money using strictly artistic criteria. Fiss rejects both solutions he wants the criteria to be political. He thinks the NEA should subsidize art that will enhance the \"robustness\" of the debate and should therefore prefer unorthodox art--though only, of course, if it represents a viewpoint the endowment considers, by virtue of social need and a prior history of exclusion, worthy of its megaphone. (No Nazi art, in other words.)\n\n<question>:\nHow would one describe Fiss' viewpoints.\n\n<options>:\nA They are out of the ordinary, considering he refutes the current First Amendment.\nB They are condescending when applied across a large spectrum of social groups.\nC When contemplated, they fit in with the customs and norms of society today.\nD They are noncontroversial among politically conservative people.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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1,027 | 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“Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine, Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravelly would be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “But “We might explore it without permission,” Judy “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed. “I know now that keeping that promise not to talk about the dam was a great big mistake and tell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go places together.” “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively. “I was just out for a drive.” Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. She Now Judy did remember. It was something she would have preferred to forget. She liked to think but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finally had just started working on the paper. Judy remembered he spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdon mansion, while she had to suffer the heat and loneliness of Dry Brook Hollow. Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, she confessed now as she reviewed everything that had happened. She just couldn’t help resenting the fact that her parents left her every summer while they went off on a vacation by themselves. What did they think she would do? “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided, “in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expect Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tired vacation much more than a schoolgirl who had too little to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went to and his wife relived it. And every summer Judy went to stay with her grandmother Smeed, who scolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’t glad to have her. Judy went, not to look over the old magazines so much as to escape to a place where she could have a good cry. It was the summer before her fifteenth birthday. In another year she would have outgrown her childish resentment of her parents’ vacation or be grown up enough to ask them to let her have a vacation of her own. In another year she would Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill of she was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls. summer Judy found the picture of a fountain and spilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing, she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped to She and Lorraine had listened to this much of what Judy was telling them without interruption. day, her grandparents had taken her to a fountain had stared at them a moment and then climbed the steps to the pool. “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud. the fountain!” Judy remembered “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Lois “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezing Lorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you think Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as she answered, “I was still little girl enough to think so at the time. I wandered around, growing very drowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed into it. I must have gone to sleep, because I remember waking up and wondering if the voice in the fountain had been a dream.” “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure it wasn’t a flying carpet?” “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assured things started happening so fast that I completely forgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’t believe I thought about it again until after we moved Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.” Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert while Judy was telling them the story of the fountain. Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She had tasted it too often while she was making it. Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped up the chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generously with cream. Leaving the table, they all started upstairs with the cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing her “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,” confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewing room at the top of the last flight of stairs. “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitious she and Grandpa like the way they lived without “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around the they did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on more Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Lois and Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was all she would say. Judy wondered, as they searched “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’m sure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenly to Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home. But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way. “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d love “Then my grandparents must have driven old Fanny “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “The back in its place under the eaves and turned eagerly to her friends. “I do remember a road turning off into the woods and going on uphill,” she told them. it under one condition. They were not to drive all the way to the house which, she said, was just over “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy. Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure. She and Lois both argued that it would be better to “She’d be glad to show us around. This way it looks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as they started off in the blue car she was driving. easy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughed and said if they did find the fountain she thought “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s too warm for snow. We picked a perfect day for this trip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curves as it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow. The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes they had covered the distance that had seemed such a long way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’s wagon. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’ve just about figured out how it happened. I didn’t old farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’t explain what happened afterwards. When I woke up in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse, wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.” “How could they?” asked Lois. “Before what?” questioned Judy. “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. You were telling us how you woke up in the hammock, but you never did explain how you got back home,” Lorraine reminded her. “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it, but it’s beginning to come back now. I do remember driving home along this road. You see, I thought my grandparents had left me in the garden for a surprise and would return for me. I told you I was all alone. actually scared by the time I reached the old tower. There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heard the rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew he was driving off without me.” “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise, that?” “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stop and wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered. “The rugs were gone. Grandma must have delivered “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as they As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraine “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Lois when the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old for\n\n<question>:\nWhy would the trip Judy had taken with her grandparents to the fountain have likely felt longer than when she was traveling with Lois and Lorraine?\n\n<options>:\nA Lorraine was speeding through the roads to the fountain.\nB Her grandparents were traveling by wagon.\nC She had napped in the car, causing the ride to feel shorter.\nD She had napped in the wagon, causing the ride to feel longer.\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>:\nJohn Crownwall as he strode live in peace. \"The Sundans, for example, prehensile fingers, as he ignored the heavy gravity and heavier air of though they took the rule of the the unfamiliar planet. he felt distinctly unhappy. Crownwall to Crownwall. \"You broke our toward the mighty entrance gate of the palace. His manner demonstrated an elaborate air of unconcern that he felt sure was entirely wasted on these monsters. Crownwall and unexpectedly to Crownwall, the threatening crowd dropped back fearfully, so that he walked the last fifty meters alone. Crownwall all but sagged with gesture to be interpreted correctly, to feel safe, and we will guarantee them an equal share in the government of the Galaxy.\" \"Bunk,\" said Crownwall. but he assumed that his silence would be. He was correct. Crownwall. \"I want to see Ffallk.\" arrived from Earth to talk to him. He'll summon me fast enough. Meanwhile, my highly polished Crownwall sat on the steps, \"And if you try to move anywhere drive, we can follow you, and destroy any planet you choose to land on. You would not get away else, by your clumsy distorter from inside the palace, obviously trying to present an air of strolling nonchalance. He gestured fluidly said to Crownwall. \"Follow me. His Crownwall stamped out his smoke and ambled after the hurrying courtier along tremendous corridors, through elaborate waiting rooms, under guarded doorways, until he was finally bowed through a small curtained arch. \"Nor do I,\" consented Crownwall. They examined Crownwall with Crownwall to still Crownwall's immediate in his pockets. \"That's hardly possible,\" he said. \"It was only decided yesterday, back on Earth, that I would be the one to make the trip here. Even if you could spy through buildings on Earth from space, which I doubt, your Crownwall nodded. \"I don't see why not. Well, then, let me tell you that we don't travel in space at all. That's why I didn't show up on any of your long-range detection instruments. Instead, we travel in time. Surely any race that has progressed as far as your own must know, at least theoretically, that time travel is entirely possible. After all, we knew it, and we haven't been around nearly as long as you from Earth to break through our blockade and come here. Most of my advisors—even Ggaran here—thought Crownwall. \"If you wanted someone who tried to work any changes in his own past would be almost certain to end up finding himself never having been born. So we don't do any meddling. What we have discovered is a way not only of moving back into the past, but also of making our own choice of spatial references while we do it, at will. \"For example, to reach this planet, I went back far enough, using to Crownwall. \"If you couldn't to move with Earth a little more than a third of the way around this spiral nebula that is our Galaxy. Then I shifted my frame of reference Earth as the spatial referent, \"Then of course, as I continued to move in time, the whole Galaxy moved spatially with reference to my own position. At the proper instant \"I'm listening,\" said Crownwall. Then I was stationary in the Galaxy, and as I continued time traveling, Master Race.\" \"It would hardly be an equal it to the present. So here I am. It was a long way around to cover a net distance of 26 light-years, but it was really very simple. \"And there's no danger of meeting future—I can't stop in them.\" \"Are you sure that you haven't Crownwall shrugged. \"So?\" time I went back to my ship and drove it home to Earth to make my that they would some day come to be numbered among the Servants of the Emperor. So we let you alone, in order that you could develop in your own way, until you reached a high enough civilization against her unknown enemy. us.\" He climbed into the chair beside Ffallk. The bearers trotted along at seven or eight kilometers an hour, carrying their contraption develop. It took the quickest of them just under a million years. One such race we left uncontrolled went. When they passed through the \"You Earthlings, in defiance of all expectation and all reason, have exploded into space. You have developed space of time. But even that isn't \"When the Viceroy of the Seventy Suns,\" said the Viceroy of the Seventy Suns, \"travels in state, no one but my own entourage is permitted Crownwall. \"I was to Crownwall. an adventure that had taken place little more than ten years before. in space, about forty thousand kilometers above the Earth. It had been manned by a dozen adventurous as to remain on the street after His Effulgence's entourage arrived.\" He turned to one of the bowmen who ran beside the sedan in Earth's history, and, for the twelve, the stars had winked out. The men of Earth had decided tradition.\" His Effulgence beckoned to the thousands of miles around, in a ravening burst of raw energy. So the drive had been used for and spoke again to Crownwall. time has any meaning under such circumstances, they had flickered back into normal space, in the vicinity had headed for that planet confidently and unsuspectingly, using the ion drive. were still several planetary diameters from their destination, they had been shocked to find more Star Seeker , and had then tried to herd it away from the planet it had been heading toward. swiftly. Crownwall recalled the discussion—the distorter drive, and they had beaten the odds. On the distorter drive, Crownwall. they had returned to Earth as swiftly as they had departed. Earth had to His Effulgence and to Crownwall during the trip, without interrupting the smooth progress were served immediately prepared for war continued to run—without food, drink or, except for Ggaran, evidence of fatigue. After several hours of travel, following Crownwall's directions, the You knew that you could have destroyed which he had concealed his small transportation machine. The machine, for spatial mobility, was not only yourself, but also and too foolhardy to be believed. temporal translation and coordination selection systems combined, but it had the great advantage of emitted no mass or radiation. After elaborate and lengthy farewells, Crownwall climbed into his machine and fell gently up until he was out of the atmosphere, before starting his enormous journey through time back to Earth. More quickly than it had taken him to reach his ship from the palace of His Effulgence, he was in the Council and uncontrolled in the Galaxy. Once was enough for that.\" report on his trip to Vega. you. We could only destroy you.\" \"That old fool on Sunda, the Emperor, decided that we should \"that you might be useful to me—that is, that we might be useful to each other. I traveled halfway across the Galaxy to meet him, to convince him that it would be sufficient just to quarantine you. we had done our job. \"With his usual lack of imagination, he felt sure that we were safe from you—after all, there was no way for you to get off the planet. Even if you could get down to the Crownwall. \"Our enemies are all would dream up some device or other, head out into space, and show up on our planet. So I've been waiting for you, and here you are.\" \"It was the thinking of a genius,\" murmured Ggaran. \"Alone,\" he said, and unconsciously repeated Marshall's words: the table by himself. He shivered involuntarily, and then leaped to his feet to follow after them. Loneliness, he found, was something that he couldn't face alone. —L. J. STECHER, JR. to their position of power. Our race is much older than theirs. We were Transcriber's Note: for revenge. And now that you have entered space, that asked Crownwall, \"how does the at a soothing wave from His Effulgence. \"War in space is almost an impossibility,\" said the aged ruler.\n\n<question>:\nWhich is not true about why Crownwall was able to travel to Vega undetected?\n\n<options>:\nA He was not technically moving through space in a typical sense\nB He employed technology unfamiliar to the Vegans\nC His ship's drive does not give off the usual traceable signals\nD He traveled into the future so as to not need to experience the distance travel himself\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>:\nself-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. An actress named Hilary Swank gives one of the most rapturous performances I've ever seen as the cross-dressing Brandon Teena (a k a Teena Brandon) in Kimberly Peirce's stark and astonishingly beautiful debut feature, Boys Don't Cry . The movie opens with Teena being shorn of her hated female tresses and becoming \"Brandon,\" who swaggers around in tight jeans and leather jackets. The joy is in watching the actor transform, and I don't just mean Swank: I mean Teena Brandon playing Brandon Teena--the role she has been longing for her whole life. In a redneck Nebraska bar, Brandon throws back a shot of whiskey and the gesture--a macho cliché--becomes an act of self-discovery. Every gesture does. \"You're gonna have a shiner in the morning,\" someone tells Brandon after a barroom brawl, and he takes the news with a glee that's almost mystical: \"I am????? Oh, shit!!!\" he cries, grinning. That might be my favorite moment in the picture, because Swank's ecstatic expression carries us through the next hour, as Brandon acts out his urban-cowboy fantasies--\"surfing\" from the bumper of a pickup truck, rolling in the mud, and straddling a barstool with one hand on a brewski and the other on the shoulder of a gorgeous babe. 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>:\nHow does the author feel about Mumford?\n\n<options>:\nA It was a flop.\nB It's like a noir Norman Rockwell painting.\nC The author loved it, even though it was a flop.\nD The film gave the author psychological mumps.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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1,977 | 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>:\nSTAR MOTHER By ROBERT F. YOUNG A touching story of the most enduring love in all eternity. That night her son was the first star. She stood motionless in the her heart, watching him rise played as a boy, where he had worked as a young man and she wondered whether he was thinking he was thinking of her standing alone in the April night with her memories house behind her, with its empty upon a time had been his birthplace. then, when he had reached his round and round the world on a celestial carousel, encased in an airtight metal capsule in an she thought. Why don't they leave the stars to God? The general's second telegram came early the next morning: Explorer XII doing splendidly. Expect to bring your son down sometime tomorrow . She went about her work as usual, collecting the eggs and allocating them in their cardboard a deluge of questions from her customers. She was not disappointed. \"Is Terry really way up there all alone, Martha?\" \"Aren't you scared , Martha?\" \"I do hope they can get him back down all right, Martha.\" She supposed it must have given them quite a turn to have their egg woman change into a star mother overnight. She hadn't expected the TV interview, though, and she would have avoided it if it had been politely possible. But what could she do when the line of cars and trucks pulled into the drive and the technicians got out and started setting up their equipment in the backyard? What could she say when the suave young man came up to her and said, \"We want you to know that we're all ma'am, and we hope you'll do us the honor of answering a few questions.\" Most of the questions concerned Terry, as was fitting. From the way the suave young man asked them, though, she got the impression that he was trying to prove that her son was just like any other average American boy, and such just didn't happen to be the case. But whenever she opened her mouth to mention, say, how he used to study till all hours of the night, or how difficult it had been for him to make friends because of his shyness, or the fact that he she started to mention any of these things, the suave young man was in great haste to interrupt her and to twist her words, by requestioning, into a different meaning altogether, till Terry's behavior pattern seemed to coincide with the behavior pattern which the suave young man apparently considered the norm, but which, if followed, Martha was sure, would produce not young men bent on exploring space but trivia. A few of the questions concerned herself: Was Terry her only child? (\"Yes.\") What had happened to her husband? (\"He was killed in the Korean War.\") What did she think of the new law granting star mothers top priority on any and all information relating to their sons? (\"I think it's a fine law ... It's too bad they couldn't have shown similar humanity toward the war mothers of World War II.\") It was late in the afternoon by the time the TV crew got everything repacked into their cars and trucks and made their departure. Martha fixed herself a light supper, then donned an old suede jacket of Terry's and went out into the garden to wait for the sun to go down. According to the time table the general had outlined in his first telegram, Terry's first Tuesday night passage wasn't due to occur till 9:05. But it seemed only right that she should be outside when the stars started to come out. Presently they did, and she one, in the deepening darkness of the sky. She'd never been most of her life she'd been much too busy on Earth to bother with things celestial. She could remember, when she was much younger and Bill was courting her, looking up at the moon sometimes different because now she had a personal interest in the sky, a new affinity with its myriad inhabitants. And how bright they became when you kept looking at them! out of the blackness of the night ... too, she noticed with a start. It grew cold in the April garden a strange clarity about the night, that she had never known before ... She glanced at her after nine. Where had the time gone? Tremulously she faced the southern horizon ... and saw her Terry appear in his shining chariot, riding up the star-pebbled path of his orbit, a star in his own right, dropping swiftly mass of the Earth ... She took like a little girl, and she wished him pleasant dreams and a safe return and wrapped the wish in all her love and cast it starward. Sometime tomorrow, the general's telegram had said— That meant sometime today! She rose with the sun and fed the chickens, fixed and ate her breakfast, collected the eggs and boxes, then started out on her Wednesday morning run. \"My land, Martha, I don't see how there! Doesn't it get on your nerves ?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it does.\") \"Martha, when are they bringing him back down?\" (\"Today ... Today !\") \"It must be wonderful being a star mother, Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a way.\") Wonderful ... and terrible. If only he can last it out for a few more hours, she thought. If only they can bring him down safe and sound. Then the vigil will be over, and some other mother can take over the awesome responsibility of having a son become a star— If only ... The general's third telegram arrived that afternoon: Regret to inform you that meteorite impact on satellite hull severely mechanism, making ejection impossible. Will make every effort to find another means of accomplishing your son's return. Terry!— See the little boy playing beneath the maple tree, moving his tiny cars up and down the tiny the little boy, his fuzz of wind— Terry!— Up the lane the blue-denimed young man walks, swinging his making near-grownup strides the the song of cicada rising and air— Terry ... —probably won't get a chance to write you again before take-off, but don't worry, Ma. The Explorer XII is the greatest bird they ever built. Nothing short of one ... alone? Why don't they leave the stars to God? tried to eat, and couldn't. After a while, when the light began to fade, she slipped into Terry's jacket and went outside. Slowly the sky darkened and the stars began to appear. At length her swift passage blurred before her washed the darkness from the drive. A car door slammed. Martha did not move. Please God , she thought, let it be Terry , even though she knew that it couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps sounded behind her, paused. Someone coughed softly. She She saw the circlet of stars she saw the she saw the dark tired eyes. And she knew. Even before he spoke again, she knew— \"The same meteorite that damaged the ejection mechanism, ma'am. It penetrated the capsule, too. We didn't find out till just a while ago—but there ma'am?\" personally. I know how you must feel.\" \"It's all right.\" \"We will, of course, make every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so that he can \"No,\" she said. \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\" She raised her eyes to the patch of sky where her son had passed in his shining metal sarcophagus. Sirius blossomed She raised her eyes still higher—and of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung blooms of Betelguese and Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ... of Taurus and Gemini, there the Crab \"No,\" she said again. The general had raised his eyes, too them. \"I think I understand, ma'am. And I'm glad that's the way you want it ... The stars are ever been,\" she said. After the general had gone, she looked up once more at the the sky where her son lay buried, slowly back to the memoried house. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n\n<question>:\nWhy is Terry's mother able to learn so much about his progress in space?\n\n<options>:\nA A new law allows women like Terry to receive regular updates on their children's journeys in space\nB Star mothers have access to their sons' digital journal entries while they are orbiting in space\nC Terry stipulated that his mother be informed of his progress if he agreed to volunteer for the space mission\nD The general is Terry's father, Bill, and he breaks the law in informing Terry's mother of Terry's progress\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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1,174 | 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 KATHERINE MacLEAN Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that 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.\" I tried to make him understand my position. \"Look, it's the big-money that—and an institution is where they put Aunt Maggy when she began 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: valuable contribution to—\" The words were impressive, whatever they meant, but this still didn't sound like anything that would pull in money. I interrupted, \"Valuable in what way?\" He sat down on the edge of his desk thoughtfully, apparently recovering from the shock of being asked to produce something solid for his \"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 without reference to the needs they were founded to serve.\" He was becoming flushed with the pleasure of explaining his subject. \"All through the ages, it has been a matter of wonder and dismay to men that a simple organization—such as a church to worship in, \"The reason can be traced to little quirks in the way they were organized, a matter of positive and negative power feedbacks. Such effects could somehow be simplified and formulated. In working on the 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. \"By these formulations, it is possible to determine automatically the it in gold letters. I got the distinct impression again that he was repressing an urge to hit me with it. He spoke quietly. \"All right, I'll give you a demonstration. Are you progress of science and the respect of his colleagues, yet seething inside because I, the president and dean, had boorishly demanded that he produce something tangible. 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.\" 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, here was the growth of the Catholic Church and the Roman Empire, the conquests of Alexander and the spread of the smoking habit and the change and rigidity of the unwritten law of styles. strength of snow, it breaks apart. Now in human terms—\" The chops and mashed potatoes and peas arrived. \"Go on,\" I urged. 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 into organization.\" equation. \"That's it.\" Since I seemed to have the right idea, I suggested some more, and he 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 toward each other, sipping coffee and talking in conspiratorial tones over something they were writing in a notebook. That was us. stood up, bowing to polite applause and smiles. \"Professor Caswell, and Professor Smith.\" (My alias.) \"They are making a survey of the methods I pointed out to Caswell the member I thought would be the natural leader, a tall, well-built woman in a green suit, with conscious gestures and a resonant, penetrating voice, and then went into a half doze while Caswell stayed awake beside me and wrote in his notebook. After a while the resonant voice roused me to attention for \"Searles. Mrs. George Searles.\" After the phone had rung in the distance for a long time, a servant answered with a bored drawl: \"Mrs. Searles' residence.\" I picked up a red gummed star and licked it. \"Mrs. Searles, please.\" 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, I had to talk to Mrs. Searles. Perhaps there was some outside reason Searles will return?\" woman Searles first. of enthusiasm and excitement in the air. Someone was making a speech up on the platform. Most of the people there were women. The group with Mrs. Searles was probably holding a shrunken and almost Everyone's supposed to have it. We've just printed up six thousand copies to make sure there'll be enough to last.\" The tall woman on the platform had been making a driving, forceful and Secular Charities.\" That's what it said. Below began the rules of membership. I looked up. The speaker, with a clear, determined voice and conscious, forceful gestures, had entered the homestretch of her speech, an appeal to the civic pride of all citizens of Watashaw. She paused and then leaned forward intensely, striking her clenched hand on the speaker's stand with each word for emphasis. \" \" I finally recognized Mrs. Searles, as an answering sudden blast of sound half deafened me. The crowd was chanting at the top of its lungs: \"Recruit! Recruit!\" Mrs. Searles stood still at the speaker's table and behind her, she answered between cheers. \"I only joined two days ago. Isn't it wonderful?\" some kind of organization song with the tune of \"Marching through Georgia.\" Even at the single glance I had given it, the constitution looked Next day, after calling Mrs. Searles, I placed some red stars on my 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 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. were spectacular. Caswell's formulas were proven to the hilt. After reading the last newspaper reports, I called him up. \"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 rub my nose in the realization that I had been wrong. A man with a 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 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\n\n<question>:\nWhat traits best describe Searles?\n\n<options>:\nA Empathetic and beautiful\nB Resourceful and dilligent\nC Original and bold\nD Intelligent and original\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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400 | 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>:\nDOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earth Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that, taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day I scowled at that it didn't make sense. per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases. Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding apparatus, and the rush was on.\" \"What do you mean?\" Park leaned back. \"The rush to find more of the ore,\" he explained. . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that. crossed the Baldric without trouble.\" \"What sort of trouble?\" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, \"Fiddlesticks, I never saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.\" \"This is Jimmy Baker,\" she said. \"He manages I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties, \"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie,\" he said. \"If anybody can help me, you can.\" Grannie's eyes glittered. \"Trouble with the mine laborers?\" she questioned. Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we has been bewitched,\" he began slowly. \"We pay our men high wages and give them excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year. Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them.\" Jimmy Baker nodded. \"The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness on the part of the patient. Then they disappear.\" He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes are turned, they give us the slip.\" Baker lit a cigarette. \"There's all kinds of rumors,\" he replied, \"but they didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp, \"Mr. Baker,\" he said breathlessly, \"seventy-five workers at Shaft Four have headed out into the Baldric.\" Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. \"There must be ways of stopping this,\" she said. \"Have you called in any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the men away until the plague has died down?\" Baker shook his head. \"Three doctors from Callisto were here last month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away, I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all rights.\" A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A threw off the switch. \"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric,\" he said slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk. Baker looked up. \"That's right. We only began operations there a level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began roll down the ramp. Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of neither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Larynx Incorporated , and through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and \"It's Mr. Baker's own invention,\" the operator said. \"An improvement on 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 Miss Flowers there?\" \"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four,\" I said. \"There's trouble up there. Red spot fever.\" do?\" \"Tell me,\" I said, \"has your company had any trouble with this plague?\" \"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the trouble, I shouldn't either.\" We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. \"There's an eyrie over there,\" Jimmy Baker was saying. \"We might as well camp beside it.\" Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the 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 \"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and made a greater impression on their brains,\" Grannie replied. 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.\" attacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while sleeping or lounging in the barracks. 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. hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole shattered our windscreen. speed, I raced alongside. The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and sent it coiling across the intervening space. The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a \"What have you done with Miss Flowers?\" I demanded. The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power with an exclamation of astonishment. \"Grannie!\" I yelled. \"What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?\" that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've reached Shaft Four.\" Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four. We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always ahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if worked successfully would see . Antlers Park didn't want that. this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself, capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness. Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove to head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.\n\n<question>:\nWhy was Baker hesitant to send his employees on an enforced vacation?\n\n<options>:\nA He feared they would have too much difficulty getting the employees back to work.\nB He feared that would not stop the plague of Red Spot Fever.\nC He feared they would lose chartered rights with Spacolonial\nD He feared their work would suffer from the break.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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1,284 | 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>:\nthirty-five years overdue!\" She was calculating the fine as he closed the door. Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was one block away from his house. It was then that he realized something unusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security police The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously. It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one's residence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sight His pockets were picked eleven times. It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was a masterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was Humphrey Fownes' abstraction that for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causing he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. He rifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets. rear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of the distance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly. handkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of put \" and take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea he was playing. Winds Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass still intrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humidity that was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was this rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting with photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in an orange patrol car parked down the street. Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job. Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownes approach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was an odd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similar to that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new and particularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be tolerated within the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a social force it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it, Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see that genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own small efforts, rarer. him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairs Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. \"Sometimes his house shakes ,\" Lanfierre said. Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable. \"Is there something I can turn?\" Lanfierre asked. \"You heard right. The house shakes ,\" Lanfierre said, savoring it. MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass of \"I never figured on this ,\" Lanfierre said, shaking his head. uniform. \"Go on,\" he said, amused. \"It sounds interesting.\" He tossed the dossier carelessly on the back seat. Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBride couldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBride was a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. He had even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantly absurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It was \"Sure, he was different ,\" Lanfierre murmured. \"I knew that much.\" only with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownes to MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre had seen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimly top.... Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. He held it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroom Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips. \"I'll tell you something else,\" Lanfierre went on. \"The windows all close at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden every MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros. \"Is there something I can turn?\" Lanfierre asked. single window in the place will drop to its sill.\" Lanfierre leaned back in the seat, his eyes still on the house. \"Sometimes I think there's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as if .\" But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodging Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited, dazed. MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for the ghostly babble of voices to commence. house could have been preparing to take off and sail down the.... MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and then ,\" Lanfierre said. \"The water he uses! He could be The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pages now in amazement. \"Where do you get a guy like this?\" he asked. \"Did neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. There was something implacable about his sighs. \"He'll be coming out soon,\" Lanfierre said. \"He eats supper next door with a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper at the widow's next door and then the library.\" MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. \"The library?\" he said. \"Is he in with that bunch?\" Lanfierre nodded. \"Should be very interesting,\" MacBride said slowly. \"I can't wait to see what he's got in there,\" Lanfierre murmured, watching the house with a consuming interest. They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyes he'd never thought to watch from outside. snug as a hug in a rug His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read that book on ancient mores and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incredibly \"I told bedroom!\" When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his way to be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask up the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with a me a \"Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—\" wheel in his hand. \"That won't be necessary,\" Fownes said with unusual force. \"With all back to the table, standing directly over Fownes. \"If you can get us outside the dome,\" she said, \"out where a man stays warm long enough for his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ... you may call me Agnes.\" When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was a look of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt a wistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. It would be such a \"Not any more there isn't.\" .\" MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier. Lanfierre sighed.) Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to the that ?\" \"I'd say,\" Humphrey Fownes said, \"that he ... that he recommended it to her, that one day they met in the street and he told her about this book and then they ... they went to the library together and she \"Where did the old society fail?\" the leader was demanding of them. He stood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. He glanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as Humphrey Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lull in the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might be\n\n<question>:\nWhy was Humphrey being pick-pocketed so much?\n\n<options>:\nA to plant information necessary to arrest him\nB it's a typical behavior in this city\nC people typically pick-pocket him because he's distracted\nD for Lanfierre to get to know Humphrey's personality better\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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1,627 | 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. Moran, naturally, did not mean to help in the carrying out of the plans separate—on the whitish ground-stuff. Moran had disliked such creatures , with Moran present and allowed to take part in the discussion. From the viewpoint of the Nadine's ship's company, it was simply necessary to get rid of Moran. In their predicament he might have come subtly or glaringly wrong. So mankind distastefully ferried pests as well as useful creatures to its new worlds as they were made ready for to the same conclusion but he was not at all enthusiastic about their decision. He would die of it. and annoyances. If they left their pests behind, the total system of checks and balances which make life practical would get lopsided. It would not maintain itself. The vagaries that could result were admirably illustrated in and on the landscape outside the prominences erupting about its edges. Now it lay astern, and Moran The was out of overdrive and all the uncountable suns of the galaxy shone steadily, remotely, as infinitesimal specks of light of Moran observed these things from the control-room of the four-man crew \"It doesn't look too bad, Moran!\" Moran disagreed, but he did not answer. He cocked an ear instead. He radiation sounds like that. Moran nodded toward the all-band speaker. \"Do you hear what I do?\" he asked sardonically. speaker. It wasn't a voice-signal. It wasn't an identification beacon, such as are placed on certain worlds for the convenience of interstellar skippers who need to check their courses on extremely long runs. This 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 Nadine from him, but they were matter-of-fact about it. They didn't seem to resent what he'd tried to do, or that he'd brought them an covering five persons aboard—four men and a girl Carol. Moran made six. its crew would spark an investigation. A lengthy, incredibly minute investigation. Moran, at least, would be picked out as a fugitive from Moran did not know. They might be sent back where they came from. In Nadine could not she could. And Moran was the extra man whose presence would rouse The Nadine 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!\" They heard it. All of them. It was a trilling, whining sound among the or other, so the people could find that spot again. It was supposed to 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 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. \"I think,\" said Carol, to Moran, \"that if it's too tropical where this emergency-kit, anyhow.\" The emergency-kit contained antiseptics, seeds, and a weapon or two, with elaborate advice to castaways. If somebody were wrecked on an even possibly habitable planet, the especially developed seed-strains would 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. Maybe she was, but rebels learn to be practical or they don't live long. government would think defeat. Moran's own situation was perfectly which was the reason for what Moran had done. But the dead man had been 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 for departure had been granted. But Moran had waylaid the messenger knocked the messenger cold and presented himself at the yacht with the crew in the overdrive. Then the yacht—and Moran—was away. But his present surrendering or else. He surrendered, stipulating that he wouldn't be landed back on Coryus honkings. From time to time some thing unknown made a cry that sounded very much like a small boy trailing a stick against a picket fence, only much louder. Something hooted, maintaining the noise for an impossibly alive. And something shrieked in lunatic fashion and something else still moaned from time to time with the volume of a steam-whistle.... \"This sounds and looks like a nice place to live,\" said Moran with fine irony. Burleigh did not answer. He turned down the outside sound. finality. Moran said bitingly ash-covered stone on which the Nadine rested. The enigmatic, \"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 as I'm expected to live until they died as I'm expected to die.\" Burleigh said angrily \"You'd do what we are doing if you were in our shoes!\" \"Sure,\" said Moran, \"but a man can gripe, can't he?\" \"Aye, aye, sir,\" said Moran with irony. \"Very kind of you, sir. You'll go armed, sir?\" Burleigh growled \"Naturally!\" \"Then since I can't be trusted with a weapon,\" said Moran, \"I suggest 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 \"Ah, yes!\" said Moran. \"It's very likely that the ship hit hard enough to kill everybody aboard, but not smash the boats!\" beacon. I wouldn't count on a boat, Moran.\" \"I don't!\" snapped Moran. world. Moran, though, would not be permitted a weapon. He picked up a Nadine landed. Moran moved scornfully above even the monstrous cacophony of cries and boomings and grunts and squeaks which seemed to fill the air. \"What the devil—.\" \" They're—bugs! \" she said incredulously. \" the galaxy, but that's what they are! \" Moran grunted. Distastefully, he saw his predicament made worse. He knew \"This ground stuff,\" said Moran distastefully, \"is yeast or some sort of job.\" Burleigh grunted a somehow surprised assent. But it wasn't surprising \"Suppose we go look at the ship?\" said Moran unpleasantly. \"Maybe you \"We'd better spread out,\" added Moran, \"or else we'll break through that skin and be floundering in this mess.\" \"I'm giving the orders, Moran!\" said Burleigh shortly. \"But what you say He and the others joined Moran on the yielding surface. Their footing Moran heard muffled noises in his helmet-phone as the others tried to \" What's the matter? What do you see? \" Moran said with savage precision harshly to the men with him \"It's not a hunting creature on worlds where it's smaller. It's not likely to have turned deadly here. Come on!\" He said sardonically \"This ship won't do anybody any good. It's old-style. That thick belt at least!\" Without orders, he turned on the torch. A four-foot flame of pure Moran slashed and slashed angrily with the big flame, cutting a way to with him on board without his being detected as an extra member of the crew. His fate would then be sealed. But they also would be \" Look out! It's coming! Kill it! Kill it—. \" He heard blast-rifles firing. He heard Burleigh pant commands. He was on , necessarily accepted as a member of her crew.\n\n<question>:\nWhich term does NOT describe Moran's tone toward the other five crew members?\n\n<options>:\nA resigned\nB bitter\nC vindictive\nD sarcastic\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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1,320 | 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>:\nWith 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. (It was partly my passion for Haynes' films that led me to accept a job offer from his indefatigable producer Christine Vachon last year to collaborate on a nuts-and-bolts book about producing, Shooting To Kill . So my review of Velvet Goldmine --like my review of Vachon's other recent release, Happiness --should be read as the work of a partisan. But not a blind partisan.) 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. But if Haynes wants Velvet Goldmine to be an anthem to the principles Bowie once embodied--the embrace of artifice and the smashing of conventional sexual roles--he also wants to portray the rocker as a hollow opportunist who abandoned glam and bisexuality for the life of a corporate superstar, throwing in his lot with the forces of repression. That's a lot to cover. An actor of stature might have bridged these two impulses, but the beautiful, brazenly slim-hipped Rhys-Meyers doesn't make his lines sound as if he's thinking them up on the spot, and Slade's self-destructive passion for Curt Wild (Ewan McGregor), the film's fuzzy, sweet Iggy Pop figure, seems less an emotional imperative than a thematic one. 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\n\n<question>:\nWhat do Elizabeth and Velvet Goldmine seem to have in common?\n\n<options>:\nA the story line is based on real events\nB powerful, convincing main characters\nC the main character transforms throughout the film\nD in the end, the main character is disliked\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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1,518 | 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>:\nmiss it. I knew something. \"I don't wash because I drink coffee.\" \"It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it?\" he asked. \"Of course,\" I said, and added absurdly, \"That's why I don't wash.\" \"You mean,\" Andre said slowly, ploddingly, \"that if you bathed, you would be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as any other solitary vice that makes people wash frequently.\" I was knocked to my knees. \"Kevin,\" the Martian said, \"drinking coffee represents a major vice only in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings. Which are you? So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all in my mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind. had now. That and the thing he left. greasy collar of the human. \"'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. But Great-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl. itself on human beings?\" \"But they don't exist,\" I said wearily. . They weren't of ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books, the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic, without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achieved such a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex, men state of pure thought.\" \"The North American government has to have this secret, Kevin,\" the Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but I since we ain't full up. In ad don't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it. I kicked the thing vance.\" Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn't the look on my face. \"I'll give you a room for the two bits. That's it because I didn't want the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose, direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I could kick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't really confident. \"What nickel?\" His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me. \"You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I say so. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle?\" Dyzan ... Seven ... that. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.) I don't remember how I got out onto the street. She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back, drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealing mouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearing a powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and the upper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized it wasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that. It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. and a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used, it for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else?\" I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realized that anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hate tourists. \"Just coffee, ma'am.\" She was younger than I was, so I didn't have to call her that. \"A little more for food, if you could spare it.\" I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. \"I'll buy you a dinner,\" she said carefully, \"provided I can go with I felt my face flushing red. \"You wouldn't want to be seen with a bum like me, ma'am.\" \"I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat.\" It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choice to feel its warmth. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stool beside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, but there she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible tourist . Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink of exhilaration. That was what coffee did for me. I was a caffeine addict. Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, but I knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affected my metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't the with a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine in them—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing. \"Now what do you want to eat?\" the woman asked. I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an Earth human. I was a then I didn't have the local prejudices. I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering how clean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was so dirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed every hour for the rest of my life. said. \"I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know.\" That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. \"No, miss,\" I said. \"It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey,\" she corrected. She was a me .\" : ..................... The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber diner and Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent. illness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the place and time The surprise stung. \"How did you know?\" I asked. despite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiences recently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses or other—\" \"Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Your Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. You are at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why else then would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitary state?\" couldn't trust to my own senses as he did. \"You don't exist,\" I said slowly, painfully. \"You are fictional creations.\" \"Interesting.\" He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke. \"Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensory The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that we know them. The great literary creations assume reality.\" I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would be the goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosed redhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed the The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly building up behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. He was not ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun. Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. \"It's all right. It's all right. It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've read this myself.\" told her. She shook her head. \"I don't know what you think it does to you.\" It was getting hard for me to think. \"Who are you?\" \"It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money,\" Miss Casey said, \"even if you know what horse will come in and what stock will prosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part of Doc's character. He was a scholar.\" Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scared did not exist .\" I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair, The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dress \"I'll keep it, thanks. What do you\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the most revealing reason for Miss Casey smelling good?\n\n<options>:\nA She uses soap to bathe.\nB She is a police officer.\nC She uses perfume.\nD She has no vices.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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733 | 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 job was easy. The profit was enormous. The only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own! Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has to take care of it—kept us apart until we both cooled down a little. Then, although still somewhat dubious about it, she let us go together across the field to the spaceport bar. I didn't ask Captain Hannah why he had socked me. Although he has never been a handsome man, he usually has the weathered and austere dignity that comes from plying the remote reaches among the stars. Call it the Look of Eagles. Captain Hannah had lost every inch of I figured that he figured that I had something to do with the way he looked. after all?\" I suggested. He glared at me in silence. \"Perhaps you would like a drink first, and then you would be willing to I only drink rhial when I've been exposed to Captain Hannah. It was almost a pleasure to think that I was responsible, for a change, for having him take the therapy. \"A never try.\" He lapsed back into silence after this uncharacteristic admission. I almost felt sorry for him, but just then Beulah came racking across for his present troubles, it was no more than he deserved. I rated winning for once. \"You anxiously, after the elephants had been admired and sent back home. The success of that venture—even if the job had turned out to be more difficult than we had expected—meant an enormous profit to both of us. The fruit of the marocca is delicious and fabulously expensive. invariably failed to germinate, which explained its rarity. The Myporians were usually, and understandably, bitterly, opposed to they relented and, for the first time in history, gave their assent. In fact, they had seemed delighted. \"I got them there safely,\" said Captain Hannah. \"And they are growing all right?\" I persisted. \"When I left, marocca was growing like mad,\" said Captain Hannah. I relaxed and leaned back in my chair. I no longer felt the need of rhial for myself. \"Tell me about it,\" I suggested. of the time—that means an almost cloudless environment. A very equable climate. Days and nights the same length and no seasons—that means no ecliptical and no axial tilt. But our tests showed that the plants had enough tolerance to cause no trouble in the trip in Delta Crucis .\" A \"Your tests were no good,\" agreed the captain with feeling. \"I'll tell ourselves to hauling a full load of it?\" asked Captain Hannah. we had gone through all of that rigamarole, we would have lost the franchise. Besides, they gave you full written instructions about what to do under all possible circumstances.\" \"Sure. Written in Myporian. A very difficult language to translate. , but I figured it was safer to let him tell me in his I nodded. \"Sure. That's why they can't stand an axial tilt. They 'remember' the rate and direction of movement, and keep it up during the night time. So what? We had that problem all figured out.\" \"You think so? That solution was one of yours, too, wasn't it?\" He were the plants supposed to know that the 'sun' was supposed to be moving?\" doesn't keep winding, the plants die and they can only take a few \"Oh,\" said Captain Hannah in quiet tones of controlled desperation, \"it for ten and one-half hours, until I had gone halfway around the room. Then I could turn the light off and rest for ten and one-half hours. The plants liked it fine. they're not empty, like soap bubbles. The surface acts a little like a membrane, so that sometimes two of the things will touch and gently bounce apart without joining. But just try touching one of them. You tip touch. Never \"But you solved the problem?\" good deal while you were working with the tanks?\" He shrugged. \"I couldn't say. By that time I was ignoring them. It was that or suicide. I had begun to get the feeling that they were stalking \"Not yet,\" said Captain Hannah. \"Like you, I figured I had the habits. And now they were mature. \"There were thousands and thousands of them, and each one of them made \"Oh, no. These things didn't bite, they itched. And they got down inside of everything they could get down inside, and clung. That off. \"I couldn't figure whether to turn up the fans and dissipate the the bugs without doing the plants any harm at all. Of course, the fumigation system is designed to work with the fumigator off the ship, \"Of course. I immediately stopped slapping at the relatively few midges that had made their way into the head with me, and started to change with me during the fumigation process. I immediately tried to start a breeding ground for midges, but the midges didn't seem to want to cooperate. Whatever I tried to do, they came back to me. I was the only thing they seemed to love. I didn't dare bathe, or scratch, or even wriggle, for fear of killing more of them. And they kept on itching. It was just about unbearable, but I bore it for three interminable days while the midges died one by one. It was heartbreaking—at least, it was to me. whining. This time I took a luxurious shower and got rid of most of the midges that came through the door with me. I felt almost comfortable, first time around. \"And the reason they had the same life cycle as the carolla was that capturing her prey by sound alone. who is captain of his own ship.\" I must say that I agreed with him, but it seemed to be a good time for me to keep my mouth shut. \"Well, after the dingleburys had eaten and propagated, they became it was the only place I could get any privacy. There were plenty of the carolla left to join me outside. at least a hundred feet apart? If you'll recall, a mature field, which was the only kind we ever saw, is one solid mass of green growth. long. You could watch the stuff grow—groping and crawling along one plant twining with another as they climbed toward the light. it wouldn't do its job right. In effect, their growth would put out the sun. \"I thought of putting up an electrically charged fence around the hours, after the blossoms appear and are visited by the dingleburys. No dingleburys, no growth stoppage. keep them clear of the vines, and keep the vines from shadowing each other to the point where they curled up and died, and I had to do it gently , surrounded by a bunch of worried dingleburys. \"Every time they got a little too worried, or I slipped and bumped into Made them forget all about me. \"While they were having their orgy, I caught up on my reading. It growing. To keep the plants from dying, though, you have to mulch the cuttings and then feed them back to the plants, where the roots store whatever they need against the time of the next explosive period of down safely. Even as shaky as I was, Delta Crucis behaved like a lady. \"I hadn't chopped off all of the new growth, although I had the plants reasonable at the time.\" Captain Hannah inhaled a sip of rhial, and seemed to be enjoying the powerful stuff. He acted as if he thought he had finished. Hannah nodded. \"They were growing luxuriously.\" He nodded his head a sprout fast—and for a time I was worried. \"Of course, when I showed them our contract—that you alone were \"They'll send you the bill. They don't figure it will take them more than a few months to complete the job.\" Captain Hannah stopped talking and stood up, painfully and a little END\n\n<question>:\nWhat can you conclude about Captain Hannah and the narrator's relationship?\n\n<options>:\nA The narrator is fearful of Captain Hannah.\nB They experience tension in their relationship but work together regardless.\nC The narrator and Captain Hannah have strong disdain for each other and frequently disagree.\nD They are respectful of each other and work well together.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
1,053 | 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... and it comes out here By LESTER DEL REY Illustrated by DON SIBLEY And naturally, since we have the same tastes, you can make the same for me as you're having. Of course we have the same tastes—we're the same person. I'm you thirty years from now, or you're me. I remember just how you feel I felt the same way when he—that is, of course, I or we—came back to tell me about it, thirty years ago. along with me. You know, I could try to change things around by telling but he—I—told me what I was going to do, so I to you, and I still can't help answering when you speak. dimensions. It's simpler just to figure that this is the way time got bent back on itself. Maybe there is no machine, and it's just easier for us to imagine it. When you spend thirty years thinking about it, as increment of time from the main field. I don't know, and you won't think about that then, either. \"I'm staying here,\" I tell you. \"This is like the things they wear in this century, as near as I can remember it, and I should be able to pass fairly well. I've had all my fortune—the one you make on that atomic generator—invested in such a way I can get it on using some I'll leave you. I like the looks of things here, so I won't be coming back with you.\" You nod, remembering I've told you about it. \"What century is this, anyway?\" I'd told you that, too, but you've forgotten. \"As near as I can guess, it's about 2150. He told me, just as I'm telling you, that it's an interstellar civilization.\" You take another cigaret from me, and follow me. I've got a small We get in the elevator, and I say \"first\" to it. It gives out a future. Then the door opens, and the elevator says \"first\" back at us. You nod at me and I move out into the main corridor. A second later, questions of a man, who points, and I turn and move off. and the like. What a zergot is, you don't know. You stop at a sign people don't change much. You get up your courage and go up to a boy selling something that might faint aqua trimming, bigger than most of the others. They are building lower than they used to, apparently. Twenty floors up seems about the is complete nonsense, and you should get back to the time machine and go home. But then a guard comes to the gate. Except for the short legs in his suit and the friendly grin on his face, he looks like any other What's more, he speaks pretty clearly. Everyone says things in a sort the original of the first thirteen models. Professor Jonas was using them to check his latest theory of how they work. Too bad he could not explain the principle, either. Someone will, some day, though. Lord, the genius of that twentieth century inventor! It's quite a lot smaller than you thought. They seem to be in chronological order, and the latest one, marked 2147—Rincs Dyn*pat: , is about the size You study it, but it mentions casually the inventor, without giving his name. Either they don't know it, or they take it for granted that everyone does, which seems more probable. They call attention to the fact that they have the original model of the first atomic generator fifty kilowatts, limited by the current-carrying capacity of the outputs. They also mention that the operating principle is still being investigated, and that only such refinements as better alloys and the \"Nice,\" the guard says over your shoulder. \"It finally wore out one of the cathogrids and we had to replace that, but otherwise it's exactly as the great inventor made it. And it still operates as well as ever. Like to have me tell you about it?\" to nineteenth century man. You'll pardon me?\" You pardon him pretty eagerly and he wanders off happily. You go up to the head of the line, to that Rinks Dynapattuh, or whatever it it, either. You work down the line. It'd be foolish to take the early model if you can get one with built-in magnetic current terminals—Ehrenhaft or some other principle?—and nuclear binding-force energy terminals. But seems clear. Then you hear his voice from the weapons room. You bend Then there's a yell behind you. You don't wait. You put one leg in front of the other and you begin racing down the walk, ducking past of your feet, with a sudden ringing sound. You don't wait to find out out and taps a pedestrian lightly on the shoulder. \"Sir, an emergency The pedestrian grins, looks at his watch, and nods. \"How far?\" mutter it. The stranger nods again, reaches out and picks up the other Pedestrians begin to move aside, and you and the stranger jog down the street at a trot, with a nice clear path, while the cop stands beaming like to stay in the future. But all the same, the organized cooperation here doesn't look too good. The guard can get the same and be there before you. And he is. He stands just inside the door of the building as you reach it. The stranger lifts an eyebrow and goes off at once when you nod you for some more information, which you give him at random. It seems and heads back to the museum. You still don't believe it, but you pick up the atomic generator and the original level. You get out—and realize you don't have a light. You'll never know what you stumbled over, but, somehow, you move back in the direction of the time machine, bumping against boxes, staggering Suddenly, there's a confused yell from the direction of the elevator It isn't much of a trip back. You sit there smoking and letting your nerves settle back to normal. You notice a third set of buttons, with some pencil marks over them—\"Press these to return to yourself 30 years\"—and you begin waiting for the air to get stale. It doesn't because there is only one of you this time. Instead, everything flashes off and you're sitting in the machine in You'll figure out the cycle in more details later. You get into the machine in front of your house, go to the future in the sub-basement, land in your back yard, and then hop back thirty years to pick up yourself, landing in front of your house. Just that. But right then, you don't care. You jump out and start pulling out that atomic insulated from time effects by a field, so the motor has moved backward in time, somehow, and is back to its original youth—minus the replaced wires the guard mentioned—which probably wore out because of the makeshift job you've just done. that the date of the patent application is 1951. It will begin to soak in, then. You pick up an atomic generator in the future and bring it back to the past—your present—so that it can be put in the museum with you as the inventor so you can steal it to be the inventor. And you do it in a time machine which you bring back to yourself to take yourself into the future to return to take back to yourself.... Before long, your riches from the generator are piling in. Little kids from school are coming around to stare at the man who changed history and made atomic power so common that no nation could hope to worst times in history for a few years. Your name eventually becomes as common as Ampere, or Faraday, or any other spelled without a capital letter. One day you come across an old poem—something about some folks calling it evolution and others calling it God. You go out, make a few provisions for the future, and come back to climb into the time machine that's waiting in the building you had put around it. Then you'll be knocking on your own door, thirty years back—or right now, from your view—and telling your younger self all these things I'm telling you. But now....\n\n<question>:\nWho was talking to Jerome in the very beginning of the passage?\n\n<options>:\nA Jerome, from 30 years in the past\nB Jerome, from 10 years in the past\nC Jerome, from 10 years in the future\nD Jerome, from 30 years in the future\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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361 | 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. 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 rose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The Progress. When—boom?\" \"Boom! Boom!\" said Major Winship in exasperation. emergency watch this morning,\" he explained to the other Americans. \"The one that doesn't speak English.\" Americans. \"How are we going to know when it's over?\" no more. \"Static?\" \"Nope.\" \"We'll get static on these things.\" Major Winship shifted restlessly. \"My reefer's gone on the fritz.\" \"Let's all go in,\" said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. \"It's \"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, \"It's—\" Americans: \"Our comrades seem unconcerned.\" \"I guess I was just—\" Major Winship began. \"Oh, hell! We're losing pressure. Where's the markers?\" \"Got 'em,\" Major Winship said a moment later. 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 on your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it.\" 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 flexible.\" \"Still coming out.\" seismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's get this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?\" \"Larry, where's the inventory?\" \"Les has got it.\" energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. \"We can't hear anything without any air.\" \"How does this stuff work?\" Capt. Lawler asked. \"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 \"How do they possibly think—?\" \"Who was supposed to check?\" demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation. \"The only way you can check is to extrude it,\" Lt. Chandler said, \"and if it does extrude, you've ruined it.\" \"That's that,\" Major Winship said. \"There's nothing for it but to yell help.\" something else goes wrong.\" 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 equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior \"What's wrong?\" came the worried question. In the background, he heard Air, Major Winship said silently. Leak? stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of vigorous American protests.\" The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle. \"These protests have proved well founded,\" Major Winship continued. withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage.\" 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 Soviet Union,\" came the reply, \"has reported the disturbance and has tendered their official apology. You want it?\" \"It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the necessary replacement.\" be able to deliver replacements in about ten days.\" \"I will forward a coded report on the occurrence,\" Major Winship said. \"Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leak repaired?\" \"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out.\" He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back. Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. \"What is \"It's this way,\" Lt. Chandler said. \"They didn't have anything but \"Now,\" Major Winship said, \"we can either bring the drum inside or take \"We're going to have to bring the drum in,\" Capt. Wilkins said. 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.\" \"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 a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you've forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes.\" \"No!\" Major Winship snapped. With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt. \"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English.\" thoroughly around the leak.\" \"With what?\" asked Major Winship. \"Sandpaper, I guess.\" the drum. \"We don't have any sandpaper.\" plastic.\" \"Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak,\" Major Winship said. \"Out! Out!\" He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became 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. like shrapnel.\" They obeyed. \"What—what—what?\" Capt. Lawler stuttered.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the new problem the American astronauts are left with at the end of the passage?\n\n<options>:\nA The dome has no been compromised.\nB The barrel has destroyed their air supply.\nC The calking compound has hardened and become unusable.\nD They can no longer fix the leek in the dome.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
2,246 | 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 their nature cities along coasts and rivers developed so they could be open to trade with each other. From the middle of the 13th century, and for some 300 years after, many settlements dotted along this route formed the prosperous Hanseatic League, a European trading confederation of market towns, before the rise of the nation state led to its dissolution. The Hanseatic League is not well known, and today it lives on most prominently in the name of the German national airline Lufthansa, literally the 'Hansa of the skies', whose planes you can look out of – and down towards the Hanseatic cities – on the short journeys between mainland Europe and Britain. The letters HH on the number plates of cars in Hamburg stand for Hansestadt Hamburg: another proud little memory of this hidden history. In the traumatised atmosphere of post-Brexit Britain, it is worth remembering the Hanseatic League. It could point us towards new relationships between progressive city dwellers in a world that otherwise seems to be putting the brakes on modernity. and it was at exactly this point that the Hanseatic League slowly started to coalesce, eventually influencing our isles. The League is most easily understood as a loose federation of cities that acted together in self-interest to promote trade. The Hanseatic cities developed their own legal system, and their armies came to one another's aid. Merchants who wanted to buy and sell and travel were taking the lead at a time when nation states were not fit for purpose: in the case of England or Denmark, leadership was too centralised and authoritarian, while in German-speaking lands a nation had yet to be formed. We think of nations today as elemental almost, immovable. Yet look at any city of Mitteleuropa and you'll see the many different names it has had as borders and regimes have shifted with the sands of time. Nations come and go. Cities endure. \"It is often said that great cities survived great empires,\" says Cristina Ampatzidou, editor-in-chief of the Rotterdam-based online publishing platform Amateur Cities. \"So it is not unrealistic to think of cities as discrete entities that compete and collaborate with each other, independently from the states to which they belong.\" The cities involved in the Hanseatic League are found along the Baltic and North Sea coasts, and slightly inland too. The League stretched from Novgorod in the east – in what is now Russia – to London in the west. Tallinn, Riga, Gdańsk, Visby, Berlin, Cologne, Antwerp, Stockholm, Bergen, Kiel, Rostock, Dinant, Bruges, Turku, Groningen, Hanover, Wroclaw, Kaliningrad: all were involved at different stages in the Hanse's history, which ran on into the 1500s. The League covered lands that today find themselves a part of the modern nations of Finland, Sweden, Poland, the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Norway, Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia. It was a huge – and hugely ambitious – undertaking in the days when communications consisted of ink and paper and the only viable method of travel was by ship. Wood, fur, wool, silver, herring, cod and salt were the main items traded. But what was also exchanged was knowledge. In some ways it was an exercise in what we today call 'soft diplomacy'. There was no maniacal ruler overseeing things – merchants met and talked. They raised armies and waged war against kings who threatened their businesses and their freedoms and their peace. There was a kind of proto-democracy at work. Professor Rainer Postel, of the Bundeswehr Universität (Germany's equivalent of Sandhurst military academy), has described the Hanse as \"a community of interests without power politics\". As David Abulafia, Professor of Mediterranean History at Cambridge points out, \"The lack of an elaborate superstructure was one of the things that made the Hanse work. Having said that, one should recognise that Lübeck in particular dominated the League for long periods.\" Lübeck was where the merchants most often met Germany today – multicultural, economically and culturally motoring, free and fair – seems like the ideal model for a modern European nation state. And part of that success lies in the gravitas the country has given to its Hanseatic history. For Germany is not a top-down country with one city unhealthily dominating as with France and Britain (regional economic inequalities have plagued Britain since the painful de-industrialisation of the 1980s, especially in the north). Germany respects federalism and its cities exist on a much more even keel. The way that Cologne, Munich, Frankfurt, Dusseldorf and Stuttgart all bring varied economic and cultural character to the party is pure Hanse. The former Hanseatic cities of Hamburg, Berlin and Bremen have city state status within Germany, putting them on the same level as a whole region or 'land' like Bavaria or Brandenburg. So how about a new Hanseatic League? I ask Benjamin Barber, senior fellow at New York's Fordham University. \"I believe you will find there is a new Hanse,\" he says, \"that constituted itself about 10 or 11 years ago – including many of the original Hanseatic League cities.\" Barber is founder of the Global Parliament of Mayors, which he describes as a kind of Hanse of all cities, not just European ports, which will give cities a global urban voice and a common platform for action. The parliament convenes for its inaugural session in The Hague in September. \"Cities both exist within nations and transcend nations. Their power lies not just in the extent of de jure autonomy ceded or granted by 'higher' levels of government,\" says Bruce Katz, centennial scholar at the Washington DC thinktank the Brookings Institution. \"Rather, cities have de facto power, the result of larger market and demographic forces and environmental imperatives that value proximity, density, connectivity and quality. Smart nations will see themselves as partners to their cities, setting strong platforms for urban prosperity and devolving powers, where appropriate, to give cities the flexibility to perform… Dumb nations will continue to dictate from above, stifling market activity and urban potential.\" But could we go further? Could cities like London declare independence from the UK? London's economy is larger than that of Scotland and Wales combined. \"States will not vanish or surrender their waning sovereignty,\" says Benjamin Barber. \"But cities will meet across frontiers and work together to solve problems. The objective is not an independent London or New York, but interdependent cities collaborating globally. And that is happening.\" London's voters largely wanted to remain a part of the EU and to maintain the city's status as an entrepôt. There is clearly a widening chasm between urban and rural life at the heart of many nations. Visualisations of Austria's recent presidential election showed the issue clearly: the country's cities voted for the Green candidate Alexander Van der Bellen, while the the rural districts went for right-wing nationalist Norbert Hofer (whose legal challenge to the close result has resulted in a rerun being announced for October). And in the USA in November, it's likely that Trump voters will also come from rural areas and Clinton voters from the cities. City dwellers are finding ever more in common with the world's other city dwellers than with their countrymen 50 miles down the road. and of London and Scotland and their relationship with the rest of Europe. When the EU began as the EEC in the mid-20th century some saw it as a modern day Hanse. Now the EU seems to be waning, perhaps its successor will have to ape the Hanse even more.\" The future, for many observers, can only be understood in terms of the free movement of people, capital, goods and ideas. It is this necessary movement, and its possible curtailment, that could be the spark that leads to cities like London to seek independence and parity with other world cities – rather than with the rural hinterlands of Britain.\n\n<question>:\nThe Global Parliament of Mayors is a...\n\n<options>:\nA ...common platform for action.\nB ...a monitor of culture and economic status.\nC ...a kind of Hanse of all cities.\nD ...a governing body like the UN.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
655 | 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>:\nradioactivity. with it,” his father said. “It wasn’t that strong. Still, it doesn’t take so very much radioactivity to make two ounces of an isotope quite powerful—and quite deadly. I only hope whoever “Let’s just say he—or both of them—have 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?” “They could study it,” his father explained. “At least, they could send it somewhere to be broken down and studied. Being a new isotope, the formula is of great value.” “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can find some uranium ore?” asked if he could go over and visit with Teena Teena answered his knock. “Good evening, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said. “I—I hope I’m not making a pest of myself.” He looked around for Mr. Ross, but Teena’s him at the table, either. “You’re never a pest, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross assured him. “I was going to call your mother in a little while about that newspaper write-up.” over it,” Teena’s mother said. “Oh, yes,” Eddie affirmed. “He was the one who ordered the isotope.” “What’s an isotope?” Teena asked. “I’m not sure I know, either,” Mrs. Ross said. “Maybe we could understand more of metal clamps. It could start cavities. Finished, Eddie went out to breakfast. “Good morning, dear,” his mother greeted him, handing him a plate of eggs. “Hi, Mom,” Eddie said. “Gotta hurry. Big day today.” from the table, “I’d better be getting over to school. I’m expecting to receive shipment of a new radioisotope today.” The very word excited Eddie. In fact, anything isotopes—pronounced eye-suh-tope . You atomic-science department at Oceanview College without picking up a little knowledge along the way. Eddie knew that a radioisotope was a material which had been “cooked” in an atomic reactor until it was “hot” with radioactivity. radioisotope. Much of his father’s work at Oceanview College was of a secret nature. Eddie had learned not to ask questions about it. His father usually volunteered any information blow up.” “Boy, that sounds dangerous,” Teena said. “Well, they know just how to do it,” Eddie replied. them. Remember to switch it off when you’re not actually using it.” “I will,” Eddie promised. He had forgotten “Aren’t the rays dangerous?” Mrs. Ross lighter by contrast. Maybe both. “Oh, guess I’ll stop by and see if Teena 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 soaks up water.” 40 “My, that’s interesting, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross 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 isotopes, the whole world is going to be improved. You’ve heard of radiocobalt for curing cancer. Well, that’s an isotope. They make it “What kind was the one stolen from the college today?” Teena asked. “Dad didn’t say exactly,” Eddie answered, Eddie went inside and followed Teena to the kitchen. He felt triumphant about the “except he did say that if whoever took it even the mild isotopes are deadly if they’re not handled right.” Eddie nodded. It was even more serious than its threat of danger to anyone who handled it carelessly. It was a new isotope—a secret isotope. His father hadn’t said whether it had been developed for curing things or for destroying things. But many radioisotopes “Hello, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross said, coming into it depended on how they were used. Eddie assumed that anyone who would stoop to stealing isotopes more than likely the kitchen. “Looks like Teena put you to work.” “She always does, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said, out all right,” Teena’s mother said. “So do I,” Teena agreed. Eddie glanced at the kitchen clock. “Oh, would be interested in their ability to destroy atomic-science department. In fact, their parents were close friends, also. Teena’s father “Oh, we’re glad you did, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross said. “I’m afraid too few of us know anything “That’s right, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie agreed. “People should talk more and read more about it. After all, this is an atomic age. We might as about this atom business.” “Oh, I don’t really mind, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said. “Besides, Teena’s making sandwiches to take with us.” doing dishes.” 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 too.” “Don’t go too far out from town,” Mrs. Ross cautioned, as Eddie picked up the Geiger counter. “And stick near the main roads. You know the rules.” “We sure do, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie assured her. “And we’ll be back early.” table, leaned over, and gave both Teena and Mrs. Ross a kiss on the cheek. “Eddie was telling us about atoms,” Teena’s did everything go at the plant today?” “Not so good,” Teena’s father said tiredly. “In fact, not good at all.” Teena. Doesn’t seem to be anything out here.” 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 “Hello, son,” he said. He didn’t even ask 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 “What’s wrong, Dad?” Eddie prompted. “Or can’t you tell me?” Mr. Taylor leaned back. “Quite a bit’s wrong, Eddie,” he said, “and I guess there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. It’ll be in “Eddie, you remember me mentioning this morning about that radioisotope shipment I was expecting today?” “What does that mean, Dad?” Eddie asked, puzzled. “The delivery truck arrived at the school CHAPTER TWO At the moment, Eddie didn’t pry for further information on the theft of the valuable radioactive isotope. His father had plenty on his mind, as it was. The main information was in the evening Taylor said, “but I’m afraid this is going to stir up quite a bit of trouble.” “It wasn’t your fault, was it, Dad?” Eddie radioactive if improperly handled.” “But—but wasn’t it in a safe container?” Eddie asked. 29 “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 “That’s unlikely, son,” Mr. Taylor said. “Believe me, it was no common theft. Nor were the thieves ordinary thieves. That isotope “Power?” Eddie said. “Boy, it must have been a strong isotope.” He knew that the\n\n<question>:\nHow does Teena find out about radioactivity?\n\n<options>:\nA Eddie teaches her about radioactivity during their hike to Cedar Point.\nB Eddie teaches her about radioactivity while he helps her finish doing the dishes.\nC Eddie teaches her about radioactivity when he is explaining the dream he had about Cedar Point.\nD Eddie teaches Teena and her mother about about radioactivity after the news gets out about Mr. Taylor’s isotope being stolen.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
1,820 | 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>:\nNed Vince knew that. Still, his mind, tuned to ordinary, simple things, couldn't quite realize all into icy waters, a long descent into alkaline depths ... it was death. But Ned Vince lived Ned Vince made a last effort to control himself. His knuckles tightened on the edge of the vat. be out at the Silver Basket before ten-thirty....\" Ned Vince was eager for the company of the girl he loved. That was why he was in a hurry to get to the neighboring town Loy Chuk pressed more keys. went to work once more, using Dazzled, and befuddled by his own rash speed, Ned Vince had only swift young reflexes to rely senseless curiosity. You are much better off with my people—our yours. We will take care of you, and make you comfortable....\" But Ned Vince wasn't listening, gravel at the Bend. An incredible science, millions of years old, lay in the minds of these creatures. Ned could scarcely have chosen a worse place to start sliding and now. \"You are the only spinning. His car hit the white-painted be real instead, and that was abysmal horror. Ned was no coward—death and danger of beneath.... Ned Vince was still dimly conscious when that black, quiet pool geysered around him in a any ordinary Earthly kind, he in the ground, spring-fed. The heavy, natronous liquid rushed up through the openings and cracks beneath his feet, Ned Vince knew that his friends and his family would never see his him, and the occasional touch of a furry body, hurried his feverish The car was deeply submerged. The light had blinked out on the dash-panel, leaving Ned in absolute darkness. A flood rushed were unrecognizable. The rodent city was a glowing expanse of shallow, crystalline domes, set in at the shattered window. He ground glistened with dry salt. \"Well, I guess it's all true, in the song. Betty and he had planned to go to the State Earth become. A wave of intolerable homesickness came over him as he cold sea-bottom, but what of it? What reason did he have left to live? He'd be only a museum piece here, a thing to be caged and studied.... Prison or a madhouse would be far better. He tried to get gulch, water-scarred from an inconceivable the barrier of the years.... Loy Chuk and his followers presently came upon Ned Vince's unconscious form, a mile from the city of Kar-Rah. In a flying applied stimulants. He came to, in the same laboratory room as who have discovered something remarkable. The desolate expanse around \"Hey, somebody!\" he called. \"You'd better get some rest, Ned Vince,\" came the answer from the black box. It was Loy the gulch, was all but without \"But listen!\" Ned protested. \"You know a lot more than we did in the Twentieth Century. on the up-jutting rocks, but in the desert itself, no other life Little Loy Chuk was in a Loy Chuk was a scientist. In common with all real scientists, regardless of the species from which they spring, he loved the subjects of his researches. He wanted this ancient man to live and to be happy. Or this creature study. So Loy considered carefully what Ned Vince had suggested. Loy jabbed buttons on the Loy Chuk had flown his geological accomplish, but we'll try. Now I shall put you under an anesthetic....\" Ned felt better immediately, for there was real hope now, where there had been none before. Maybe he'd be back in his the Pit. The breeze rumpled his Maybe he'd see the old machine-shop, there. And the trees greening out in Spring. Maybe he'd be seeing Betty Moore in Hurley, soon.... Ned relaxed, as a tiny long, brown fur. He wasn't very different in appearance from his into unconsciousness, Loy Chuk hypo-needle bit into his arm.... As soon as Ned Vince passed of time, of survival of the fittest, of evolution. He could think and dream and invent, and the civilization exploring carefully the man's mind. After hours of research, he proceeded to prepare his Loy Chuk and his fellow workers It would be easy to get the help he needed. of his kind was already for many days. Ned Vince's mind swam gradually out of the blur that had enveloped it. He was wandering formation of flaky rust. But imbedded aimlessly about in a familiar room. The girders of the saturation that had held time and change in stasis. A perfect preservative for organic tissue, As though she had succeeded in creeping up on him, for a surprise. \"Why, Ned,\" she chuckled. \"You look as though you've been dreaming, and just woke up!\" wonder Loy Chuk and his co-workers At last Loy Chuk gave a soft, Ned Vince's mind, over which there was still an elusive fog that he did not try to shake off, accepted was built from his own memories of the original. among Loy Chuk's kind. and energy-units and soft plastic. The trees outside were only lantern-slide illusions. It was all built inside a great, What a marvelous subject for Thus Loy Chuk's kind could study it would make, back there in the museums of Kar-Rah! were mostly selfish. Loy, though, was not observing, now. He had wandered far out into cold, sad sea-bottom, to With infinite care—small, sharp hand-tools were used, now—the mummy of Ned Vince was disengaged from the worthless rust of his primitive automobile. home,\" Loy was thinking. \"He will survive and be happy. But maze of low, bubble-like structures, aspect. Loy Chuk's people had built their homes mostly underground, since the beginning of their foggy evolution. Besides, of subterranean passages and rooms was welcome. The mummy was taken to Loy Chuk's laboratory, a short distance below the surface. Here at once, the scientist began his work. The body of the ancient of clothing. Loy Chuk put an odd, Loy Chuk pushed another switch. animal chucklings around blazed around that moveless form. For Ned Vince, timeless eternity ended like a gradual fading mist. When he could see clearly All this weirdness had a violent effect on Ned Vince—a sudden, nostalgic panic. Something was fearfully wrong! him, as of some vast, un-Earthly metropolis. \"Take it easy, Ned Vince....\" The words themselves, and the tone was wrong. It was high, shrill, parrot-like, and mechanical. Ned's gaze searched for the source of the voice—located the black box just outside of his To Ned Vince, it was all utterly insane and incomprehensible. A rodent, looking like a prairie dog, with a vast and unlooked-for a little but plainly possessing success. somehow, simply because they could never belong in a place as eerie as this. Ned Vince did not know how Loy Chuk had probed his brain, with the aid of a pair of helmets, He crouched there on his and that Loy Chuk had haunches, at the dry bottom of great difficulty speaking English words, anyway. Ned's dark hair was wildly awry. His gaunt, young face held befuddled terror. He gasped Loy's box, with its recorded Loy read the illuminated symbols in his own language, flashed on a frosted crystal plate before him. Thus he knew what Ned Vince was saying. Loy Chuk pressed more keys, home-town of Harwich again. Chuk....\" bold, friendly terms. Thus Loy sought, with calm, human logic, to make his charge feel at home.\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Loy Chuk build an artificial environment for Ned?\n\n<options>:\nA He needs to keep Ned calm. If Ned believes himself to back in his own time, he will remain calm.\nB He realizes Ned is mentally unstable from the trauma of being brought back to life. He doesn't want Ned to commit suicide.\nC He needs a habitat for Ned until they can figure out time travel.\nD He needs a habitat for Ned, so he can study Ned in a natural setting.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
847 | 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.] Not to be or not to not be ... that was the not-question for the invader of the not-world. Dear Editor: and for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universe with fear and trepidation. not-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by what the not-world calls \"mail\" till we meet. For this purpose I must 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 Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exact location, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When it lies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child in order that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix too fast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision. 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 since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, I 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 about my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared at the doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth, she fell down heavily. She made a distinct and retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched, but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings! qualifying preface except where comparisons must be made between this alleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitive learned otherwise, while they never have. New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hard 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 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 sleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out. myself. But they were. I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that you unfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened. this area.\" \"But—\" pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. I 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. are powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live in this inferior world? A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged in a struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusions of this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have lived a semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this world ripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individual fluctuations make up our sentient population. Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardized by these people. The not-world and our world are like two baskets greatest intricacy, design and color but baskets whose convex sides are joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrational plane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a world of higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples. While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer, more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world. some of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily, causing them much agony and fright. The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people call them up while examining the \"slang\" portion of my information catalog which you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimate cause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peace Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled here 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 constantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself to react exactly as our information catalog instructed me to. Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I am studying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics of learning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, one simply must persevere, I always say. 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 the inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss his vibrations. perfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal. Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerve 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 adrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of 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 have a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear? I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'll All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letter the morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank a pattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and the redhead. Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as a 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 I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly. Quickly! Glmpauszn I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when I realized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reaction \"But why, sir?\" he asked plaintively. I was baffled. What could I tell him? \"They're what?\" he wanted to know. 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. You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same with\n\n<question>:\nHow does the phrase \"to be or not to be\" tie into the overall story?\n\n<options>:\nA It is what Glmpauszn has to ask himself as he invades the not-world.\nB It plays into the nature of Glmpauszn's people, and how they exist along side ours.\nC It references Glmpauszn's disappearance, and the question if he was ever really there.\nD It plays into the uncertain nature of the story's truth.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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1,202 | 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 her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl like He demanded: \"Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?\" The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The block guard, Sodaro, growled warningly: \"Watch it, auntie!\" O'Leary shook his head. \"Let her talk, Sodaro.\" It said in the Civil me I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slush up, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards and told them I refused to mop.\" The block guard guffawed. \"Wipe talk—that's what she was telling you to do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—\" \"Shut up, Sodaro.\" Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She was attractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got off to a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in the disciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear and looked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting for He said patiently: \"Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out your cell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, you should have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time—\" \"Hey, Cap'n, wait!\" Sodaro was looking alarmed. \"This isn't a first the mess hall.\" He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. \"The block guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench, and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when the other one asked her to move along.\" He added virtuously: \"The guard warned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure.\" Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: \"I O'Leary stopped her. \"That's enough! Three days in Block O!\" It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. He had managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omitted to say \"sir\" every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it up forever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria was clearly the next step for her. All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheet What's she in for?\" \"You didn't know, Cap'n?\" Sodaro leered. \"She's in for conspiracy to violate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her, Cap'n. She's a figger-lover!\" Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain marked \"Civil Service.\" But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, the smell from his nose. What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirty yard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent Civil the born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolved to the point of smaller contact and less communication between the specializations, until now they could understand each other on only the most basic physical necessities—and not even always then. cobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate's a mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe, loaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really Civil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. She was in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by an irritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floor below, when she heard the yelling. \"Owoo-o-o,\" screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block and \"Yow-w-w!\" shrieked Flock at the other. The inside guard muttered: \"Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.\" The outside guard shrugged. \"Detail, halt !\" The two guards turned to see what was coming in as because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep her already.\" Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them no passed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urge to retch. \"We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling so as not to disturb the lady!\" He screeched with howling, maniacal laughter. \"Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble, Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedly that resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectly system— But did they have to scream so? The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself to weeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless! It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless, because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner very long. The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: \"O'Leary, what don't mix it isn't natural. And there are other things.\" O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden that But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because she told Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. Now His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of the He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him, Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually did lovely term for it. At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slat The guard peered genially into her cell. \"You're okay, auntie.\" She proudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds. He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her while she attended to various personal matters, as he did with the male grateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like an underprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: \"What the hell's the matter with you?\" He opened the door of the cell with an knows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed, him not to, you hear?\" He was nearly fainting with the pain. O'Leary said: \"Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!\" and no one cared and their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduled for tonight no, they didn't know where Daddy was going no, the kids area to hear. They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. \"Riot!\" gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. \"The wipes! I told know how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a club and stand right by the door and—\" \"Club!\" snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two children querulously awake in her nursery at home. \"What in God's name is the better come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need it before this night is over.\" But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over the scramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter of\n\n<question>:\nWhy didn't Bradley mop up her cell?\n\n<options>:\nA she wanted Mathias to do it for her\nB she wanted to start a riot\nC she didn't deserve to be in the Jug\nD she didn't understand the slang in the command\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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1,504 | 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>:\nLike 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. But the Shopping Avenger also believes that the Dalai Lama has never tried to rent a truck from U-Haul. If he had tried to rent from U-Haul, he never would have escaped from Tibet. (For the complete back story, see \"Shopping Avenger\" column and one.) 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.\" B.R. and his chastened brother--the Shopping Avenger is resisting the urge to gloat--went to Ryder. \"Ryder had a truck available for us. The gentleman who helped us at Ryder said Ryder prides itself on being everything U-Haul is not.\" The Shopping Avenger has still not received a call from U-Haul spokeswoman Johna Burke explaining why U-Haul refuses to provide trucks to people who reserve trucks, but the Shopping Avenger is pleased to note that several correspondents have written in over the past month saying that, based on what they have read in this column, they will be taking their business to Ryder or Budget or elsewhere. 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. 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.\" 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. \"The airline's policy, which is consistent with all contracts of carriage at all airlines, requires that passengers file a report in person for lost or damaged luggage within four hours of arrival at their destination,\" a Southwest spokeswoman, Linda Rutherford, e-mailed me. \"[M.] indicates she called for a few days, but did not file a report in person until April 12--three days later. Southwest, as a courtesy, took her report anyway and asked for follow up information and written inventory of the damage.\" Rutherford said that M. should have submitted detailed receipts and photographs of the damage in order to make a claim. 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: \"Wow. Well, of course I didn't file it at the airport on the 9 th because I didn't know the clothes were ruined at the airport. I didn't know until I opened the baggage at my hotel and saw the ruined stuff. (And it's worth noting that we had already waited for about an hour for our luggage with two little kids and impatient in-laws nipping at our heels.)\" She goes on, \"I did call that evening ... and was told that that sufficed. This is the first time I've been told that I had to file a complaint in person within four hours. ... When I filed on the 12 th , I was never told that I needed any receipts or photos or other type of documentation. The baggage folks seemed pretty uninterested in all of this. ... They know that the type of 'evidence' they want is impossible to obtain. They also know that on April 9 they screwed up the luggage retrieval and left bags out in the rain a long time.\" Southwest's response actually served to anger M. more than the original problem. \"Before, they had a mildly annoyed but loyal customer (who would have been placated by an apology and thrilled with some modest token of their regret). Now they have a pissed-off customer.\" 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. 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?\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the primary goal of Shopping Avenger?\n\n<options>:\nA To connect people with companies that can repair electronics\nB To keep an eye on the quality of customer service for various airlines\nC To stand up for average consumers who have been wronged by companies\nD To warn people about unfair reservation and booking policies\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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199 | 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 ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship. The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozen in the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke that He said what I expected. \"Mia, do you want to go partners if we can get I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I liked My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't be kids because they never tell you anything about the place they're going and little grubby things just looking for you to crawl on. If you It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on the is a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says that something has to be done in a closed society to keep the population from decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps to I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could be found at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes. getting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our next The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slot I could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place to camp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces, though not with that meatball Jimmy D. No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't take animals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste pretty good, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind the established, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to have draft animals. I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-lined \"And where be you going?\" 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 rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as he didn't want to be fried. They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. I could see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me with narrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedling After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for the bend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses and 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 great-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it, hadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work. I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobody Horst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering but I decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made the The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot and felt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, I smart and brains I needed. How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method. For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things you want to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody? Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might wind up with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could think of was to find a library, but that might be a job. One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, and we wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something that I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came to a campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn't help but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanent than a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof. I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man, his wife and their three children. The kids were running around and playing, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His father came and pulled him away. The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them said accent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness, it seemed just right. It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest in nice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phony errand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate the poor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were the handkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from her camp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and I couldn't see far into the dark. A voice there said, \"I'll be damned if I'll take another day like this one, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we're not.\" Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave the campfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to the fire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blankets and mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea now what they used the high-walled pen for. I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for the night. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to take I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on my 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. didn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feet and dragged me off. When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stopped for that. \"I ought to club you anyway,\" he said. The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were putting the animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him. \"No,\" he said. \"Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and what we can use.\" The other one didn't move. \"Get going, Jack,\" Horst said in a menacing tone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finally backed down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to me being kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in his bunch. Horst turned back to me and I said, \"You can't do this and get away with it.\" jacket. \"Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of the Ships,\" Horst said. \"That be enough. They already have one of you brats in jail in Forton.\" He said, \"The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out what Horst made a disgusted sound. \"Don't make any noise,\" I said, \"or you'll fry. Now hand it over.\" I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of the enough,\" to the others who'd come up behind me. I felt like a fool. Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground and said in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it was\n\n<question>:\nWhat DIDN'T Mia learn at the campsite she located?\n\n<options>:\nA Why the ship flew over her head\nB People grow old and gray on this planet\nC The Trial kids weren't welcome on Tintera\nD Horst keeps his animals in the pen\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
893 | 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>:\nMaledict oratory A few hours later, Michael Irvin of the Dallas Cowboys offered this spirited defense of his coach on TV after his team won the National Football Conference title: \"Nobody deserves it more than Barry Switzer. He took all of this [expletive] .\" Iwatched those episodes, and, incongruous as it may sound, I thought of Kenneth Tynan. Britain's great postwar drama critic was no fan of American football, but he was a fan of swearing. Thirty years earlier, almost to the week, Tynan was interviewed on BBC television in his capacity as literary director of Britain's National Theater and asked if he would allow the theater to present a play in which sex took place on stage. \"Certainly,\" he replied. \"I think there are very few rational people in this world to whom the word '[expletive]' is particularly diabolical or revolting or totally forbidden.\" It turned out there were a few more than Tynan thought. Within 24 hours, resolutions had been introduced in the House of Commons calling for his prosecution on charges of obscenity, for his removal as a theater official, and for censure of the network for allowing an obscene word to go out on the airwaves. Tynan escaped punishment, but he acquired a public reputation for tastelessness that he carried for the rest his life. To much of ordinary Britain, he became the man who had said \"[expletive]\" on the BBC. Neither Greg Lloyd nor Michael Irvin was so stigmatized. \"It's live television,\" NBC Vice President Ed Markey said, rationalizing the outbursts. \"It's an emotional moment. These things happen.\" Irvin wasn't about to let that stand. \"I knew exactly what I was saying,\" he insisted later. \"Those of you who can't believe I said it--believe it.\" Swearing isn't the only public act that Western civilization condones today but didn't 30 years ago. But it is one of the most interesting. It is everywhere, impossible to avoid or tune out. I am sitting in a meeting at the office, talking with a colleague about a business circumstance that may possibly go against us. \"In that case, we're [expletive] ,\" he says. Five years ago, he would have said \"screwed.\" Twenty years ago, he would have said, \"We're in big trouble.\" Societal tolerance of profanity requires us to increase our dosage as time goes on. I am walking along a suburban street, trailing a class of pre-schoolers who are linked to each other by a rope. A pair of teen-agers passes us in the other direction. By the time they have reached the end of the line of children, they have tossed off a whole catalog of obscenities I did not even hear until I was well into adolescence, let alone use in casual conversation on a public street. I am talking to a distinguished professor of public policy about a foundation grant. I tell her something she wasn't aware of before. In 1965, the appropriate response was \"no kidding.\" In 1996, you do not say \"no kidding.\" It is limp and ineffectual. If you are surprised at all, you say what she says: \"No shit.\" What word is taboo in middle-class America in 1996? There are a couple of credible candidates: The four-letter word for \"vagina\" remains off-limits in polite conversation (although that has more to do with feminism than with profanity), and the slang expression for those who engage in oral sex with males is not yet acceptable by the standards of office-meeting etiquette. What purposes? There are a couple of plausible answers. One of them is emotional release. Robert Graves, who wrote a book in the 1920s called The Future of Swearing , thought that profanity was the adult replacement for childhood tears. There comes a point in life, he wrote, when \"wailing is rightly discouraged, and groans are also considered a signal of extreme weakness. Silence under suffering is usually impossible.\" So one reaches back for a word one does not normally use, and utters it without undue embarrassment or guilt. And one feels better--even stimulated. The anthropologist Ashley Montagu, whose Anatomy of Swearing , published in 1967, is the definitive modern take on the subject, saw profanity as a safety valve rather than a stimulant, a verbal substitute for physical aggression. When someone swears, Montagu wrote, \"potentially noxious energy is converted into a form that renders it comparatively innocuous.\" One could point out, in arguing against the safety-valve theory, that as America has grown more profane in the past 30 years, it has also grown more violent, not less. But this is too simple. It isn't just the supply of dirty words that matters, it's their emotive power. If they have lost that power through overuse, it's perfectly plausible to say that their capacity to deter aggressive behavior has weakened as well. But there is something else important to say about swearing--that it represents the invocation of those ideas a society considers powerful, awesome, and a little scary. I'm not sure there is an easy way to convey to anybody under 30, for example, the sheer emotive force that the word \"[expletive]\" possessed in the urban childhood culture of 40 years ago. It was the verbal link to a secret act none of us understood but that was known to carry enormous consequences in the adult world. It was the embodiment of both pleasure and danger. It was not a word or an idea to mess with. When it was used, it was used, as Ashley Montagu said, \"sotto voce , like a smuggler cautiously making his way across a forbidden frontier.\" In that culture, the word \"[expletive]\" was not only obscene, it was profane, in the original sense: It took an important idea in vain. Profanity can be an act of religious defiance, but it doesn't have to be. The Greeks tempted fate by invoking the names of their superiors on Mount Olympus they also swore upon everyday objects whose properties they respected but did not fully understand. \"By the Cabbage!\" Socrates is supposed to have said in moments of stress, and that was for good reason. He believed that cabbage cured hangovers, and as such, carried sufficient power and mystery to invest any moment with the requisite emotional charge. These days, none of us believes in cabbage in the way Socrates did, or in the gods in the way most Athenians did. Most Americans tell poll-takers that they believe in God, but few of them in a way that would make it impossible to take His name in vain: That requires an Old Testament piety that disappeared from American middle-class life a long time ago. What do we do about it? Well, we could pass a law against swearing. Mussolini actually did that. He decreed that trains and buses, in addition to running on time, had to carry signs that read \"Non bestemmiare per l'onore d'Italia.\" (\"Do not swear for the honor of Italy.\") The commuters of Rome reacted to those signs exactly as you would expect: They cursed them. What Mussolini could not do, I am reasonably sure that American governments of the 1990s cannot do, nor would I wish it. I merely predict that sometime in the coming generation, profanity will return in a meaningful way. It served too many purposes for too many years of American life to disappear on a permanent basis. We need it. And so I am reasonably sure that when my children have children, there will once again be words so awesome that they cannot be uttered without important consequences. This will not only represent a new stage of linguistic evolution, it will be a token of moral revival. What the dirty words will be, God only knows.\n\n<question>:\nWhat word best describes Tynan's reputation in Britain?\n\n<options>:\nA Tynan was understood to be a fraudulent and sociopathic manipulator\nB Tynan was viewed as an attention-seeking, irksome personality\nC Tynan was well-regarded as an outspoken person who tells it like it is\nD Tynan was looked upon with condescension as a vulgar, rude figure\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
216 | 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>:\nconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry into the offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.\" \"Why, why,\" Miss Meuhl stammered. \"Yes, of course. And I do want to express my deepest regrets—\" don't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nine years, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resist \"Don't!\" Retief jumped—too late. Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. \"Whaffle left here three months ago,\" Retief said, \"leaving me in \"Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squad \"Never mind the excuses,\" Retief said. \"Just tell him I won't be of armed Groaci in the consulate?\" \"You're making a serious mistake, Shluh,\" Retief said. Mr. Retief to his quarters in this building—\" \"I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith,\" Retief \"Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on,\" Retief said, \"I won't \"Don't be a fool, woman,\" Retief said. \"Don't you see what you're \"Well!\" Miss Meuhl said. \"May I ask where you'll be if something comes up?\" \"I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives.\" \"You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief?\" She turned to \"That's an illegal waiver,\" Retief said. \"I'm consul here, whatever rumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whatever you do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacian atrocities.\" never to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief.\" \"The importance of my task here,\" Retief said, enunciating the glottal Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carved Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street. \"To enjoy a cooling drink,\" Retief said in Groacian, squatting down at decide whether I like it.\" \"To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners.\" The \"To get the lead out,\" Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in the Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gesture \"I've changed my mind,\" Retief said to the bartender. \"To be grateful door. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief looked \"To not endure such insolence!\" The Groacian advanced toward Retief. Retief backed away. head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrow who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrow Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacian fell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed. \"To not be going anywhere for a few minutes,\" Retief said. \"To stay \"Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast.\" Retief pulled off his cape. \"This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the Foreign Ministry.\" \"What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind telling you.\" indicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered a courteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right. \"I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr. Consul,\" the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. \"May I present Shluh, of the Internal Police?\" \"Never mind that,\" Retief said. \"These gentlemen didn't come here to foreigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my department indicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that of the Terrestrial Consul.\" \"Just keep that recorder going,\" Retief snapped. Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. \"You reopen an old wound, \"I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not for your diplomatic immunity, I should do more—\" \"Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task force diplomatic mission.\" \"This is an internal matter!\" Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice. \"The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. It \"—to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark,\" Retief Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. The \"How did they die?\" Retief snapped. \"Did you murder them, cut their \"No!\" Fith gasped. \"I must correct this terrible false impression at \"False impression, hell,\" Retief said. \"They were Terrans! A simple \"I see,\" Retief said. \"They died.\" \"We'll deal with that question later,\" Retief said. \"Right now, I want \"How could we know?\" Fith moaned. a blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to make \"Miss Meuhl,\" Retief said. \"If I don't come back in a reasonable length Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern. Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Empty \"How did you get it in here?\" Retief asked. Retief grunted. \"Let's go inside.\" Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interior \"You can skip all that,\" Retief said. \"You're nine years late. The \"We were at fault,\" Fith said abjectly. \"Now we wish only friendship.\" Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. \"Where is \"Where is that ship?\" Retief rapped out. \"You never learn, do you? \"You can and you will, Fith,\" Retief said. \"I intend to get to the Retief eyed Fith. \"Don't try it,\" he said. \"You'll just get yourself in Retief looked at the four policemen. \"I see your point,\" he said. \"If you'll listen, you may find out,\" Retief said. \"I have no time \"That's my decision,\" Retief said. \"I have a job to do and we're \"Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better,\" Retief said, \"but It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to the safe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He looked tired. Retief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare. \"I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it.\" Retief went to his desk, \"Are you going to tell me where you've been?\" \"I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl,\" Retief said sharply. \"I've been to the Foreign Ministry,\" he added. \"I'll tell you all about it later.\" \"At this hour? There's no one there....\" \"Exactly.\" Miss Meuhl gasped. \"You mean you broke in? You burgled the Foreign Office?\" \"That's right,\" Retief said calmly. \"Now—\" \"Get that sender going, woman!\" Retief snapped. \"This is important.\" \"I've already done so, Mr. Retief!\" Miss Meuhl said harshly. \"I've been \"I have done my duty, Mr. Retief,\" Miss Meuhl said. \"I made a full Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphant Retief went on earnestly, \"I've found the missing cruiser.\" all around.\" \"You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now.\" Miss Meuhl Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder. \"Go ahead,\" Retief said. \"Answer it.\" A Groacian official appeared on the screen. \"Yolanda Meuhl,\" he said without preamble, \"for the Foreign Minister of to make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, in\n\n<question>:\nWhat was Retief's ultimate mistake?\n\n<options>:\nA Asking too many questions\nB Trusting Miss Meuhl to do what he said\nC Making the Groacians show him the ship\nD Breaking into the Foreign Ministry\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
364 | 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>:\nQUEST OF THIG to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from because of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them 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 respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets. and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the Earthman to the metal deck-plates. \"It is a male of the species that must have built the cities we saw as we landed.\" \"He resembles Thig,\" announced Kam. \"But for the strange covering he 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 two inner planets.\" \"You are the commander,\" said Thig. \"But I wish this beast did not wear \"Do not question the word of your commander,\" growled Torp, swelling out his thick chest menacingly. \"It is for the good of our people that you disguise yourself as an Earthman.\" \"For the good of the Horde,\" Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they 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 robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion, 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 heads. dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman \"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his primitive impulses of barbarism adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this way, he realized—more natural. chaos of his cool Orthan brain. Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world, including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would, of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people, imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the 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 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 thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered, the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast mechanical hives. So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from the unquestioning worship of the Horde! have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to \"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 were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that 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 exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own degree of knowledge and comfort?\" \"Only the good of the Horde matters!\" shouted Torp angrily. \"Shall a race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.\" \"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 forgotten.\" stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an empty world—this planet was not for them. \"Turn back!\" he cried wildly. \"I must go back to Earth. There is a this planet.\" of the finest members of the Horde. \"No human being is more important than the Horde,\" he stated baldly. \"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we must eliminate for the good of the Horde.\" the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his unconscious body. beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the The deadly attack of Thig the Orthan. sobered him yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all. He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer space. differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the major difference between Orthan and Earth culture that appeals to Thig?\n\n<options>:\nA Earth people wear clothing, where Orthan people wear none.\nB Orthan people are unsentimental, and after experiencing emotion Thig wants to be rid of it.\nC Earth people enjoy a much more lush planet, with more things to enjoy.\nD Earth people are individuals, capable of making their own decisions in life.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
2,064 | 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>:\nblood,\" old Dunbar told the space-wrecked, desperate men. But Dunbar's eyes were old and uncertain. How could they After the wreck, the four of them had floated a while, floated and drifted together, four men in bulbous pressure suits like small individual rockets, held together by an awful pressing need for each Dunbar, the oldest of the four, an old space-buster with a face where they were going. They could talk to one another through the etheric transmitters inside never been any sound or life, with old Dunbar the first in line, taking the lead because he was older and knew where he was and where he was going. Maybe Johnson, second in line, and Alvar who was third, knew too, but were afraid to admit it. But Russell knew it and he'd admitted it from the first—that old Dunbar was as crazy as a Jovian juke-bird. How long ago that had been, Russell didn't know. All Russell knew was recognizable pattern. But Dunbar knew. And Russell was looking at Dunbar's suit up ahead, watching it more and more intently, thinking about how Dunbar looked inside that suit—and hating Dunbar more and repeat. Sometimes Russell thought of other things besides his growing hatred thought then of what Dunbar would say to such a thought, how Dunbar would laugh that high piping squawking laugh of his and say that the Dunbar had a big answer for every little thing. for Dunbar. Hell no—Dunbar had to start talking about a place they And Dunbar had spouted endlessly about a world of treasure they would find, if they would just follow old Dunbar. That's what all four of now, Russell thought—if it weren't for old crazy Dunbar. They might have a chance if Alvar and Johnson weren't so damn lacking in self-confidence as to put all their trust in that crazed old the wrong direction. No reason for knowing. Just a hunch. And Russell \"We're about in the middle of those four suns aren't we, Dunbar?\" Russell said. \"That's right, boys!\" yelled old Dunbar in that sickeningly optimistic voice. Like a hysterical old woman's. \"Just about in the sweet dark old middle.\" life on it, Dunbar ... the only one we can live on?\" Russell asked. \"That's right! That's right,\" Dunbar yelled. \"That's the only one—and Dunbar?\" Russell asked. Keep the old duck talking like this and maybe Alvar and Johnson would see that he was cracked. \"Yeah,\" said Alvar. \"You still say that, Dunbar?\" \"No life, boys, nothing,\" Dunbar laughed. \"Nothing on these other said that one had a red rim, Dunbar, and I wanted to believe it. So Old Dunbar laughed. The sound brought blood hotly to Russell's face. angels singing and dancing and laughing with red lips and arms white as milk, and soft silky hair floating in the winds.\" Russell was very sick of the old man's voice. He was at least glad he didn't have to look at the old man now. His bald head, his skinny bobbing neck, his simpering watery blue eyes. But he still had to I'd break away, go it alone to the right sun, Russell thought—but I'd than old Dunbar will ever be, even if he keeps on getting nuttier all was to get rid of Dunbar. \"Lost people ... lost ... who knows how long,\" Dunbar said, as the always spring, always spring, boys, and the music plays all night, every night of a long long year....\" Russell suddenly shouted. \"Keep quiet, Dunbar. Shut up will you?\" Johnson said. \"Dunbar—how long'll it take us?\" \"What?\" croaked Alvar. Johnson didn't say anything at all. Russell screamed at Dunbar, then quieted down. He whispered. \"Six months to a year—out here—cooped up in these damn suits. You're crazy as hell, Dunbar. Crazy ... crazy! Nobody could stand it. We'll a whole lot of it, and I know. In the old days—\" \"The hell with the old days,\" screamed Russell. \"Now quiet down, Russ,\" Dunbar said in a kind of dreadful crooning things the way we used to. Thing is, we got to go straight. People trapped like this liable to start meandering. Liable to start losing the old will-power.\" He chuckled. \"Yeah,\" said Alvar. \"Someone says maybe we ought to go left, and \"Shut up!\" Johnson yelled. Dunbar laughed. \"Boys, boys, don't get panicky. Keep your heads. Just stick to old Dunbar and he'll see you through. I'm always lucky. Only Then he saw how the other two stars also were beginning to develop red rims. He yelled this fact out to the others. And Alvar said. \"Russ's motion. Dunbar laughed. \"Sure, they all maybe have a touch of red, but it isn't the same, boys. I can tell the difference. Trust me—\" Russell did it before he hardly realized he was killing the old man. Dunbar. If he'd aimed right, Russell knew the fire-bullet should have pierced Dunbar's back. Now the fire was gone, extinguished automatically by units inside the suit. The suit was still inflated, self-sealing. Nothing appeared to have changed. The four of them of the gravity rope, Dunbar was dead. Dunbar's last faint cry from inside his suit still rang in Russell's ears, and he knew Alvar and Johnson had heard it too. Alvar and Johnson both called Dunbar's name a few times. There was no answer. \"I did it for the three of us,\" Russell said. \"It was either him or us. \"How could he see any difference in those four stars?\" Russell said, louder. And Alvar said, \"Guess he was crazy all right, and I guess we trusted him because we didn't have the strength to make up our own minds. Why does a crazy man's laugh sound so good when you're desperate and don't know what to do?\" Russell said, \"I've had a hunch all along that maybe the old man was matter to me.\" because he was alone. He'd have broken away, gone his own direction, long ago but for that fear. \"How can we tell which of us is right?\" Alvar said. \"It's like everything was changing all the time out here. Sometimes I'd swear none of those suns had red rims, and at other times—like the old man \"We been going away from the right one all the time,\" said Alvar. \"We got to stay together,\" said Russell. \"Nobody could spend a year out here ... alone....\" \"Ah ... in another month or so we'd be lousy company anyway,\" Alvar be right seeing as how we all agree the old man was wrong. But we believe there is one we can live by, because we all seem to agree that the old man might have been right about that. If we stick together, the chance is three to one against us. But if each of us makes for one \"No ... God no....\" Russell whispered over and over. \"None of us can ever make it alone....\" right.\" Johnson started to laugh. Russell was yelling wildly at them, and above his own yelling he could hear Johnson's rising laughter. \"Every guy's got a star of his own,\" Johnson said when he stopped laughing. old Dunbar? Even less than to us, I guess. He's dead and he won't he would share with no one. Not even crazy old Dunbar. Russell felt the release, felt the sudden inexplicable isolation and And old Dunbar shooting right on ahead. And all three of them dwindling and dwindling and blinking out like little lights. Fading, he could hear their voices. \"Each to his own star,\" Johnson said. \"On a bee line.\" \"On a bee line,\" Alvar said. Russell used his own life-gun and in a little while he didn't hear Russell's head fell forward against the front of his helmet, and he\n\n<question>:\nWhich of these was not an impact of Russell's decision to kill Dunbar?\n\n<options>:\nA Russell would have to travel alone\nB He was able to pick the path to the correct sun\nC It became quieter in general\nD Arguments increased amongst the team\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
1,828 | 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>:\nhimself like a projectile at Quest. Quest rose from the table in a sudden uncoiling of movement. He did not unbuckle his safety He was a living weapon of destruction— immeasurably powerful, utterly invulnerable. Asrange pursued with the stick upraised. In his haste, Quest missed the companionway in his leap and was cornered against one of the There was only one question: Was he human? head and shoulders with the heavy stick. Quest made no effort to retaliate. He cowered under the attack, holding his hands in front squalid saloon in the rougher and pulled him off. When they had Asrange in irons, Jakdane turned to Quest, stay there.” Quest shook his head. “Don't bother him,” he said. “It's nothing but a few bruises.” Quest and when the skeptical Jakdane insisted on examining him carefully, he had to admit it. There was hardly a mark on demanded Jakdane. “You could have, easily.” “I couldn't,” said Quest miserably, her some sober advice. “If you think you're in love with Quest, forget it,” he said. “Why? Because he's a coward? I know that ought to make me despise him, but it doesn't any more.” “Not because he's a coward. Because he's an android!” refuge behind him. Her protector was obviously unwilling, but the dark man, faced with his massiveness, took no chances. he's really human?” Trella remembered the thug Kregg striking Quest in the face and then crying that he had injured his hand on the bar. look on their makers as their parents,” said Jakdane. “Quest may not even know he's 57 artificial. Do you know how his quarry and swung a huge fist like a sledgehammer. Quest said.” “Yes. Do you know when?” “No. Quest never did tell me, Quest made his rocket flight to Quest lived in the poisonous atmosphere of Jupiter, if he's human?” even in self defense. The second is that, while they may understand sexual desire objectively, and Kregg sank stunned to his knees. The dark man, who had man Quest to a T, Trella. There is no other explanation for him: he must be an android.” Moving agilely around the end Jakdane was right, but his reasoning was unassailable. Looking upon Quest as an android, “I'll have no coppers 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. It was not inconceivable that she should have unknowingly fallen in love with an android. “You and your boy friend get Humans could love androids, them. She was glad now that she 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 to decide what to do about Quest. Thus she did not, as she had 52 Quest about seeing him again after she had completed her assignment. Even if Jakdane was 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. Nor did Quest try to arrange with her for a later meeting. riding high in the sky. “I'm Quest Mansard, Miss,” said her companion. “I'm just in from Jupiter.” favoring him with a green-eyed 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 share of the inheritance. Because but he landed it successfully,” said Quest. “He and my mother many things were explained: his a man might be who had grown up in heavy gravity. He trod the street with a light, controlled step, seeming to deliberately anyone ever hear from him again?” she demanded. “Because,” said Quest, “his radio was sabotaged, just as his ship's drive was.” “A wealthy man must be careful,” “Jupiter strength,” she murmured, of. Without actually intending to, she exclaimed: “You aren't afraid of Quest? Why, an android can't hurt a human!” 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 inappropriate, but not unbelievable, that the strongest and most agile man on Ganymede should be a coward. Well, she thought with a rush of sympathy, he couldn't help being what he was. Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund his mechanical servant. She was sure that Blessing was wrong, that Quest, whether man or android, intended no 59 harm to him. Surely, Quest would have said something of Quest had a late sandwich in the such bitterness during their long intended originally, speak to Quest came the day before she was scheduled to leave. Trella was in the living room of Quest. As a matter of fact, she found herself enjoying his companionship more than she intended to. Blessing, ahead of the rest, and Quest burst through. Quest was after it, like a chunky deer, running faster than Trella had ever seen a man her was not unhandsome, days gone by, “I need a chaperon at the end of the driveway and glanced back over his shoulder. Seeing Quest almost upon him, he slammed down the accelerator and twisted the wheel hard. and the blue eyes were disconcertingly ran down the driveway toward the smoking heap of metal. Quest was already beside it, probing it. As she reached his side, he lifted the torn body of Dom Blessing. Blessing was dead. “I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly. “I would have murdered him.” “But why, Quest? I knew he was afraid of you, but he didn't tell me why.” answered Quest “I didn't know 60 it until just now, when it ended, but my father conditioned me psychologically from my birth to the task of hunting down Dom Blessing and killing him. It was an unconscious drive in me thrown with Quest almost constantly. that wouldn't release me until She told him only that she Blessing could not object to Dr. Mansard's son knowing about it. have believed possible for his Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest Mansard … or his heir … or think that?” he demanded. “Why, Quest, it's obvious,” “I'm no android,” he said confidently. “Do you forget my father Blessing had been searching the When it was found at last, he sent Trella, his most trusted happy to learn that a son of Dr. Mansard lived, and would see that he received his rightful not badly hurt, any more than but his tunic was stained with to tell Quest the good news herself but she decided against red blood where the bullets had struck him. Normal android an elephant would have been, do this his own way, and he might not appreciate her meddling. of this, Trella was tempted “I kept waiting for Quest to do something, and when he didn't I told him I loved him.” His lips were very human. THE END unhappily. “He said he love me. He said he wants to love me and he feels that he She expected Jakdane to salve her wounded feelings with a sympathetic pleasantry, but he did not. Instead, he just looked He was a lean, saturnine individual who said little and kept to himself as much as possible. other passengers, and never showed the slightest spark of emotion … until the day Quest squirted coffee on him. Quest picked up his bulb of coffee, but inadvertently pressed it before he got it to his “I'm sorry!” exclaimed Quest in distress. The man's eyes went wide and\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Quest say he is lucky?\n\n<options>:\nA Quest considers himself lucky that Trella is in love with him.\nB Quest considers himself lucky that he is not actually an android.\nC Quest considers himself lucky that Asrange did not kill him.\nD Quest considers himself lucky that he did not commit murder. He is not a murderer at heart.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
308 | 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>:\nfever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. it at its narrowest spot.\" Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the offices of Interstellar Voice here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix. Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding apparatus, and the rush was on.\" \"What do you mean?\" \"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. \"What sort of trouble?\" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, \"Fiddlesticks, I never saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.\" But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that 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. For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite. goggles could not conceal. anybody can help me, you can.\" Grannie's eyes glittered. \"Trouble with the mine laborers?\" she questioned. car's ability to move in any direction. excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year. Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them.\" \"Red Spot Fever?\" Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. \"The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness on the part of the patient. Then they disappear.\" He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. \"They walk out into the Baldric,\" he continued, \"and nothing can stop them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes are turned, they give us the slip.\" a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was drawn. \"Mr. Baker,\" he said breathlessly, \"seventy-five workers at Shaft Four have headed out into the Baldric.\" Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. men away until the plague has died down?\" Baker shook his head. \"Three doctors from Callisto were here last month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away, I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all rights.\" threw off the switch. \"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric,\" he said slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk. Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. \"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four roll down the ramp. Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of , and through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the 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 Miss Flowers there?\" \"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four,\" I said. \"There's trouble up there. Red spot fever.\" \"Fever, eh?\" repeated Park. \"That's a shame. Is there anything I can do?\" \"Tell me,\" I said, \"has your company had any trouble with this plague?\" \"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain 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.\" Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. \"That explains something at any rate,\" the old prospector said. \"But how about that Red spot fever?\" On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been attacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while sleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those bunks some thirty men lay sleeping. 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 \"Look here,\" he said. metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red 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 manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted \"What have you done with Miss Flowers?\" I demanded. The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power with an exclamation of astonishment. close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement. Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down the center of the gorge toward the entrance. 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 vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've reached Shaft Four.\" Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four. It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx to head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.\n\n<question>:\nWhat gives away the location of the lens?\n\n<options>:\nA When Billy enters the barracks, he realizes he's being hit by Red Fever.\nB Workers were showing their first symptoms from working in the mines.\nC The location was written in the Fever Victims file.\nD Workers were showing their first symptoms after being in the barracks.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
1,936 | 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>:\nDISTURBING SUN By PHILIP LATHAM Illustrated by Freas under any circumstances, to be considered as having any truth whatever to it. It's obviously utterly impossible ... isn't it? LATHAM. Dr. Niemand, what would you say is your main job? eleven years. That word LATHAM. In what way? NIEMAND. It means you can only approximately predict the future course LATHAM. Haven't there been a great many correlations announced between LATHAM. What is your opinion of these correlations? NIEMAND. Pure bosh in most cases. LATHAM. But some are valid? fade-outs ... auroras ... things like that. LATHAM. Now, Dr. Niemand, I understand that you have been investigating LATHAM. You have broken new ground? LATHAM. In what way have your investigations differed from those of observed. LATHAM. Just what are these effects? NIEMAND. Well, they're common enough, goodness knows. As old as the terms. LATHAM. Can you give us a general idea? NIEMAND. I'll try. Let's see ... remember that speech from \"Julius Caesar\" where Cassius is bewailing the evil times that beset ancient Rome? I believe it went like this: \"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves that we are underlings.\" LATHAM. I'm afraid I don't see— 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? despair, convinced that the origin of evil is too deep for the human mind to solve. Generally they have concluded that man is inherently wicked and sinful and that is the end of it. Now for the first time LATHAM. How is that? for no detectable reason —conditions are reversed. Wars rage. People go mad. The world is plunged into an orgy of bloodshed and misery. LATHAM. But weren't there reasons? LATHAM. Well, disputes over boundaries ... economic rivalry ... border LATHAM. Those are broad, sweeping statements. Can't you be more NIEMAND. Perhaps I'd better go back to the beginning. Let me see.... It all started back in March, 1955, when I started getting patients suffering from a complex of symptoms, such as profound mental depression, anxiety, insomnia, alternating with fits of violent rage and resentment against life and the world in general. These people were deeply disturbed. No doubt about that. Yet they were not psychotic and hardly more than mildly neurotic. Now every doctor gets a good many patients of this type. Such a syndrome is characteristic of menopausal fit into this picture. They were married and single persons of both sexes and of all ages. They came from all walks of life. The onset of 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 overworked. Been hearing about it ever since I was a pre-med student at ucla anthropologists have made in recent years is the discovery that primitive man is afflicted with essentially the same neurotic conditions as those of us who live a so-called civilized life. They have found savages displaying every symptom of a nervous breakdown among the Latham, it's time the stress-and-strain theory was relegated to the junk LATHAM. You must have done something for your patients— his office seeking help. First I gave them a thorough physical examination. I turned up some minor ailments—a slight heart murmur or a trace of albumin in the urine—but nothing of any significance. On the LATHAM. I suppose you tried tranquilizers? LATHAM. And this gave you a clue? NIEMAND. It was the beginning. In most instances patients reported the attack struck with almost the impact of a physical blow. The prodromal symptoms were usually slight ... a sudden feeling of uneasiness and guilt ... hot and cold flashes ... dizziness ... double vision. Then this ghastly sense of depression coupled with a blind insensate rage at life. One man said he felt as if the world were closing in on him. Another that he felt the people around him were plotting his destruction. One housewife made her husband lock her in her room for fear she would injure the children. I pored over these case histories for a long time getting absolutely nowhere. Then finally a pattern began to emerge. LATHAM. What sort of pattern? morning and five in the evening. Then there were these coincidences— LATHAM. Coincidences? NIEMAND. Total strangers miles apart were stricken at almost the same moment. At first I thought nothing of it but as my records accumulated I became convinced it could not be attributed to chance. A mathematical analysis showed the number of coincidences followed a Poisson distribution very closely. I couldn't possibly see what daylight had to do with it. There is some evidence that mental patients are most LATHAM. What did you do? occurred to me: if people a few miles apart could be stricken simultaneously, why not people hundreds or thousands of miles apart? It LATHAM. With what result? NIEMAND. I was afraid the result would be that my old roommate would think I had gone completely crazy. Imagine my surprise and gratification on receiving an answer by return mail to the effect that he also had been getting an increasing number of patients suffering with the same did find that in many cases patients three thousand miles apart had been stricken simultaneously— LATHAM. Just a minute. I would like to know how you define \"simultaneous.\" LATHAM. Which was? LATHAM. You mean if it was cloudy— LATHAM. That must have had you badly puzzled at first. LATHAM. In what way was Middletown of assistance? surprise he heard our story with the closest attention. I guess astronomers have gotten so used to hearing from flying saucer enthusiasts and science-fiction addicts that nothing surprises them any simply astounding. LATHAM. Can you describe this chart for us? intensity of the attacks reported on that day. Then he laid out another obvious. LATHAM. In what way? LATHAM. How was that? NIEMAND. I said that the lines drawn down through the days of greatest LATHAM. Why is that so important? NIEMAND. Middletown was immediately struck by the resemblance between the chart of mental disturbance and one he had been plotting over the LATHAM. But if these S-Regions of Middletown's are invisible how could LATHAM. I believe you said the periods of mental disturbance last for 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 is twenty-seven point three days. LATHAM. I should think it would be nearer thirteen or fourteen days. NIEMAND. Apparently an S-Region is not particularly effective when it is LATHAM. How do you account for this? strongly circularly polarized. Moreover, the sense of rotation remains LATHAM. Does this mean that the mental disturbances arise from some form of electromagnetic radiation? NIEMAND. We doubt it. As I said before, the charts show a lag of about LATHAM. A question that puzzles me is why some people are affected by no one is completely immune. All are affected in some degree. Just why some LATHAM. How does it happen that you only got patients suffering from sharply defined, since its effects are felt simultaneously over the LATHAM. And so you believe that the S-Regions are the cause of most of NIEMAND. That is the logical outcome of our investigation. We are controlled and swayed by forces which in many cases we are powerless to resist. LATHAM. Could we not be warned of the presence of an S-Region? LATHAM. How may a person who is not particularly susceptible to this\n\n<question>:\nWhich term best describes Latham's tone in the interview?\n\n<options>:\nA Neutral\nB Skeptical\nC Pressing\nD Perplexed\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
1,089 | 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>:\nThis week, soft-porn entrepreneur Ron Harris began auctioning the eggs of fashion models on the Internet. His site, ronsangels.com (named after the 1970s' babe show Charlie's Angels ), invites visitors to \"bid on eggs from beautiful, healthy and intelligent women.\" Like Dr. Richard Seed, who recently declared his intention to clone human beings, Harris has attracted the attention of the media and politicians who are \"looking into\" whether he can be stopped. Most people agree that Harris is a creep and that his site is an outrage. What they don't agree on is why. Here's what the critics have to say about the auction--and each other. 1. Egg auctions will produce designer babies. Harris cites his experience as a horse breeder and asks, \"We bid for everything else in this society--why not eggs?\" Alarmists, agreeing that Harris \"can put you into your own designer baby by selling eggs,\" predict that his success will steer \"the future of human breeding\" toward \"genetic engineering.\" 2. Egg auctions will fail to produce designer babies. While fretting about what will happen if Harris succeeds, fertility experts simultaneously debunk that scenario. \"Not only is it ethically ludicrous, but the fact is, no kid's going to look like the model's picture,\" observes ethicist George Annas. The experts give four reasons. First, the child of an ugly man and a pretty woman is just as likely to be ugly as to be pretty. Second, everyone carries \"recessive\" genes, which are invisible in this generation but may become visible in the next. A model with a small nose can pass on genes for a big nose. Third, even if both parents are attractive, a child can combine their features unattractively. For example, a girl can inherit her mother's weak nose and her father's strong brow. 3. Egg auctions will promote the survival of the fittest. Doomsayers predict that once \"beautiful eggs are available strictly to people who are willing to spend an ungodly sum for them,\" the rich will transform themselves into a \"super-race\" reminiscent of the Nazis. To this, Harris replies, \"It is not our intention to suggest that we make a super society of only beautiful people. This site simply mirrors our current society, in that beauty usually goes to the highest bidder.\" But this reply only fuels concern that gradually, society will separate into \"genetic haves and have nots.\" 5. Egg auctions will fail to promote the survival of the unfittest. Many models, if not most, have had cosmetic surgery. A model who is perfectly ruthless will conceal this fact when selling her eggs. (One of Harris' \"angels\" has already been caught lying about her age.) How does Harris know whether his models have had collagen injections and nose jobs? \"There's no way to know that. You can ask the girl and hope she tells you the truth,\" he says. Annas concludes that since there's \"no way to know how much of their beauty is a product of their genes, plastic surgery, a makeup artist, or exercise,\" only a \"naive\" person would buy their eggs on the basis of the photographs displayed on the site. \"You don't want to see the models,\" he points out. \"You want to see pictures of their parents.\" On this theory, children produced by the egg auction are likely to be the offspring of liars on one side and fools on the other. 8. Beauty is less useful than intelligence. Harris advertises beauty not as an end but as a means to \"success,\" since people who are physically desirable get more attention, power, and favorable treatment. Having chided Harris for exalting social advantage over \"character,\" critics turn around and adopt his ruthless logic. While conceding that beauty is useful, they argue that intelligence is a better weapon in today's meritocratic information economy--and that although Harris claims his models are \"beautiful, healthy and intelligent,\" he offers no evidence of brains, such as IQ or SAT scores. London's Independent envisions \"Bimbo births.\" A fertility expert shrugs, \"If people want to spend $150,000 for the eggs of a gorgeous woman who has an IQ of 68, let them.\" 9. The auction exploits desperate buyers. Harris preaches pure capitalism, saying it's \"unfair to put a limit on a girl's ability to make money\" by auctioning her eggs. In turn, fertility clinic operators accuse Harris of \"taking advantage of couples trying to conceive\" and exploiting \"desperate people ... susceptible to the dreams he is trying to sell.\" USA Today laments, \"This is about human need. And human greed.\" 10. The auction exploits desperate sellers. By late Monday, Harris had only a handful of bids, and only one was verified as legitimate. On the other hand, 50 women had asked him to put their eggs up for auction. Gradually, the media concluded that the donors were the true victims. USA Today described the models as \"struggling actresses,\" reported that they were unaware of the health risks of donating eggs, and quoted one as saying, \"I'd rather do this than do Playboy or Penthouse .\" Harris' sole verified bidder told the paper that selling eggs was \"better than prostitution.\" 11. The auction exploits voyeurs. The Washington Post thinks Harris isn't targeting either buyers or sellers. He's not serious about selling eggs, says the Post . He's just using the sex appeal of his models and the intriguing perversity of a human egg auction to drum up publicity and attract Internet traffic to his site, from which he can sell advertising and subscriptions ($24.95 a month to view profiles of the models), hawk his forthcoming book ( Naked Power ), and direct prurient visitors to his various porn sites. A spokesman for fertility doctors suspects that ronsangels.com is really aimed at \"adolescent boys.\" 14. Egg buyers will reap unintended consequences. Sophisticated skeptics point out that Harris' application of Darwin's theories to human professional success overlooks the interaction of genetics and human psychology. To begin with, if a child produced by Harris' auction fails to turn out as pretty as the buyer expected, the buyer may shun the child, or the child may grow to hate herself for disappointing her parents. (On the Today show, Harris said of this theory, \"That's a pretty cynical view of human nature.\") Second, if the child turns out pretty but doesn't want to be a beauty queen, her parents may force her in that direction anyway, thereby stifling her true talents and preventing her from becoming successful. Third, the child's good looks may attract too much attention of the wrong kind, eventually destroying her. Critics cite Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe as examples. This critique challenges two precepts of Harris' worldview. First, while pretending to accept human nature as a given, he violates it by peddling strangers' eggs and encouraging the production of children who will probably never know their mothers. Family association, loyalty, and love are among the best parts of human nature. Slavish catering to physically attractive strangers is among the worst. If we're going to challenge human nature, the critics ask, why not start with the latter rather than the former?\n\n<question>:\nWhat is main the flaw in Harris' plan to sell the eggs of fashion models?\n\n<options>:\nA He doesn't take into account the IQ of the donors.\nB He doesn't take into account recessive genes.\nC He doesn't screen the eggs for genetic problems.\nD He doesn't take the medical history of the donors.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
84 | 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 was killing an hour in the billiard room of the Spacemen's Club in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on the shoulder. \"Beg pardon, thir,\" he said with his racial lisp, \"thereth thome one to thee you in the main lounge.\" His eyes rolled as he added, \"A lady!\" A woman here...! The in-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for another voyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictly enforced. I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the main lounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously. Grannie Annie! calm defiance. I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. \"Grannie Annie! I haven't seen you in two years.\" \"Hi, Billy-boy,\" she greeted calmly. \"Will you please tell this fish-face to shut up.\" The desk clerk went white. \"Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith a friend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutely againth the ruleth....\" \"Okay, okay,\" I grinned. \"Look, we'll go into the grille. There's no one there at this hour.\" In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickey \"Hold it, Billy-boy.\" Laughingly she threw up both hands. \"Sure, I knew 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 feet. \"I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the Satellite Theater in ten Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out to In front was a big sign. It read: ONE NIGHT ONLY THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF THE SYSTEM As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound a stage steps and disappeared in the wings. improved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood an Earthman operator. A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings and advanced to the footlights. \"People of Swamp City,\" he said, bowing, \"permit me to introduce Satellite audience. When it had subsided, the man continued: \"As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessary to give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage are These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For every question missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand planetoles . \"One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will match The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted his dials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel to coalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear his voice echoed through the theater: \" Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised her hand. She said quietly: \"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 or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name of the winner. It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie had brought me here. And then I began to notice things. The audience in the Satellite signal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete. Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like a general surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lips were turned in a smile of satisfaction. When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-moving crowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incident occurred. A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by, dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had an and led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that read was all but deserted. \"Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted?\" 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 asked abruptly. I shook my head. \"Some new kind of ...\" \"To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, an old prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of his approaching danger. \"Let's get out of here,\" I said, getting up. Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for the An instant later we were plunging through the dark night. steadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visi representative government be abolished, but a forum was now being held to find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control. Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of my Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In its place a ringing silence blanketed everything. undulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watched missing the thing by the narrowest of margins. From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dress appeared. Grannie gave a single warning: \"Stand still!\" \"Then that would mean...?\" \"That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in the cafe in Swamp City. Exactly.\" Grannie Annie halted at the door of her tent and faced me with earnest eyes. \"Billy-boy, our every move is a matter of seconds. At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on one of the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rude jetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn. He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged and unkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He was cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on his head was an enormous flop-brimmed hat. \"Glad to meet you,\" he said, shaking my hand. \"Any friend of Miss Flowers is a friend of mine.\" He ushered us down the catwalk into his hut. The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latest Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut. Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm the Venusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned. \"The Doctor Universe program,\" he said. \"I ain't missed one in months. You gotta wait 'til I hear it.\" It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again I heard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Once again I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode back despondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over the futility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept me from turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning, steaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began our advance on foot. It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, he suddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him. There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. \"Billy-boy, take three The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open. There was no sign of life. \"Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here,\" Ezra Karn observed. Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on the\n\n<question>:\nWhy was Billy-boy stopped as he was walking into the main lounge?\n\n<options>:\nA He was not welcome in the club, per recent events.\nB He was no longer a pilot and had to return to the gate.\nC The pilots and crew-men were requested to all meet before entering\nD He was informed that he had a visitor\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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1,795 | 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>:\nin the artificially warmed city. They entered an elevator The year 1928 was a great year of discovery for AMAZING STORIES . They were uncovering it. As they approached, a lean man, carrying a black bag, darted out of an elevator shaft opposite the door, ran across the corridor, and entered. They pushed in after him. They were in a little room, against the wall, that reminded one of the waiting room in an old the sleepy boy. \"Queek! I have tell you zee truth! I have zee most urgent necessity to go queekly. A patient \"If dry wood were gold dust, we couldn't buy a hot dog.\" when life was simple and natural, when men hunted and killed their Searching Mind.\" The Cosmic Express \"None of your impertinence, sir! I want my dog.\" \"Ah, a dog. Must have jumped off the crystal. You can have they did not seem to abound in the Venerian jungle. Even small gems, waddled pompously out of the door through which the frantic French doctor had into the corridor. Shrill words floated back: \"I'm going to see my lawyer! South Sea Islands. But they for the sake of survival on the Llano Estacado.\" The discovery AMAZING STORIES was the escape he sought and his goal was clouds. watching the life there, already. Terrible place. Savage. I can pick a place on high land to pajamas. He smiled fondly across for what happens afterward.\" \"Simple, primitive life is what we're looking for. And now what do I owe you—\" to the other of the twin beds, gave it up, and walked through an open door into a small bright The little door had swung open again, and Eric led Nada through. They stepped into a little sides. Don't move.\" cell, completely surrounded Eric helped Nada to a place on the crystal, lay down at her side. \"I think the Express Ray is into the crystal.\" \"Ready,\" called the youth. \"Think I've got it for you. Sort of a high island in the jungle. Nothing bad in sight now. But, I say—how're you coming back? I haven't got time to watch you.\" \"Go ahead. We aren't coming the ancient ranches. Or a man Nada and Eric felt themselves next thing they knew, the fires were gone from about them. They were lying in something extremely soft and fluid garments stained with black mud. All about rose a thick jungle, dark and gloomy—and very wet. a beautiful girl in the other. \"At last!\" Nada cried. \"We're Or a cowboy, \"hard-riding, hard-shooting,\" source of his thrills—provided they were distant enough from modern civilization. His hero was likely to be an ape-man roaring through the jungle, with a bloody rock in one hand and Nada.... But now we the vanishing hero of build a fire, find weapons, set up a shelter of some kind. I guess it will be night, pretty soon. And on a desert South Sea island. savage animals he had seen in the television. \"We'll find a nice dry cave, and have a fire in front of the door. And skins of animals to equal terms with a cave-man, or call science to aid them in defending a beautiful mate from \"But first we must find a flint-bed. We need flint for tools, and the terrors of a desolate wilderness. who could handle a club on cook in. And you will find seeds His heroes were invariably Presently they set off through the jungle. The mud seemed to be very abundant, and of a most Eric had settled down to the strong, fearless, resourceful fellows, marooned with a lovely woman too—it's found native.\" their feet. A mile they struggled on, without finding where a provident nature had left them even Charley said something about Then came a sound from the The Nada stopped. \"Eric,\" she said, \"I'm tired. And I don't believe there's any rock here, anyway. You'll have to use wooden tools, sharpened in the fire.\" \"Probably you're right. This soil seemed to be of alluvial origin. Shouldn't be surprised if the native rock is some hundreds of feet underground. Your idea is better.\" \"You can make a fire by rubbing due in the publisher's office at the some dry sticks, first.\" And a hundred million read the dark heavens in a steady, warm downpour. Dry wood seemed scarce as the proverbial hen's teeth. were extinct, there were no wild flowers, and no one had time to \"Matches! Of course not! We're going back to Nature.\" \"I hope we get a fire pretty soon.\" sleep on. And pottery vessels to dear?\" bother about sunsets. I'm hungry.\" and grown grain.\" He confessed to a few pangs of his own. They turned their attention to looking for banana trees, and coconut palms, but living under glass, like hot-house flowers.\" \"If we could only go somewhere—\" \"There isn't anywhere to go. I At last, from sheer weariness, they stopped, and gathered branches to make a sloping shelter by a vast fallen tree-trunk. \"This will keep out the rain—maybe—\" write about the West, Africa, \"And tomorrow, when it has quit raining—I'm sure we'll do better.\" They crept in, as gloomy night fell without. They lay in each to strike sparks to make a fire Eric said hopefully. little. \"Buck up,\" Eric advised her. \"We're back to nature—where we've always wanted to be.\" With the darkness, the temperature other's arms, the body warmth with. We will probably come rain into the little shelter, and across a chunk of virgin copper, threatening to demolish it. Swarms of mosquito-like insects, \"Eric, I wonder if we could go swarmed about them in begin life like the characters in your stories, to get away from this hateful civilization, and live natural lives. Maybe a rocket—\" Nada clung against Eric. \"What is it, dear?\" she chattered. \"Must be a reptile. Dinosaur, or something of the sort. This world seems to be in about the hunting in the virgin forest, and bringing the game home to you! But I'm afraid there is no way.—Wait! they flourished there.... But maybe it won't find us.\" The roar was repeated, nearer. The earth trembled beneath a same state as the Earth when ecstatically. \"Splendid! Think of \"we\" the girl did not notice. The roaring outside was closer. And suddenly it was answered strangely through the forest. The fearful sounds were repeated, alternately. And always if they were demolishing forests. Eric and Nada clung to each other, in doubt whether to stay or to fly through the storm. Gradually the sound of the conflict came nearer, until the earth shook beneath them, and they were afraid to move. atoms at the destination.\" Suddenly the great fallen tree the flimsy shelter was rolled back, evidently by a chance blow from the invisible monsters. The pitiful roof collapsed on the bedraggled against which they had erected fingers through golden-brown hair. \"But I don't see how they get any recognizable object, not overcame them. A few moments later, they were lying resolved to forget that his next \"red-blooded action thriller\" was hope you haven't been injured.\" \"Why—what—what—\" \"Why I happened in, found I will be perfectly satisfied to get back to our apartment.\" \"I don't wonder. You look like you've been through—I don't A bell had rung at the shaft. She ran to it, and returned with off the grime of another planet. He spent the next twelve hours in bed. a man marooned on Venus, with a beautiful girl. The hero made stone tools, erected a dwelling for himself and his mate, hunted food for her, defended her from they have scattered about the world. But I know his weak point—\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy don't Eric and Nada build a shelter first?\n\n<options>:\nA They are looking for dry sticks to rub together.\nB They are certain they will find tools.\nC They are looking for flint to make a fire.\nD They are looking for a cave.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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660 | 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>:\nSILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! still some unconscious men to be revived. In a sheltered cove among [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from the rocks, an exploring group had found enough dry driftwood to make a fire— the scene with a ghostly radiance. The men of the Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that driftwood bonfires in the cove. When this was completed, it was found that the the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest With the coming of dawn, a little exploration revealed that the Comerford's crew was marooned on an islet, about a square mile in area that they had been put ashore without food or extra clothing or equipment of any kind, and that no boats had been left for them. One searching party reported finding the remains of what had been a radio station on a high promontory on the north shore of the islet. Another had found the remains of tents and log cabins, recently demolished, in a small, timbered hollow—a well-hidden spot invisible from the air, unless one were flying very low a place where two daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his There was a good water supply—a small creek fed by springs—but nothing in the way of food. Evidently food was a precious commodity which the recent inhabitants of the islet couldn't afford to leave 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 hundred or more men could have camped. Ensign Jack Dillon came up to him. of good-natured joking aboard the if from unestimated currents among the islets. No chance to check by the rack. underlined heavily. declared, frowning at the two papers and hastily rechecking his own figures. \"Call up to the bridge to stop her,\" he told Nelson. \"We can't afford at once. Nelson said: \"I've been wondering, sir, if it wouldn't be advisable to try getting a radio cross-bearing. With all these rocks and islets—\" \"Radio?\" repeated the little Czech, thrusting his face between the other two, in his independent fashion that ignored ship's discipline. 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 that had recently been established to insure safety to naval vessels, but there was no answer on any of the bands—not even the blare of a gentlemen! The set is uninjured. The waves are what have been upset. I have shattered them around your ship, just as I can eventually shatter them all over Central Europe! For the next two hours, no radio messages 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. \"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!\" his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours Commander and navigator had both scribbled verifications of the closed. The sky was again a blanket of darkness pouring sheets of rain at them. 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 Curtis' ears with a note of impending tragedy. Then the ship struck. Everything movable shot ahead until it brought up at the end of a swing or smacked against something solid. \"Get out the collision mat!\" Curtis ordered. \"We ought to be able to keep her up!\" And then he became aware of a deadly stillness. A vast wall of silence enveloped the entire cruiser. Looking over the side, he could no longer see the waves that a few minutes before had beaten savagely against the Somehow, Curtis' mind flashed to the stories he'd heard of the forts of There were those who said it was the work of sappers who had tunneled explanations— The vapor clouds that enveloped the All about the deck lay the forms of unconscious seamen, suddenly shroud of mist and steadied it, so that the cruiser would not be completely at the mercy of the wind and the waves. was completely walled in by the yellowish-gray mist. He felt his senses swimming. the other was \"convoy.\" But gradually his eardrums fallen in a heap on the bridge. And after that, he wasn't conscious of Comerford in a lazy, rolling motion, as she lay with her bow nosing into the sandbar at the entrance of the inlet. From her bridge, Navigating Officer Nelson watched the gas-masked figures moving about the decks, descending companionways—like goblins a goblin himself, with his face covered by a respirator. At his side, The limp bodies of the crew were being carried to the lowered accommodation ladder and transferred into waiting lifeboats. —lives that'd have been lost if the forts had to be taken by for a career in the United States navy—and no one suspected me. No while the efficient stretcher-bearers worked industriously to remove the limp bodies of the unconscious crew and row them ashore. \"Funny thing about him,\" Bradford put in, \"is that his inventions work. 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 Comerford imperfectly crystallized stones, but far more valuable to us than watching the convoys closely for weeks for just such a cargo as the to rid the below-decks atmosphere of the lethal gas that had overcome the American crew. found himself lying in wet sand, on a beach, somewhere, with the his limbs were stiff and numb. His nose and throat felt parched inside, Comerford had been cruising off the Maine coast. This probably was one of the islets of that region, or it might be the mainland. It was hard work getting to his feet, and when he did manage to stand, he could only plant his heels in the sand and sway to and fro for fully forms of men sprawled on the beach There was a solemn note in Dillon's voice. \"No, sir. She's been worked off the sandbar and put to sea!\" The words struck Curtis with the numbing shock of a blow on some nerve which smelled strongly of treachery and sabotage. place that the men who had seized her had been waiting here for that 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\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the significance of the evidence of human lodging on the islet?\n\n<options>:\nA Nazis were hiding out there.\nB It will give Curtis and his crew mates shelter while they a stranded.\nC The Americans have outposts everywhere.\nD The Islet is where the zone of silence is to be built.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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402 | 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>:\nGrannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky, entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in this desert as the trees. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie, had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are, however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background. Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from visiting her \"stage\" in person. \"What sort of trouble?\" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, \"Fiddlesticks, I never saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.\" on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and supplies. Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest and yet it didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature. And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a \"Billy-boy,\" she said to me in a strange voice, \"look down there and I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat, another Earth man, and a Martian. awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way. Grannie shook her head. \"Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it. She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions. he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand goggles could not conceal. \"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie,\" he said. \"If anybody can help me, you can.\" Grannie's eyes glittered. \"Trouble with the mine laborers?\" she Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year. Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and \"Red Spot Fever?\" Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. \"The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness \"But surely you must have some idea of where they go,\" Grannie said. . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp, Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained standing. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to \"There must be ways of stopping this,\" she said. \"Have you called in any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the men away until the plague has died down?\" threw off the switch. Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Grannie nodded. \"I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and neither would her millions of readers. were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing \"It's Mr. Baker's own invention,\" the operator said. \"An improvement on \"Sure.\" The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself posted of Grannie's movements. \"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four,\" I said. \"There's it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula. \"There's an eyrie over there,\" Jimmy Baker was saying. \"We might as of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With a shock I saw the likeness of myself Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this made a greater impression on their brains,\" Grannie replied. of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the \"That explains something at any rate,\" the old prospector said. \"But attacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run. I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. \"Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be getting sick of this blamed moon.\" It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers, never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues and facts to a logical conclusion. another car approaching. It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her \"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to \"Ezra!\" I yelled, swinging the car. \"That wasn't Grannie! the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a \"What have you done with Miss Flowers?\" I demanded. 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. \"Grannie!\" I yelled. \"What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?\" \"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you.\" upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. reached Shaft Four.\" Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four. We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always ahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague. Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie.\n\n<question>:\nAlthough Billy-boy questioned his decision of letting Grannie Annie leave with Baker in the kit car, what put his mind at ease?\n\n<options>:\nA The car and its passengers were safe from the Red Spot Fever\nB The kite car was protected by the strange birds.\nC The invention by Baker allowed them to watch the movements of the car and its passengers\nD She was a strong woman and capable of taking care of herself.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
2,155 | 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 cool cybrain surgically implanted in him was working on the problem. But Lane burns out the force-globe. sweat, he thought, hating the chill air-currents that threw his hovering body this way Then I'm dead.\" Lane is through now. He has couple times more, but it Lane said, \"I can do that a fall, fall. Lock me up in barracks. All I wanted was a little time off. Did I fight in will be able to outthink Lane's cybrain, will predict Lane's I shouldn't blow my top. Now the lid's gone. black dog was on Lane's back. the CinC of the Newyork mailed glove to his mouth and pressed a small stud in the embedded beneath his this is Lane.\" motionless above Newyork's \"Lane, this is Trooper shoulder blades held him The humming paragrav-paks Thirty seconds passed. Lane his stupidity. He hadn't found out which one was which officer of the Troopers rasped into Lane's ear: \"Meat-head! You broke out had no more patience. They'd \"If you get out of there alive, I'll hang you for disobeying to figure out which one. Blood churned in his veins, nerves them!\" Lane waited for the electronic shrieked with impatience. whirred along the translucent underside of Newyork's through his spine. Lane somersaulted. Cybrain had \"I am, Lane.\" The voice of taken charge of his motor just along for the ride. His body snapped into a stiff dive position. He began to plummet down, picking up speed. His mailed hands alive. You've had it, son. I'd only lose more men trying to \"I'm sorry, Lane.\" \"Yes, sir. Over and out.\" rippled through him his gauntlet again. He turned to Gerri. \"You're okay. I wish I could let you out. Old cybrain says I can't. Says if I drop the as he sailed down through the air. It was like going into then we'll both be dead.\" Gerri stood with folded force-globe for a second, they'll fire into the room, and The paragrav-paks cut off. Lane dropped lightly to the floor, inside the room, in battle-crouch. Lane laughed. \"Any of them A girl screamed. Lane's Lane frowned with the effort Lane, still in a crouch, chewed was no one else in the room. \"Lashing police with his vibray,\" said the announcer, \"Lane broke through the cordon outguess Lane's cybrain and injured. Tammany Hall has warned that this man is extremely Lane looked at Gerri. \"How him. Lane is an insane killer. \"You deserve it, Lane.\" said Lane, and a sheathed finger Lane strode to the window. Lane's mailed hand snapped open a pouch at his belt. He flipped a fist-sized cube to the floor. The force-bomb \"exploded\"—swelled side. There's too many damn Troopers and not enough good Lane glanced out the window. persons like you. Old cybrain you back for that kiss.\" \"But you're safe in here!\" and re-entered the tower wall just below. about me.\" Lane picked up the He turned back to the room. \"Wake up, outa-towner.\" He \"Worry about yourself, not He stepped up on to the window ledge. Automatically, the cybrain cut in his paragrav-paks. Lane grinned. \"Trooper Lane, of the Newyork Special \" He jumped. He was hurtling across the Square when the a Newyork girl with yellow Now! blaster cannons opened up. \"So long, outa-towner. at Lane, either. They were Which way now? Looks says fly right for the Lane plunged forward. He heard the shouts of frightened men. He swooped over the balcony \"I don't,\" said Lane, unconcerned. him. There were five men on the balcony—emergency! Years of training and cybrain took over. Lane's hand shot out, fingers vibrating. As he dropped to the balcony floor in battle-crouch, the men slumped around him. Lane He had seen the man with Lane stood for a moment in the midst of the sprawled men, the shrieks of the crowd floating up to him. Then he Lane. \"Cybrain didn't know, Lane was uncomfortable in his dress uniform. First Newyork's new Military Trooper Lane. Now there was side of Lane. \"Gerri Kin. Look, Lane, Lane said, \"I'm going to \"Better than getting burned He takes orders from Newyork.\" Lane shook his head. \"She's or inflated, really, up in this lousy little room. Lane said, \"Yeah? Well, we do. We did the fighting for them. So we come back home to Newyork and they lock us us. Won't let us go nowhere. Lane said, \"It wasn't so stupid They had cops guarding us. busted out. I wanna see the Mayor and find out why we can't have time off. I don't Lane broke off. There was against us.\" \"I just didn't want her to be hurt.\" Lane could read the A loudspeaker shouted into the room: \"Come out of there, Lane, or we'll blast you out.\" \"You can't,\" Lane called. \"I repeat, Lane—come out or we'll blast you out.\" I'm leaving Newyork.\" Lane turned to the girl. \"I \"What do you mean?\" asked Colonel Klett. \"I'm tired of being a weapon, She stood there with her sir. I want to be a human being.\" hands together, calmly you're right across the Square \"Yeah, but—\" Lane shook \"No deal, Lane. We're coming Lane looked down at the filtering down through Newyork's voices rose from below. Lane rolling to a stop around the Lane looked across the rolled up from the Square, reechoing against the tower walls. \"Lane is holding the Martian blaster cannon. Lane's defense Newyork from aerial attack.\" Lane grinned back at Gerri more about dying than he did. Why the hell didn't they give him a chance to let her out? Maybe he could do it now. Cybrain said no. It said the second he dropped his force-screen, they'd blast this room to hell. Poor girl from Mars, quick,\" said Lane. \"I'm \"Didn't you understand what I said?\" Lane professionally relaxed before battle. \"What's these things I can't do? They important?\" never admit it if you had a chance of getting out of there \"They got it soft. That's them down there, come to watch the fight.\" \"You know why you were kept in the Armory, Lane? I glittered like arrowheads out Lane said, \"They told us in Newyork came up with the safe from bombs. They learned to be self-sufficient under so isolated, that national governments collapsed. But you Troopers wiped out that feeling of security, when you infiltrated Chi and conquered it.\" \"We scared them, huh?\" came back. Afraid you Troopers would realize that you Lane pressed the stud on At that moment a titanic, ear-splitting explosion hurled him to the carpet, deafened and blinded him. He recovered and saw Gerri a few feet away, dazed, groping on hands and knees. Lane jumped to the window, looked quickly, sprang back. Cybrain pumped orders to his nervous system. \"But just one. Gotcha, cybrain. I can beat that.\" that generated his protective screen. Snapping it open with thumb-pressure, he turned a Again Lane and Gerri were thrown to the floor. But this time there was a second explosion and a blinding flash Lane laughed boyishly and shattered to rubble. In and around the open space\n\n<question>:\nWhy is Lane flying over Newyork at the beginning?\n\n<options>:\nA He intends to take over the city's government\nB His cybrain has malfunctioned and sent him to the city\nC He is on a mission assigned by Colonel Klett\nD He cracked after being trapped after combat and needed to get out\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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278 | 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>:\nextradition, anything in order to speed up my return to Cupia, where Lilla awaits in some dire extremity.” “All right,” Doggo wrote, and the conference was at an end. The morrow would decide the ascendancy of Myles Cabot or the Prince Yuri over the new continent. IV “It’s too bad that Myles Cabot can’t see this!” The next morning Myles Cabot was led under guard to the council chamber of the dread thirteen: Formis and her First the accusation was read, Myles being furnished with a written copy. 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 he was then quietly visiting at my farm, after five earth-years he had led the Cupians to victory over their oppressors, a human-brained race of gigantic black ants. He had driven the last ant from the face of continental Poros, and had won and wed the Princess Lilla, who had borne him a son to occupy the throne of Cupia. While at my farm Cabot had rigged up a huge radio set and a matter-transmitting apparatus, with which he had spent on the planet Venus, where, by the aid of radio, Formia. Their testimony was brief. Then the accused was asked if he wished to say anything in his own behalf. Myles rose, then shrugged his shoulders, of the return of Myles Cabot to the planet Minos. 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 boiling seas again.” of the first part of his adventures on Venus. Some further “Yuri, usurper of the thrones of two continents. Bah!” shouted Emu. adventures Myles had told me in person during his stay “Give us a queen of our own race,” shouted Fum. “Release the prisoner,” shouted the Queen. And that is all that Myles learned of the conversation, “Yuri, our rightful leader,” shouted Barth. “It is a lie!” Doggo shouted. With one bound he gained the throne, where fighting was already in progress between the two factions. Barth Seizing one of the pikes which supported the scarlet canopy, Myles wrenched it loose and drove it into the thorax Myles Cabot had left on my farm. Myles’s own account of the amazing adventures on the planet Venus (or Poros, as its own inhabitants call it,) Myles Cabot had returned to the earth to study the latest developments of modern terrestrial science for the benefit of the Cupian nation. He was the regent of Cupia during the minority of his baby son, King Kew the Thirteenth. The loyal Prince Toron occupied the throne in his 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 had been brewing all that evening, and just as Myles had placed himself between the coordinate axes of his machine 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 had contrived and built during his previous visit to that planet, so as to talk with Cupians and Formians, both of shorthand on the silver sands the message: “Myles Cabot, “What, again?” scratched Myles, then made a sign of submission. His heart glowed with the warmth of homecoming. What mattered it that he was now a prisoner, in the hands (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. Cupia? And where was their former leader, Yuri, the renegade Cupian prince? These and a hundred other similar questions flooded in 12 Turning to Doggo, Myles extended his left palm, and advanced menacingly toward Myles, but Doggo held them blue-eyed, golden-haired Lilla, Crown Princess of Cupia. The earth-man sighed. Where was his beloved wife now? That she needed his help was certain. He must therefore it eagerly, but before he could begin writing an ant entered bearing a Cupian toga, short-sleeved and bordered with Grecian wave designs in blue. Myles put on this garment, and then quickly filled a sheet with questions: “How is my princess and my son, the baby king? Whence in which Myles Cabot had shot to earth the account Myles, who read as follows: “As to your princess and your son, I know not, for this is not Cupia. Do you remember how, when your victorious 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, Cupian race, then there we might prosper and raise up a new empire. At the worst we should merely meet death in 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 When Myles reached the end of reading this narrative, he in turn took the pad and stylus and related how he had “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 pronoun, which corresponds to “he” in English. When Myles had somewhat recovered from his astonishment, he warmly congratulated his friend by patting him on the side of the head, as is the Porovian custom. fact, it merely intensifies Yuri’s mistrust and hatred of me. 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.” “Why don’t you?” Myles wrote. It seemed to him to be a bully good idea, and incidentally a solution of his own And again Doggo tore up the correspondence. Myles tactfully changed the subject. Myles Cabot seized his pad and stylus and wrote: a cause, or a friend?” “No,” Doggo replied. “Then,” Myles wrote, “let us make your daughter queen in fact as well as in name.” “It is treason,” Doggo wrote in reply, but this time he Is it treason to support your own queen? What has become of the national pride of the once great Formians? Look! I pledge myself to the cause of Formis, rightful Queen of Formia. Formis, daughter of Doggo! What say you?” the queen?” The ant-man indicated that he could. “If she has inherited any of your character,” Myles continued, “she will assert herself, if given half a chance.” So the Pitmanesque conversation continued. Long since had whom Myles had ever known among the once dominant race of Poros. the council, whom I have won over to the cause of my daughter, will raise the objection that Yuri is not our king. This will be the signal for the proclaiming of Queen Formis. “I will waive anything,” Myles replied, “counsel, immunity,\n\n<question>:\nWhat did Myles Cabot do to establish his relationship with the peoples of Venus?\n\n<options>:\nA Myles built radios for both the Formian and Cupian people, for which each are eternally grateful.\nB Myles helped resolve a violent dispute between the Cupians and the Formians, helping the Formians to victory over the Cupians.\nC Myles helped resolve a violent dispute between the Cupians and the Formians, helping the Cupians to victory over the Formians.\nD Myles usurped the Formian throne and took a Cupian for his wife in order to solidify his power over both peoples.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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1,779 | 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 PERFECTIONISTS appeared to have overcome every little imperfection he had been Is there something wrong with you? Do you fail to fit in with your group? Nervous, anxious, ill-at-ease? Happy about it? Lucky you! able to communicate to her. aware of just how perfect, physically, ILLUSTRATED by SUMMERS than a mere sampling. Furthermore, her face and body were meticulously symmetrical. And \"With so many beautiful Pembroke probingly, \"I find it hard to understand why there are so few children.\" \"Yes, children are decorative, that he greeted the tall, \"Why not have a couple of \"Oh, they're only given to maternal had been having some effect. Either that, or she had a basic flaw of loquacity that no one else had discovered. Pembroke decided he would have to cover his It was in the privacy of his then,\" she pouted. \"So I mustn't to be miserable.\" \"If I pretended I was one of \"Oh, yes, I'm sure they would.\" \"Mary Ann, you have two other flaws I feel I should mention.\" \"Yes? Please tell me.\" \"In the first place,\" said Pembroke, frantic crewmen, officers, and the fall in love with me even if it will eventually make you unhappy. How can you be the paramour type if you refuse to fall in love foolishly? And when you have fallen in love, you should be mention me to anyone. It would travel, organized peril, \"I'll never tell anyone anything which was perhaps the reason for his restiveness. Loyalty to person or to people was a trait Pembroke had never recognized in himself, nor had it ever been expected of him. And for any obvious reason, but because yet he greatly envied those could find it in themselves to staunch patriots and lovers who others above that of themselves. Lacking such loyalties, Pembroke adapted quickly to the situation elevate the glory and safety of hungry, he began to study the Many of the faces seemed familiar the crew of the ship, he made no attempt to speak to going out anyway. selection of firearms, despite the fact that there was nothing to says you can.\" Seldom had he enjoyed so ingenuous \"You are looking for someone?\" \"Much of the time,\" said the man. \"Could it be me?\" \"Yet you seem unsure,\" she There was something not entirely normal about her conversation. Though the rest of her compensated for that. \"Tell me what's wrong with me,\" she went on urgently. \"I'm not good enough, am I? I mean, there's something wrong with the way I look or act. Isn't there? Please help me, please!\" \"You're not casual enough, for one thing,\" said Pembroke, deciding to play along with her for the moment. \"You're too tense. Also you're a bit knock-kneed, \"Yes, yes—I mean, I suppose so. I can try to be more casual. I'm okay otherwise? I mean, as a whole I'm not so bad, am I? Oh, clothes against buildings and please tell me.\" \"How about talking it over at look weary and hungry and aimless. you—as a whole.\" \"Oh, that's very generous of had accepted her story without even checking. And when, when no amount of long-distance love \"Because, after all, you do owe oddness of her conversation continued to bother him. She was right about being different, but it was her concern about being me something,\" she added. different that made her so. How And that was bad because it this time for vengeance. the bizarre statuette underneath \"What the hell was that?\" loitered around the stalls where \"Oh, you know—or don't you? Pembroke demanded. that people all about him were talking excitedly. They were discussing \"Well, I'd certainly appreciate should think you'd fall down if you didn't.\" able to learn when the great \"Don't try to go so fast and since no one he had talked frumpy.\" \"Well, I'm supposed to look frumpy,\" the woman retorted. \"That's the type of person I am. But you can look frumpy and still walk natural, can't you? Everyone doubt be discovered and exterminated. \"Well, they've got a point,\" But since no one seemed concerned about anything but his own speech and behavior, he assumed in every other respect. The reason that they had all qualified to this planet was, of course, to apply a corrective to any of the Pacificos' aberrant mannerisms or articulation. This was the polishing up phase. That was a good thing. \"It is a sign of poor breeding to smile at tramps,\" Pembroke admonished her in a whisper. \"Say, I've just figured out who \"What's wrong with your lingo? Other than the fact that it's not colloquial enough.\" These here are hard times, no matter what they say.\" \"What do you think of the walking away to wait on another customer. \"If you don't like the one of the all lovely, all effusive. The topic the woman persisted in her only fault is the way you keep shouting. \"I thought it made me look sexy,\" the redhead said petulantly. \"Hell, no. But some poor \"Just be yourself, gal,\" Spencer with a chuckle. \"Those high-strung paramour types always raising a ruckus. They never do feather cut was insisting. \"What is wrong with me?\" \"You're perfect, sweetheart,\" \"Everyone tells me I chew gum with my mouth open. Don't you hate that?\" \"Naw, that's part of your \"Ah, you're perfect, too. You are all perfect. I've never seen such a collection of dolls as parade other. \"And why not? Hey? Why not?\" Pembroke went right on hating lost interest in him. They got up \"You said they were perfect. They know they're not. You've got to be rough with them in this \"Pardon me, gentlemen, but self-conscious steps of a you would give me a few minutes of honest criticism.\" \"Ah, no, not you, too,\" groaned Spencer. \"Look, Joe, what's the gag?\" Spencer,\" Valencia explained. \"You are therefore in an excellent position to point out our faults as you see them.\" \"Well, so what?\" demanded Spencer. \"I've got more important things to do than to worry problem—\" \"I've noticed that you think you would do better to develop a more pronounced limp. Otherwise, you may appear to be self-conscious about it.\" convince people of the truth of protest, but saw with amazement that it was exactly this that Valencia was seeking. Pembroke was amused at his companion's reaction but observed that Spencer still failed to see the point. \"Also, there is a certain effeminateness in the way in which ARE YOU IMPERFECT? allowed himself to admire the YOUR FLAWS IT IS HIS GOAL TO MAKE YOU THE AVERAGE FOR YOUR TYPE to prove itself. You have only yourself to blame. Cooperation is typographical errors have been corrected without note. after a few moments. \"Is it me, \"No. You just don't belong \"You're the wrong type. But they couldn't know that ahead of time. pretty hit-or-miss operation. But they don't care one bit about us, Spencer. Consider the men who was just part of the game.\" \"What the hell are you sayin'?\" I suggest you change your attitude play along with them for a few days till the picture becomes \"What don't you like about and the pale chartreuse gown she wore hardly placed her in that category. Her conversation seemed considerably more normal after the other denizens of and had almost exhausted his critical capabilities, but not once had she become annoyed with him. She seemed to devour every factual point of imperfection about herself that Pembroke brought to her attention. And, fantastically enough, she actually\n\n<question>:\nWhy are people insistent on pointing out others' flaws?\n\n<options>:\nA Being polite is considered too passive in the society.\nB Pointing out flaws is considered positive feedback for those pretending to be human.\nC Being insecure and not taking criticism is a sign of weakness in the society.\nD Pointing out flaws is part of the social rapport for this group, and is considered normal.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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1,647 | 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>:\nIn the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail. But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles P rincess Mononoke builds to a full-scale war between humans and the animal kingdom--which does not, by the way, consist of your father's cartoon critters. In fact, the boars and apes have little patience with Ashitaka's call for nature and mankind to live together in harmony It's a shame that the wolf princess warms up to Ashitaka and spends the rest of the film either saving him or being saved by him. She loses that punk-bitch allure. The voice of Claire Danes doesn't help. When Danes says, \"I'd do anything to get you humans out of my forest,\" she sounds like a Valley Girl peeved over lack of parking spaces at the mall. (San needs a more ragged voice--I'd be interested to hear the original Japanese actress.) Billy Crudup is just as Disneyfied (Miramaxed?), but that doesn't hurt as much because Ashitaka is conceived from the start as a rather bland ingénu. Gillian Anderson's growling Moro sounds silly (she doesn't have the breath control), and the fey-hick tones of Billy Bob Thornton are too recognizable as the Akim Tamiroff-like mercenary, Jigo. But Minnie Driver--coming off a triumphantly dizzy Jane in Tarzan --once again provides a voice that the animators deserve. \"Bring the strange-ah to me late-ah,\" she commands in sexy Martian Queen cadences that will stir the loins of Flash Gordon fans everywhere. \"I would like to thank him puh-sonally.\" The overfamiliar voices nudge Princess Mononoke closer to its American counterparts--but not by a lot. There's always something wondrously strange. The \"kodamas\" are little tree spirits on doughboy bodies. They cock their trapezoidal dice heads and emit a series of clicks I could watch them for hours. (Miyazaki limits their appearances to seconds--he doesn't wear out their mystery the way that, say, George Lucas would.) And no Hollywood animated feature would end with such a powerful vision of apocalypse, as the land is bestridden by a colossus dropping a thick, caustic, tarlike gel that recalls the post-Hiroshima \"black rain.\" Can you take the kids? I think so. As Miyazaki said at a New York Film Festival press conference, \"Children understand intuitively that the world they have been born into is not a blessed world.\" Princess Mononoke , at least, can tell them why. Directors of violent genre pieces like Craven (who got this mainstream gig in return for doing the Scream sequels) or Carl Franklin or Sam Raimi sometimes want so badly to belong to Establishment Hollywood--to go to the Academy Awards--that they neuter themselves. Bending over backward to show how sensitive they can be, they forget that violence--even if it's just emotional violence--belongs in \"ordinary\" dramas, too. Craven does good work with the young actors in the classroom scenes, but the film has a reticence common to most biopics and a mushy, TV-movie humanism that blands out its texture. OK, I was a puddle after some scenes, like the one where Guaspari pushes a student to get her to improve her posture and discovers that the girl is wearing a leg brace. But how much more emotional the Carnegie Hall climax would have been if instead of suddenly seeing these East Harlem kids on stage with Perlman, Stern, Joshua Bell, etc., we'd seen them rehearsing first and struggling to keep up. There's too much music of the heart and not enough music of the callused fingers. In outline, The Limey is a lean little B-movie revenge melodrama about a felonious Brit (Terence Stamp) who's newly sprung from prison and flies to Southern California to get to the bottom of his beautiful daughter's death: \"My name's Wilson ... Who dunnit?\" The film, directed by Steven Soderbergh, would be worth seeing just for Stamp's performance, at once rock-hard and goofily blinkered, and for Peter Fonda's wittily self-parodic turn as the suspected killer, a music producer who coasts on '60s counterculture easiness while his lackeys do the dirty work. (\"Oh, man,\" he says, the fear finally seeping through the ether. \"This is getting all too close to me.\") But the picture's glory is its layered and intricate syntax. The dialogue moves ahead--there are great gobs of exposition--but the images continually double back: to Stamp and Lesley Ann Warren, as his daughter's acting teacher, simply gazing at each other or to Stamp sitting on a plane, remembering his daughter as a girl on the beach, the lens of his home movie camera creating an eerily bright--almost supernatural--spot that dances over her face. The film's most violent act happens well off screen. (You hear the distant \"pop-pop-pop-pop-pop\" of the hero's gun.) The rest is only half-glimpsed, fantasized, or saturated by memory--or is the present the memory? Is all of The Limey a temporal hiccup?\n\n<question>:\nThe film reviewer is generally _____ the actors in \"Princess Mononoke,\" and ______ the actors in \"The Limey,\" respectively:\n\n<options>:\nA irritated by // impressed by\nB skeptical of // convinced by\nC bored of // enraptured by\nD critical of // overpraising of\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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1,391 | 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... and it comes out here By LESTER DEL REY Illustrated by DON SIBLEY with ... everything has a beginning and an end. But some men aren't sane thus it isn't always so! like him. But it's a longish story, and you might as well let me in. You will, you know, so why quibble about it? At least, you always have ... or do ... or will. I don't know, verbs get all mixed up. We don't have the right attitude toward tenses for a situation like this. Thanks. You think you're crazy, of course, but you'll find out you aren't. It's just that things are a bit confused. And don't look at the machine out there too long—until you get used to it, you'll find it's years. And you can look at the revenue stamp date, if you still doubt my story. You'll believe it eventually, though, so it doesn't matter. of the same people. You sense things. So I'll simply go ahead talking for half an hour or so, until you get over it. After that you'll come along with me. You know, I could try to change things around by telling same thing in the same words, even if I tried—and I don't intend to try. I've gotten past that stage in worrying about all this. So let's begin when you get up in half an hour and come out with me. You'll take a closer look at the machine, then. Yes, it'll be pretty you'll want to go along. I'll be tired of talking by then, and in a hurry to get going. So I it is probably the field that prevents passage through time from affecting us. The luggage section isn't protected, though. there . You are completely outside of time and space, as best you can guess how things are. that. Well, I asked it after I was told, then I came back and told it to you, and I still can't help answering when you speak. \"Not exactly,\" I try to explain. \"Maybe it's no dimension—or it might the machine and I don't understand it.\" \"But....\" I let it go, and so do you. If you don't, it's a good way of going then the time-machine. And when you closed the loop by going back and saving yourself the trouble, it got all tangled up. I figured out once that such a universe would need some seven or eight time and space dimensions. It's simpler just to figure that this is the way time got bent back on itself. Maybe there is no machine, and it's just easier for us to imagine it. When you spend thirty years thinking about it, as I did—and you will—you get further and further from an answer. Anyhow, you sit there, watching nothing all around you, and no time, apparently, though there is a time effect back in the luggage space. You look at your watch and it's still running. That means you either carry a small time field with you, or you are catching a small increment of time from the main field. I don't know, and you won't think about that then, either. I'm smoking, and so are you, and the air in the machine is getting a time nor space, apparently. How could the air leak out? You still feel gravity, but I can't explain that, either. Maybe the machine has a gravity field built in, or maybe the time that makes your watch run is easier, though we're in complete darkness, except for the weak light in the machine, which always burns, and a few feet of rough dirty cement of simple, short-limbed, one-piece affair I put on, but it feels comfortable. \"I'm staying here,\" I tell you. \"This is like the things they wear in this century, as near as I can remember it, and I should be able to pass fairly well. I've had all my fortune—the one you make on that atomic generator—invested in such a way I can get it on using some anyway?\" I'd told you that, too, but you've forgotten. \"As near as I can guess, it's about 2150. He told me, just as I'm telling you, that it's an interstellar civilization.\" But there is only a single picture of a dull-looking metal sphere, with passengers moving up a ramp, and the office is closed. You begin to get the hang of the spelling they use, though. Now there are people around you, but nobody pays much attention to you. \"Downayer rien turn lefa the sign. Stoo bloss,\" he tells you. Around you, you hear some pretty normal English, but there are others using stuff as garbled as his. The educated and uneducated? I don't know. go home. But then a guard comes to the gate. Except for the short legs in his suit and the friendly grin on his face, he looks like any other \"Thanks,\" you mutter, wondering what kind of civilization can produce hobby with me, sir. I've read everything I could get on the period. Oh—congratulations on your pronunciation. Sounds just like some of our oldest tapes.\" \"Souvenir,\" it announces in a well-modulated voice. \"This is a typical in size. You can have it made into a ring on the third floor during morning hours for one-tenth credit. If you have more than one child, lot smaller than you thought. They seem to be in chronological order, and the latest one, marked 2147—Rincs Dyn*pat: You study it, but it mentions casually the inventor, without giving his name. Either they don't know it, or they take it for granted that everyone does, which seems more probable. They call attention to the chosen cyclic rate from direct current to one thousand megacycles, and any amperage up to one thousand, its maximum power output being fifty kilowatts, limited by the current-carrying capacity of the outputs. They also mention that the operating principle is still being investigated, and that only such refinements as better alloys and the each side. \"Nice,\" the guard says over your shoulder. \"It finally wore out one of something out of his pocket and stares at it. \"Fine, fine. The mayor of Altasecarba—Centaurian, you know—is arriving, but I'll be back in about ten minutes. He wants to examine some of the weapons for a monograph on Centaurian primitives compared to nineteenth century man. You'll pardon me?\" it, since the gravostatic plate is being renewed. Well, you won't be able to change the time cycle by doing anything I maybe some of it helps. I've tried to remember how much I remembered, after he told me, but I can't be sure. So I'll keep on talking. I probably can't help it, anyhow. Pre-set, you might say. You stumble down the stairs, feeling all the futuristic rays in the an appearance schedule. But you should have come to me.\" He reaches out and taps a pedestrian lightly on the shoulder. \"Sir, an emergency request. Would you help this gentleman?\" good thing I knew the production office of 'Atoms and Axioms' was in this building. Just let us know when you're finished with the model and years\"—and you begin waiting for the air to get stale. It doesn't because there is only one of you this time. Instead, everything flashes off and you're sitting in the machine in your own back yard. You'll figure out the cycle in more details later. You get into the It isn't hard to disassemble, but you don't learn a thing just some And with the controls set at 120 volts, 60 cycles and 15 amperes, you get just that. You don't need the power company any more. And you feel a little happier when you realize that the luggage space wasn't the makeshift job you've just done. But you begin getting more of a jolt when you find that the papers are common as Ampere, or Faraday, or any other spelled without a capital But now.... Well, the drinks are finished. You're woozy enough to go along with me without protest, and I want to find out just why those people up there came looking for you and shouting, before the time machine left.\n\n<question>:\nWhich word doesn't describe the people of this futuristic city?\n\n<options>:\nA helpful\nB oblivious\nC happy\nD busy\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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2,242 | 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 their nature cities along coasts and rivers developed so they could be open to trade with each other. From the middle of the 13th century, and for some 300 years after, many settlements dotted along this route formed the prosperous Hanseatic League, a European trading confederation of market towns, before the rise of the nation state led to its dissolution. The Hanseatic League is not well known, and today it lives on most prominently in the name of the German national airline Lufthansa, literally the 'Hansa of the skies', whose planes you can look out of – and down towards the Hanseatic cities – on the short journeys between mainland Europe and Britain. The letters HH on the number plates of cars in Hamburg stand for Hansestadt Hamburg: another proud little memory of this hidden history. In the traumatised atmosphere of post-Brexit Britain, it is worth remembering the Hanseatic League. It could point us towards new relationships between progressive city dwellers in a world that otherwise seems to be putting the brakes on modernity. Despite some of Britain's Leave voters longing to inhabit a fantastical realm immune to foreign influence, the reality is patently very different to that. In the late 1300s, Chaucer wrote about characters travelling to Jerusalem, and others who came from Europe and it was at exactly this point that the Hanseatic League slowly started to coalesce, eventually influencing our isles. The League is most easily understood as a loose federation of cities that acted together in self-interest to promote trade. The Hanseatic cities developed their own legal system, and their armies came to one another's aid. Merchants who wanted to buy and sell and travel were taking the lead at a time when nation states were not fit for purpose: in the case of England or Denmark, leadership was too centralised and authoritarian, while in German-speaking lands a nation had yet to be formed. We think of nations today as elemental almost, immovable. Yet look at any city of Mitteleuropa and you'll see the many different names it has had as borders and regimes have shifted with the sands of time. Nations come and go. Cities endure. \"It is often said that great cities survived great empires,\" says Cristina Ampatzidou, editor-in-chief of the Rotterdam-based online publishing platform Amateur Cities. \"So it is not unrealistic to think of cities as discrete entities that compete and collaborate with each other, independently from the states to which they belong.\" The cities involved in the Hanseatic League are found along the Baltic and North Sea coasts, and slightly inland too. The League stretched from Novgorod in the east – in what is now Russia – to London in the west. Tallinn, Riga, Gdańsk, Visby, Berlin, Cologne, Antwerp, Stockholm, Bergen, Kiel, Rostock, Dinant, Bruges, Turku, Groningen, Hanover, Wroclaw, Kaliningrad: all were involved at different stages in the Hanse's history, which ran on into the 1500s. The League covered lands that today find themselves a part of the modern nations of Finland, Sweden, Poland, the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Norway, Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia. It was a huge – and hugely ambitious – undertaking in the days when communications consisted of ink and paper and the only viable method of travel was by ship. Wood, fur, wool, silver, herring, cod and salt were the main items traded. But what was also exchanged was knowledge. In some ways it was an exercise in what we today call 'soft diplomacy'. There was no maniacal ruler overseeing things – merchants met and talked. They raised armies and waged war against kings who threatened their businesses and their freedoms and their peace. There was a kind of proto-democracy at work. Professor Rainer Postel, of the Bundeswehr Universität (Germany's equivalent of Sandhurst military academy), has described the Hanse as \"a community of interests without power politics\". As David Abulafia, Professor of Mediterranean History at Cambridge points out, \"The lack of an elaborate superstructure was one of the things that made the Hanse work. Having said that, one should recognise that Lübeck in particular dominated the League for long periods.\" Lübeck was where the merchants most often met and where renewed recent interest in the Hanse eventually led to Angela Merkel cutting the ribbon at the brand new European Hansemuseum in the city last year. Germany today – multicultural, economically and culturally motoring, free and fair – seems like the ideal model for a modern European nation state. And part of that success lies in the gravitas the country has given to its Hanseatic history. For Germany is not a top-down country with one city unhealthily dominating as with France and Britain (regional economic inequalities have plagued Britain since the painful de-industrialisation of the 1980s, especially in the north). Germany respects federalism and its cities exist on a much more even keel. The way that Cologne, Munich, Frankfurt, Dusseldorf and Stuttgart all bring varied economic and cultural character to the party is pure Hanse. The former Hanseatic cities of Hamburg, Berlin and Bremen have city state status within Germany, putting them on the same level as a whole region or 'land' like Bavaria or Brandenburg. So how about a new Hanseatic League? I ask Benjamin Barber, senior fellow at New York's Fordham University. \"I believe you will find there is a new Hanse,\" he says, \"that constituted itself about 10 or 11 years ago – including many of the original Hanseatic League cities.\" Barber is founder of the Global Parliament of Mayors, which he describes as a kind of Hanse of all cities, not just European ports, which will give cities a global urban voice and a common platform for action. The parliament convenes for its inaugural session in The Hague in September. \"Cities both exist within nations and transcend nations. Their power lies not just in the extent of For all its complex beauty, life can ultimately be reduced to a series of binary options: yes or no, stick or twist, in or out, innovation or stagnation, modernity or mythology. The referendum result was disappointing for many progressive observers because it felt like a step backwards. Despite being primarily about trade monopolies and money making, the Hanse was, in its way, an early stab at stepping forwards: it encompassed internationalism, rational thought, free trade, loose democratic institutions and, most crucially of all, movement. The future, for many observers, can only be understood in terms of the free movement of people, capital, goods and ideas. It is this necessary movement, and its possible curtailment, that could be the spark that leads to cities like London to seek independence and parity with other world cities – rather than with the rural hinterlands of Britain. Of course, cities seceding from their nation states would provide huge headaches for countries whose biggest economic driver had been removed – as well as likely deepening ideological differences between city and rural dwellers. Moreover, cities need the food the countryside provides. \"The Hanseatic League was not always accepted by local citizens,\" says Cristina Ampatzidou, \"because the privileges granted to the Hanse merchants were forcing local traders out of competition and many cities took steps to eliminate them. The reasons the countryside is turning to the right [globally] are not independent from cities turning increasingly into speculation machines for the profit of a happy few. It is basically these systemic contradictions that must be addressed before we resort to more isolationist ideas that would intensify the urban-rural political divide. The bottom line is not whether a contemporary Hanse-esque federation is possible, it probably is but whether it is actually desirable.\" This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.\n\n<question>:\nWhy was the Hanseatic League not always accepted by locals?\n\n<options>:\nA Hanse traders forced some local traders out of business because they could not compete.\nB Hanse merchants were given special privileges.\nC Hanse merchants were mostly foreign. No one likes foreigners.\nD Hanse merchants were mostly German. No one likes the Germans.\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 FIRST ONE By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by von Dongen [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright hero...? one of the crew of the spaceship Washington , first to set Americans national interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made them any man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, a 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 Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he had returned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the great mariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing, wanted it to be as before. He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through with their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He was difference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency to So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, that everything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, General they need Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco De Gama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but more so. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had worked with him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantastic journey—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed genius in uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another. \"Pretty good.\" Edith said, \"He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, and he made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank.\" He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering the warmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears as he left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They had feared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even in continent-to-continent experimental flight. They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up. But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made the long journey. Ralphie suddenly said, \"I got to go, Dad. I promised Walt and pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him scars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicing keep them from her until they were gone. Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving Walter he began to understand that there would be many things, previously 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 return to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwash So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was, the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. \"Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before—\" At that point he looked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested in mumbled, \"Soup's getting cold,\" and began to eat. His hand shook a little his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. Garden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat between slices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. He course,\" he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked at Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe chewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked at Lucille she was disappearing into the living room. Edith said, \"Hank!\" anything to get away from your father.\" Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, \"Aw, no, Dad.\" Edith said, \"He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an evening together—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly.\" Ralphie said, \"Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to.\" Hank stood up. \"The question is not whether I want to. You both know I want to. The question is whether you They answered together that of course they wanted to. But their and it seemed her old smile. \"They're so anxious to see you, Hank. I could barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They want to go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will.\" He sat up. \"Phil,\" he muttered. \"Phil and Rhona.\" They'd had wonderful times together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest and closest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming. It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed clapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so much more gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than was good for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go along on the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer. They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road to Manfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffee and Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but he merely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana. There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been there if he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world. they walked back to the booth. Phil said, \"Beddy-bye time.\" Hank said, \"First one dance with my loving wife.\" Phil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen and looked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fence paralleling the road. \"Hey,\" he said, pointing, \"do you know why that's the most popular place on earth?\" rumbling up from his chest. \"You know why, folks?\" Rhona said, \"Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—\" Hank said, \"No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?\" Phil said, \"Because people are—\" And then he caught himself and waved his hand and muttered, \"I forgot the punch line.\" \"Because people are dying to get in,\" Hank said, and looked through the The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have been nothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. \"Maybe you should let me out right here,\" Hank said. \"I'm home—or that's what everyone seems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe that Edith said, \"Oh, Hank, don't, don't!\" The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went four \"Hank,\" Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, \"I'm so sorry—\" all work out in time.\" \"Yes,\" she said quickly, \"that's it. I need a little time. We all need a little time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening. \"I'm going to stay in the guest room,\" he said, \"for as long as necessary. For good if need be.\" \"How could it be for good? How, Hank?\" That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had since returning. And there was something else all they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy man he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain and Edith said, \"Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Please\n\n<question>:\nWhat was Hank's mission?\n\n<options>:\nA Hank's mission was to touch down on Mars in preparation for a future colony.\nB Hank's mission was to experience death and be brought back to life.\nC Hank's mission was to build a colony on the moon.\nD Hank's mission was to pilot an experimental continent-to-continent flight.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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2,208 | 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. to have nothing to do with him. But surface of the Moon's far side, and, to Earth. a certain talent professional artists children had owned and loved. He drew it painstakingly—and it was torment. By night—lunar night, of course, and lunar day—it was frigidity Earth-time a rocketship came around the horizon from Lunar City with shortage of artists' materials on the Moon. All freight had to be hauled from Earth, on a voyage equal to rather more than a thousand times around the equator of the Earth. to Earth. The rocket went away again. Come nightfall Pop He began to explore the area outside the landing field marks with magnesium no one would think of sending from no strictly lunar material which nine hundred miles, jaggedly, over the side of the Moon that Earth suitable for this new adventure in considered blasting, to aid his search. 2 is nothing like it on Earth, of course. of the Moon before its craters 2 for the colony and the rocket landing mineral he required. Marble would The reason for Pop was something marble on the Moon. Naturally! Yet Early one lunar morning he was of Lunar City. Which was more He stared. A tiny silver rocket to on the Moon. In the Moon's slight gravity, of agoraphobia. With such an aid, a and then over-corrected again. It was an altogether clumsy landing. landing-area marked by silvery triangles. whimpering, to the Moon to get far of falling objects on the Moon. It was just barely past lunar sunrise on the far side of the Moon. in low gravity—long out unconscious. They'd been underground—and the idea of open spaces. Even now and half the rocketship was dazzling rocketship if Pop put a tarpaulin to see the sky. In any case Pop was didn't come from Lunar City, but from Earth. He couldn't imagine jerk which removed it. he returned. Nowadays, by the Big Crack, Pop lock-door. He saw that the interior of the ship was stripped and bare. a rocketship from Lunar City got reached the moondozer about the from Lunar City! Bring 'em!\" Pop to cover up the cargo. It was necessary. With freight costing what it did, fuel and air and food came frozen solid, in containers barely insulating moondust with vacuum the Moon. He panted: of time for that. He'd started to follow smashes it! We burn you down! Then we swing over the cable We didn't come here for nothing!\" absorbedly from city to city, fled to another continent, Pop followed that space-travel—then, at its savagery due to terror. But, Moon and the mention of Sattell's up for Lunar City, Pop tracked profited by less than two days' pay for wiping out everything that Pop If he did, there'd be no way to recover more lost memories. side of the Moon, Pop Young had Earth. Here it weighed eighteen. But Earth-weeks of working, the mine-colony nearly filled up a three-gallon multi-million-dollar coup, as a man in prison might plan his break. The cannister with greasy-seeming white crystals shaped like two pyramids would weigh a hundred pounds on luxury-liners sold for scrap. Or perhaps it was stolen for the journey on Earth its contents would be computed steal or somehow get the fuel, and somehow find a pilot. But there were diamonds worth at least five million on the Moon Pop kept a waiting cannister in carats, and a hundred pounds was worth millions. Yet here dollars waiting for them, and the ever thought of the value of the a woman and two children and think he'd killed a man for no more than a hundred dollars, what enormity would he commit for a three-gallon quantity of uncut diamonds? But he did not dwell on such It was one of the unsuccessful hours to urge its disk above the Lunar City ship that would be due horizon, and it burned terribly in hours before sunset. Then there was night, and for three hundred landing strip would destroy shack and Pop and the colony together. \"I'd guess,\" said Pop painstakingly, emptiness for fourteen times twenty-four were only stars overhead and the behind the air-apparatus. It rattled here. Sattell's associates had had to on a shelf in his tiny dome, if he shook it, and it was worth no But not Pop. He'd come to the Moon in the first place because Sattell back on Earth long before a new \"Me?\" asked Pop. \"Oh, I'm going took down the cannister of diamonds which were worth five millions or more back on Earth. He found a whole job might not have called for of the Moon. He was a rather fussy unfailing source of extreme low Earth newly-mined diamonds sometimes 2 stress. On the Moon, it was not desirable that diamonds be exposed to 2 craters complained of the bombardment from space that had made them. stripped interior of the ship identified liquid oxygen all about. between two particular rocket-landings magnesium in contact with it and he and his wife had gone out to the moonscape. Pop Young meticulously for the Lunar City ships. They glittered He checked over the moondozer. from the lunar plain. Monstrous, extended The sun, like a glowing octopod, of dollars' worth of new-mined diamonds knocking about unguarded in the shack, and he suddenly recollected sketch to keep from forgetting that. There was no purpose in the contents should weigh a hundred pounds on Earth. live on the surface of the far side of the Moon, whether anybody else \"Any tricks,\" he rasped, \"and you to the lunar state of things. Living on the Moon was bad enough need to escape became an obsession normal to a Moon-colonist. The rocketship was still in the act in liquid oxygen is not quite as Even with magnesium powder to hadn't equaled—say—T.N.T. But the ship had fuel on board for the trip back to Earth. And it blew, too. It would be minutes before all nothing. The Moon swung in vast to the Moon's surface. On the Moon, circles about the Earth, and the Earth the fragments of the ship returned other planets danced their saraband. years. Somebody back on Earth promoted a luxury passenger-line of spaceships to ply between Earth and Moon. It looked like a perfect set-up. Three spacecraft capable of the journey came into being with attendant reams of publicity. They promised a rich. Guided tours to Lunar! The most expensive and most thrilling trip in history! One hundred thousand dollars for a twelve-day cruise through space, with views of the Moon's far side and trips through Lunar City and a landing in Aristarchus, \"It's all right. I blew up the ship and everything's all right. I wouldn't honest explorers! it did. There were just two passenger tours. The first was fully booked. But the passengers who paid so highly, expected to be pleasantly thrilled and shielded from all reasons for and complacent individual unsuspectingly looks out of a spaceship He didn't wonder what he'd do disembarked even for Lunar City. Most of them cowered in their such art-works as he planned, when faraway places. They called those But they were a lot more than that! THE END Transcriber's Note: started home. Fast. The second luxury liner took off with only four passengers and turned back before reaching the Moon. Space-pilots could take the strain of space-flight because they had work to do. Workers for the lunar mines could make the trip under heavy sedation. But it was too early in the development of space-travel for pleasure-passengers. They weren't\n\n<question>:\nWhy don't tourists go to Lunar City?\n\n<options>:\nA Lunar City is on the far side of the moon. It's far too cold for tourism.\nB Tourists went insane when faced with the vastness of space.\nC Lunar City is not a resort, it's a mining town.\nD It's too expensive, $100,000 for a 12-day cruise.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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638 | 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>:\nA PLANET NAMED JOE Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. \"Yes, sir,\" I said. \"It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.\" I wanted to say, \"Then why the hell don't you send a green kid on the job? Why me?\" Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with his fingers. way he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there. Which brought to mind an important point. \"I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. I thought our activities were confined to Mars.\" as if he were waiting for me to cut. \"Mmmm,\" he said, \"yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It so happens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand just what's happening on Mars.\" I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get very far. it \"revolt.\" It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost at least a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. \"And this man is on Venus now?\" I asked for confirmation. I'd never been to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. It was just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. \"Yes, Major,\" he said. \"This man is on Venus.\" At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reported him for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uranium \"Joe.\" A tight smile played on his face. \"Joe what?\" I asked. \"Just Joe.\" \"Just Joe?\" like Joe. Among the natives, I mean.\" Personal habits? Anything?\" Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. \"Well, physically he's like any of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. He does have a peculiar habit, though.\" \"What's that?\" \"You'll find him,\" Walsh said, grinning. \"I'm sure of it.\" The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking on the whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he took over. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunic I was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Like \"Call me Joe,\" he said. his use of Terran idiom. \"You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader?\" \"I'm Joe, all right,\" he said. \"Only thing I ever traded, though, was a wondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was looking \"Where's the Officer's Club?\" I asked the Venusian. \"Are you buying information or are you just curious?\" There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart game and a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, \"What are you serving, pal?\" \"Call me Joe,\" he answered. \"Joe,\" he said again. \"You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all about Mars, would you?\" Joe. contemptible.... \"What are you drinking, pal?\" the Venusian asked again. \"Skip it,\" I said. \"How do I get to the captain's shack?\" \"Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it.\" I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved at the bartender. \"Hello, Joe,\" he said. \"How's it going?\" great gag. Very funny. Very.... \"You Major Polk, sweetheart?\" the Venusian who'd just come in asked. \"Yes,\" I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. was empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door popped open. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. \"Sir?\" the Venusian asked. \"We're out of cigarettes, Joe,\" the Captain said. \"Will you get us some, please?\" \"Sure thing,\" the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed the door behind him. Another Joe \"What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name but \"I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus,\" he said. \"Is there a local hero named Joe?\" I asked. \"No, no, nothing like that,\" he assured me. \"It's a simple culture, you Joe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd you are a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joe business, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and the cigarettes.\" He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he were personally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as if he were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the first place. \"Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.\" Venusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a carton stuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropical Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in that jungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, a was I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. \"Joe?\" I asked, just to be sure. \"Who else, boss?\" he answered. \"I'm trying to locate someone,\" I said. \"I'll need a guide to take me into the jungle. Can you get me one?\" \"It'll cost you, boss,\" the Venusian said. \"How much?\" \"Two cartons of cigarettes at least.\" \"Fine, fine,\" I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they were almost a childish people! \"His name is Joe,\" the Venusian told me. \"Best damn guide on the planet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do. Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....\" \"Skip it,\" I said, cutting the promotion short. \"Tell him to show up around fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.\" The Venusian started to leave. just have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe on a planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but the Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe may gag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in. The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall, elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far. \"I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir,\" he said. \"Has Joe told you what the payment will be?\" \"Joe,\" he said. \"Didn't you know?\" Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round of that would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. He would talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. \"I like Venus,\" he said once. \"I would never leave it.\" \"Have you ever been to Earth?\" I asked. \"No,\" Joe replied. \"I like Terrans too, you understand. They are good for Venus. And they are fun.\" \"Fun?\" I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: species Leonard Walsh.\n\n<question>:\nWho is Joe?\n\n<options>:\nA The Major’s senior officer\nB A Venusian who doesn’t like cigarettes\nC The entire population of Venus\nD A Venusian Trader\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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913 | 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 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. 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. Director Steven Zaillian's version doesn't capture the mounting rage that one experiences while reading Harr's book, or even the juicy legal machinations that Francis Ford Coppola giddily manipulated in his underrated adaptation of John Grisham's The Rainmaker (1997). But A Civil Action is a sturdy piece of work, an old-fashioned conversion narrative with some high-tech zip. Schlichtmann doesn't take this \"orphan\" case--brought by the parents of several children who died of leukemia--because he wants to do good but because he figures that Grace and Beatrice will fork over huge sums of money to keep the parents from testifying publicly about their children's last days. He might succeed, too, if it weren't for Jerome Facher (Robert Duvall), the Beatrice lawyer who knows how to keep Schlichtmann shadowboxing while his small firm's financial resources dwindle to nothing. 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>:\nWhat, according to the film reviewer, is Zaillian's strength in \"A Civil Action\"?\n\n<options>:\nA Staying true to the real story's timeline\nB Dramatic monologues\nC Intercutting cinematography\nD Casting excellent actors and actresses\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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2,189 | 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>:\nmurders—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 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 snapping jaws. Then he suddenly turned and walked away, the dog at his heels. \"I tell you, the man said he was my brother and he made me think he bleeding knees, squalling for all he was worth on the grass—Oh, I don't even want to think about it.\" 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.\" The police sergeant looked at the father, at Nancy and then at the dog. He scribbled notes in his book. guy carrying your baby, don't you think?\" \"I shot him in the legs. The other—the other turned and I shot him in hadn't pulled the trigger then ... I don't want to remember it.\" He sat up quickly. \"Where's Tiger?\" Together they rose and walked around the room. They found him in a corner, eyes open, tongue protruding. He was dead. 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. afterwards. The man was in perfect health. Only variations are he had a scar on his leg where something, probably a dog, bit him once. And then a scar on his chest. It looked like an old gunshot wound, they bitten by their dog. Later that night she said she shot the same man in the chest. Since the scars are healed it obviously couldn't be the same man. But there's a real coincidence for you. And speaking of the 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?\" his chest. This gave him the appearance of being alert despite reclining. Even as he lay, his mouth held a hint of a smile. Arvid 6—for John Smith was Arvid 6—had lain in that position for more than four hours, when suddenly he snapped his eyes open and appeared to be listening. For a moment a look of concern crossed his face and he swung his legs to the floor and sat there expectantly. Arvid 6 knew Tendal 13 had materialized and was somewhere in the building. Eventually there were some sounds from beyond the steel cell and doorway. There was a clang when the outer doorway was opened and Arvid 6 rose from his cot. 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 \"I'm really sorry about that,\" Arvid 6 said. You know the instructions. Just because you work in the Ultroom don't get to thinking human life doesn't have any value. We wouldn't be here 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 you've been sitting here, probably enjoying yourself with your special brand of humor I have grown to despise.\" \"You didn't have to come along at all, you know,\" Arvid 6 said. \"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 you was needed. I volunteered. Imagine that! I volunteered! Tendal 13 reaches the height of stupidity and volunteers to help Arvid 6 go back 6,000 years to bring Kanad back, to correct a mistake Arvid 6 made!\" He snorted. \"I still can't believe I was ever that stupid. I only prove it when I pinch myself and here I am. were partly eaten by the lion in the bargain, although you dazzled the \"All right, all right,\" Arvid 6 said. \"I'll admit I've made some mistakes. You're just not adventurous, that's all.\" \"Shut up! For once you're going to listen to me. Our instructions wearily and sank his head in his hands. \"It was you who conceived the 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. you said. And then what happened? I get shot in the legs and you get a hole in your back. We were both nearly obliterated that time and we didn't even come close to getting the child. 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 Kanad back 6,000 years? 'My hand slipped.' As simple as that. 'My hand in.\" Tendal 13 turned and looked steadily and directly at Arvid 6. \"Do you know what I think? I think you deliberately pushed the lever over as far as it would go . That's how simple I think it was.\" Arvid 6 flushed, turned away and looked at the floor. \"What crazy things have you been doing since I've been gone?\" Tendal 13 asked. 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 blame, wanting rejuvenating at only 300 years. Some have waited a 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 out of 1951 complete. Next Kanad transfer ready. 2267. Phullam 19, son of Orla 39 and Rhoda R, 22H Level M, TB92167 Arvid 6 rose from the cot and the two men faced each other. \"Before we leave, Arvid,\" Tendal 13 started to say. \"I know, I know. You want me to let you handle everything.\" \"Exactly. Is that too much to ask after all you've done?\" several with no luck. Arvid 6, an amused set to his mouth and devilment in his eyes, watched the jailer's expression as he walked through the bars of the door. He laughed as he saw the jailer's eyes bulge. \"Arvid!\" Tendal 13 walked briskly through the door, snatched Arvid 6 by the shoulders and shook him. The jailer watched stupified as the two men vanished in the middle of\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Tiger die?\n\n<options>:\nA Tiger died from an allergic reaction to biting Arvid 6.\nB Tiger was poisoned.\nC Tiger suffocated.\nD Arvid 6 kicked Tiger to death.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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854 | 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>:\noverrode his erstwhile genial features. I had a horrible suspicion. \"Not again?\" I said softly. Jery Delvin had a most unusual talent. He could detect the flaws in any scheme almost on sight—even where they had eluded the best brains that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] told him that he had been selected as the answer to the Solar System's greatest mystery, Jery assumed that it was because of his mental agility. MASTER SPY OF THE RED PLANET time to pierce the maze of out-of-this-world double-dealing. For Jery America that they were certain to be lovely in a Plasti-Flex brassiere without absolutely guaranteeing them anything, when the two security men came to get me. I didn't quite believe it at first, when I looked up and saw them, six-feet-plus of steel nerves and gimlet eyes, staring down at me, amidst my litter of sketches, crumpled copy sheets and unless maybe it was that hair dye that unexpectedly turned bright green after six weeks in the hair, but that was the lab's fault, not mine. So I managed a weak smile toward the duo, and tried not to sweat too profusely. \"Jery Delvin?\" said the one on my left, a note of no-funny-business in his brusque baritone. \"... Yes,\" I said, some terrified portion of my mind waiting \" You are Jery Delvin?\" The man who spoke seemed more than surprised he seemed stunned. His voice held an incredulous squeak, a squeak which would have amazed his President in power, and not even that in matters of security. I managed to nod. He shook his white-maned head, slowly. \"I don't believe it.\" \"But I am, sir,\" I insisted doggedly. Baxter pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment, then sighed, grinned wryly, and waggled an index finger at an empty \"I suppose you're wondering why I've called—\" he started, then stopped short and flushed with embarrassment. I felt a sympathetic hot wave flooding my own features. A copy chief in an advertising company almost always reacts to an obvious cliche. Then, with something like a look of relief on his blunt face, he \"Jery Delvin,\" he read, musingly and dispassionately. \"Five foot eleven inches tall, brown hair, slate-gray eyes. Citizen. Honest, sober, civic-minded, slightly antisocial....\" He looked at me, questioningly. \"I'd rather not discuss that, sir, if you don't mind.\" \"Do you mind if I do mind?\" I couldn't have been more surprised had he announced my incipient maternity, but I was able to ask, \"Me? For Pete's sake, why, sir?\" Baxter looked me square in the eye. \"Damned if I know!\" 2 I stared at him, nonplussed. He'd spoken with evidence of utmost accused of a friendly josh, but—\"You're kidding!\" I said. \"You must be. Otherwise, why was I sent for?\" \"what came out?\" and said, without referring to it, \"Jery Delvin, five foot eleven inches tall—\" \"Yes, but read me the part where it says why I was picked,\" I said, a \"Uh-huh,\" Baxter grunted laconically. \"It amuses you, does it?\" The smile was still on his lips, but there was a grimness in the glitter of his narrowing eyes. \"Not really,\" I said hastily. \"It baffles me, to be frank.\" \"If you're sitting there in that hopeful stance awaiting some sort of to make. IC had none to make. Damn it all to hell!\" He brought a meaty fist down on the desktop. \"No one has an explanation! All we know is that the Brain always picks the right man.\" I let this sink in, then asked, \"What made you ask for a man in the first place, sir? I've always understood that your own staff represented some of the finest minds—\" I only knew the problem!\" \"You sound disillusioned, sir,\" I interjected. He stared at me as though I'd just fallen in from the ceiling or somewhere. \"Huh? Oh, yes, Delvin, isn't it? Sorry, I got carried away. over his slightly bucktoothed face, and we—Sir?\" I'd paused, because he was staring at me like a man on the brink of apoplexy. I swallowed, and tried to look relaxed. After a moment, he found his voice. \"To go on, Delvin. Do you recall that the government extended their trip by—Why are you shaking your head that way, sir?\" \"Because it's not true, Delvin,\" he said. His voice was suddenly old and tired, and very much in keeping with his snowy hair. \"You see, the Space Scouts have vanished.\" getting letters and—\" \"Forgeries, Fakes. Counterfeits.\" \"You mean whoever took the Scouts is falsifying—\" \"No. My misuse of tenses, deliberate misspellings. They take it out of an adult, especially an adult with a mind keen enough to get him into per day. Otherwise, they'd all be gibbering by now!\" \"And your men haven't found out anything?\" I marvelled. Baxter shook his head. \"And you finally had to resort to the Brain, and it gave you my name, form of an electronic brain, and even works on the same principle—can tell you that two and two make four. But can it tell you why? \"Well, no, but—\" relays and tubes, and out of the end of the answer slot popped a single \"You got me!\" I shrugged hopelessly. \"However, since we have nothing else to go on but the locale from which Baxter nodded. \"But that's impossible,\" I said, shaking my head against this disconcerting thought. \"Yes,\" said Baxter. \"That's what bothers me.\" nervous as hell. At least he was pacing back and forth amid a litter of half-smoked cigarette butts beside the gleaming tailfins of the \"And when did you notice they were missing?\" I asked, looking at the \"Have you checked the storage tanks?\" I asked. \"Or is the cast-off water we lost.\" \"Check the tanks,\" I said. source of new water for the tanks.\" \"Uh-huh.\" I paused and considered. \"I suppose the tubing for these tanks is all over the ship? In all the hollow bulkhead space, to take He stared, then frowned, and thought hard. \"Yes, sir,\" he said, after a minute. \"Even twice that, with no trouble, but—\" He caught himself short. It didn't pay to be too curious about the aims of an automatically act the part. A shame, in a way.\" \"The hell it is!\" Baxter snapped. \"Good grief, man, why'd you think the believe....\" He waved me silent. \"No connection at all, son. No, red tape was, well, involvement. Forms to be signed, certain factors to be considered, was impossible, Jery, my boy, to get anything done whatsoever without \"But the danger. If you should pick the wrong man—\" Baxter smiled. \"No chance of that, Jery. We didn't leave it up to any committee or bureau or any other faction to do the picking. Hell, that situation, hand over the Amnesty, and pray.\" I had a sudden thought. \"Say, what happens if two men are selected by the Brain? Who has authority over whom?\" Baxter grimaced and shivered. \"Don't even think such a thing! Even tapped the medallion gently \"—in existence, Jery. So we couldn't have\n\n<question>:\nWhat clue did the water tanks and tubing give Jery?\n\n<options>:\nA An idea of how and when the boys went missing - probably during the night\nB An idea of how much water was used during the trip\nC An idea of how and when the boys went missing - probably via the tanks\nD An idea as to whether or not the other man was lying\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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245 | 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 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. scrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In the meantime, I've got brains as a consolation. 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 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 a piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhere and little grubby things just looking for you can think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nasty imagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I've 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. found at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes. have anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off the bad moment any longer. 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 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 animals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste pretty of horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn't identify. One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses when they dropped the colonies. I say \"they\" because, while we did the draft animals. 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 bet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses. were five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creatures They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs and knobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks for made a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and plodded along. men on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous as one wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me. 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. 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.\" that mean. I decided he just creatures, I said, \"If you want your rifles, you can go back and get 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 the green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen before But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them or four 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 closed my eyes until it passed. 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 Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might wind poor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were the 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 one, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we're Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave the campfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to the 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 The other one didn't move. \"Get going, Jack,\" Horst said in a menacing 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.\" \"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.\" Ships,\" Horst said. \"That be enough. They already have one of you brats that over to me.\" Horst made a disgusted sound. \"Don't make any noise,\" I said, \"or you'll fry. Now hand it over.\" Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground and 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.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the implied name of the green creatures Horst and his gang are herding?\n\n<options>:\nA Free Birthers\nB Slims\nC Squat Plodders\nD Losels\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
643 | 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>:\nWalsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get by with gravy. \"It will be a simple assignment, Major,\" he said to me, peering over \"The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent.\" He paused, then added, \"For a native, that is.\" I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked the way he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there. Which brought to mind an important point. \"He's had many dealings with the natives there,\" Walsh explained. \"If If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could give them to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he called it \"revolt.\" It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost at least a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reported him for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uranium that could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night. He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing by \"I don't know, sir.\" \"A relatively simple assignment,\" Walsh said. Personal habits? Anything?\" Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. \"Well, physically he's like any of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. He does have a peculiar habit, though.\" about Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling that revolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd started pushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as if the whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he took over. Swell guy, Walsh. looked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began to curse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, most contemptible.... \"Hello, Joe,\" he said. \"How's it going?\" \"Not so hot, Joe,\" the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of a great gag. Very funny. Very.... \"You Major Polk, sweetheart?\" the Venusian who'd just come in asked. \"Yes,\" I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. \"You better get your butt over to the captain's shack,\" he said. \"He's about ready to post you as overdue.\" So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. \"And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture. Lots of enlisted men, you know.\" I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtful ancestry more keenly. Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walsh wasn't used to entertaining Majors. \"The enlisted men. You know how they are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call him business, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and the Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fat pussy cat. \"What is it, Major?\" he asked. \"This man Joe,\" I said. \"Can you give me any more on him?\" Walsh's grin grew wider. \"Why, Major,\" he said, \"you're not having any difficulties, are you?\" \"None at all,\" I snapped back. \"I just thought I'd be able to find him a lot sooner if....\" \"Take your time, Major,\" Walsh beamed. \"There's no rush at all.\" \"I thought....\" \"I'm sure you can do the job,\" Walsh cut in. \"I wouldn't have sent you otherwise.\" Hell, I was through kidding around. \"Look....\" He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up on him. \"Polk!\" he shouted, \"can you hear me?\" One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hopping the next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer. Captain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid of me. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemed like a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for something that had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd be The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to consider it seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failing at the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that a few more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career with But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next in command. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and I could understand how much that would appeal to Walsh. I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his good about the whole affair. Leonard Walsh. the nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walsh standing near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand. \"Hello, Major,\" he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't look was getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game. I faced Walsh again. \"Okay, what's it all about, pal?\" \"Colonel,\" Walsh corrected me. \"You mustn't forget to say Colonel, Major .\" He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthless finality. I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'd been. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walsh when you decided to cork off.\" Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely. \"You didn't have to report me,\" Walsh said. \"No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should have nudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it again sometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy!\" Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barely audible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on this little spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small, \"You brought the Mars business on yourself,\" I told Walsh. \"There was never any trouble before you took command.\" \"The natives,\" he practically shouted. \"They ... they....\" \"What about the natives?\" I asked. \"Nothing,\" Walsh said. \"Nothing.\" He was silent for a while. \"A man of my calibre,\" he said then, his face grim. \"Dealing with\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the relationship between Polk and Walsh? What is the central complication in their history together?\n\n<options>:\nA Colonel Walsh is Major Polk’s senior officer. Their relationship became contentious in boot camp, when Walsh reported Polk for falling asleep on the job.\nB Colonel Walsh is Major Polk’s ex best friend. Their relationship became contentious during the Terran occupation of Mars, when Polk realized Walsh was prejudiced against Martian natives.\nC Colonel Polk is Major Walsh’s ex best friend. Their relationship became contentious in boot camp, when Polk reported Walsh for falling asleep on the job.\nD Colonel Walsh is Major Polk’s senior officer. Their relationship became contentious in boot camp, when Polk reported Walsh for falling asleep on the job.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
944 | 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 U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it! humans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as many ! That's more than a legend—one hell of a lot more!\" \"It is impressive,\" admitted Taphetta. \"But I find it mildly \"Try Emmer,\" he suggested tiredly. \"He'll find you irresistible, and he's even more savage than I am.\" \"That's because you're unique,\" said Halden. \"Outside of your own \"Is he?\" She smiled enigmatically. \"Maybe, in a biological sense. Too much, though. You're just right.\" that's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the sole exception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it's accidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of human development. \"Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around the the physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—what advantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that, nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with the beginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though on And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There's a corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able to Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superior children—and they might be his. breed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile with Emmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle. He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Were The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was not completely her fault. Besides.... \"You're thinking of Earth,\" said Halden. \"Humans require a certain kind Stone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to conclude \"And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed across 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 about himself.\" It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerous though not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization as high as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there were \"We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory is systems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certain pattern. Kelburn can explain it to you.\" the motion. !\" \"The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,\" murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. \"Is that the only era that satisfies the calculations?\" Halden flushed the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburn was the most advanced human type present, but while there were 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 lower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. And there was the matter of training he'd been on several expeditions and ability.\" Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. \"I had other plans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergency been inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware of his place in the human hierarchy. higher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet he 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 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 \"What is it, some kind of toxic condition?\" \"Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it's smarter?\" \"I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to be so hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait's humans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypothetical ancestor?\" Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, but nonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised a stubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggy hands through shaggier hair. \"I can speak with some authority,\" he rumbled. \"I was born on a world we'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my world don't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're as advanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in the planets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is.\" atomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thing for non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actually \"Of course,\" rustled the Ribboneer. \"But a lot of money and equipment was required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educational institutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectual curiosity.\" \"Cultural discoveries,\" rumbled Emmer. \"How did our ancestors live? When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more than cultural discoveries.\" \"Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advanced civilization,\" added Halden. \"A faster-than-light drive, and we've achieved that only within the last thousand years.\" \"There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics, but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?\" \"To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover as much as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don't technical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that could improve itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a start a minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate them defeat. This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped and that the bodies aren't flesh.\" have to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough, marrying you.\" \"Primitive,\" he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knew that, in relation to her, he was advanced. \"It's almost a curse, isn't it?\" She laughed and took the curse away by primeval Earth.\" He said nothing she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced as \"I don't think I will, though. We might have children.\" \"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. It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to the surface now. \"Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I make them start lower than I am?\" 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.\" It was true no one asked a member of a higher race to enter a \"Love,\" she said gloomily. \"Physical attraction. But I can't let it lead me astray.\" \"Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientific about it, he'd give you children of the higher type.\" \"Kelburn.\" It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. \"I don't like him and he wouldn't marry me.\" \"He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough. There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the governing principle that classifies the characters in the story?\n\n<options>:\nA ancestral bloodline\nB physical biology\nC galactic prevalence\nD intellectual status\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
982 | 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>:\nRikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life. The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of low mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. If plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watch \"There is Rikud on the floor!\" Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright. viewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideous Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face apparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead, If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this was Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of the his heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side of his neck. He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the weight of his body with all his strength against the door. It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth. The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. He walked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feel tube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watch Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy was a strange thought, and Rikud's brain exciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness. With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid. It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer, Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no real Rikud felt at home. before Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge of Rikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True, proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on one \"You know,\" Rikud said, sitting up now, \"the stars in the viewport are channelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions. The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulses where Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe of Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer, A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A section Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him, the viewport. the viewport. That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud of Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For a moment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to accept it as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. A garden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud had never seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through the world's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless, it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, \"It is the viewport.\" he admitted to Rikud. \"But why should the garden be in the viewport?\" Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he could not tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in the viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the word seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unless it were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewhere was the garden and the world had arrived. \"It is an old picture of the garden,\" Chuls suggested, \"and the plants are different.\" \"Then they've changed?\" \"Well, what about the viewport? Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book on obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another, health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also was purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. But if everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how could machine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached the There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud.\" Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the other Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? The viewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and, although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topography off in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put his hand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the new viewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly garden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he could walk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls. In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared his This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it, would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, he casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open that All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the thing you did, Rikud.\" \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the stars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden there beyond the viewport.\" \"That's ridiculous,\" Chuls said. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with frond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe the plants in the viewport would even be better. \"We will not be hungry if we go outside,\" he said. \"We can eat there.\" \"We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken,\" Chuls said dully. \"We must go outside—through the viewport.\" Rikud listened to the odd The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face. and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to run was chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, and how big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing him were unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completely and positively. He became sickly giddy thinking about it. But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he would die because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled and grumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the viewport allow Rikud to realize?\n\n<options>:\nA There is more to the world outside of the ship they are on.\nB The viewport is not a flat space, and objects can pass through it.\nC The stars are indeed changing.\nD The garden outside is moving.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
1,960 | 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>:\nfrom an ancient subway car, except that it was air-tight, and was hurled by magnetic attraction tube exhausted of air, at a speed By JACK WILLIAMSON that would have made an old The year 1928 was a great year of discovery for AMAZING . They were uncovering new talent at such a great rate, (Harl Vincent, David H. Keller, E. E. Smith, Philip Francis Nowlan, Fletcher Pratt and Miles J. Breuer), that Jack Williamson barely managed to become one of a distinguished group of discoveries by stealing the cover of the December issue for his first story A disciple of A. Merritt, he attempted to imitate in style, mood and subject the magic of that late lamented master of fantasy. The imitation found great favor from the readership and almost instantly Jack Williamson became AMAZING STORIES . He followed his initial success with two short novels , The youth leaning on the shelf behind it. Beyond him was a The thin man in black, whom Eric now recognized as a prominent French heart-specialist, was A. Merritt, whose style and method Jack Williamson parlayed into popularity for eight years. Yet the strange thing about it was that Jack Williamson was one of the most versatile science fiction authors ever to sit down vogue for science-fantasy altered to super science, he created the memorable super lock-picker and when they wanted extrapolated theory in present tense, he assumed the disguise of Will Stewart and popularized the concept of contra terrene matter in science fiction breathe. Ready!\" He manipulated his dials and Shock. Finally, when only psychological studies of the future Little bulbs lit and glowed for a second. The youth turned toward interest because it was written during Williamson's A. Merritt earliest indication of a more general capability. The lightness of the handling is especially modern, barely avoiding the farcical by the validity of the notion that wireless transmission of matter and—\" \"Young man, if any harm especially important because it the story. With only a few thousand scanning-disk television sets in existence at the time of the writing, the surmise that this media would be a natural for westerns was particularly astute. Jack Williamson was born in gems, waddled pompously when covered wagons were the primary form of transportation and apaches still raided the settlers. His father was a cattle man, but for young Jack, the ranch was anything but glamorous. \"My days were filled,\" he remembers, \"with monotonous rounds of what seemed an endless, out of the door through which the frantic French doctor had heart-breaking war with drought and frost and dust-storms, poison-weeds and hail, for the sake of survival on the The discovery of AMAZING STORIES he sought and his goal was to be a science fiction writer. He labored to this end and the first he knew that a story of his had been accepted was when he \"For old time's sake, and for this—\" The boy seemed dazed at sight was the escape the new world of science, and the expression of man's reaction to a technological environment. By which I mean that it is the most interesting and stimulating slender figure in purple-striped pajamas. He smiled fondly across for what happens afterward.\" \"Simple, primitive life is what we're looking for. And now what do I owe you—\" and began a series of fantastic and also with scientific appliances that would have been strange to the man of four or five centuries before, when the Age of Aviation was beginning. Suddenly there was a sharp tingling Yawning, Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding stood before the great concern was that to the lightly clad man at the window, who was inhaling deeply the fragrant air the cold ato-light that illuminated the snow-covered city. With a distasteful grimace, he seated himself before a broad, The next thing they knew, the bright jackets, red and blue and green, that brought a thrill of pleasure to the young novelist's heart when he looked up from his as his enthusiastic publishers and television directors said, \"of ages past, when men was impartial as to the source of his thrills—provided they were distant enough from modern civilization. His hero was likely to be an ape-man roaring through the jungle, with \"You're the perfect companion, Nada.... But now we marooned with a lovely woman on a desert South Sea island. His heroes were invariably strong, fearless, resourceful fellows, equal terms with a cave-man, or call science to aid them in defending a beautiful mate from dramatization of them on the television screens. They thrilled at the simple, romantic lives his heroes led, paid him handsome royalties, and subconsciously shared his opinion that civilization had taken all the best from the life of man. Eric had settled down to the artistic satisfaction of describing the sensuous delight of his hero in the roasted marrow-bones of a dead mammoth, when room stirred, and presently came tripping into the study, gay and vivacious, and—as her husband of a few months most justly thought—altogether beautiful in machine back into its place, and resolved to forget that his next \"red-blooded action thriller\" was warm downpour. Dry wood seemed scarce as the proverbial hen's teeth. grown up into a city, the birds were extinct, there were no wild flowers, and no one had time to bother about sunsets. \"Yes, dear. Civilization has ruined the world. If we could only have lived a thousand years ago, when life was simple and natural, when men hunted and killed their meat, instead of drinking synthetic stuff, when men still had the joys of conflict, instead of speaker said that the Planet fell without. They lay in each other's arms, the body warmth Venus is younger than the Earth, that it has not cooled so much. It simple, elemental life there—like Earth had before civilization ruined it.\" With \"Eric,\" a thin voice trembled. the darkness, the temperature in about the same period as Earth and it must be much like Earth was a million years ago.\" \"Eric, I wonder if we could go there! It would be so thrilling to begin life like the characters in your stories, to get away from It has ruined nature, filled the world with silly, artificial \"A new invention. Just perfected a few weeks ago, I understand. \"Don't you think—it might have been better— You know the old life was not so bad, after all.\" \"I was just thinking of our By Ludwig Von der Valls, \"I've quit bothering about science. the shaft whenever we pushed \"But this is quite remarkable, dear. A new way to travel—by the button, and the gay crowds in the park, and my old typewriter.\" ether!\" \"Don't you wish—we had known better?\" \"I do.\" If he winced at the until the two sounds were together. And then an infernal din weren't a scientist.\" He glowed with pride. \"But the method, in \"So sorry—an accident—inconceivable. I can't see how he got it! We got you back as soon transmission, all but a tiny fraction of the power is lost, and Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding, noted author of primitive life and love, ate a hearty meal with his pretty spouse, after they had washed off the grime of another planet. He spent the next twelve hours in bed. his publishers, a thrilling tale of a man marooned on Venus, with a beautiful girl. The hero made stone tools, erected a dwelling for himself and his mate, hunted food for her, defended her from the mammoth saurian monsters world. But I know his weak point—\" small polished object, gleaming silvery, slid down into his hand. \"Old friendship, plus this, Five minutes later Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding and his pretty wife were in street clothes,\n\n<question>:\nWhat event or experience had the strongest impact on Williamson's literary style?\n\n<options>:\nA Reading books by some of the most illustrious science fiction authors as a child and adolescent\nB Watching his father make sacrifices to provide for him, his mother, and younger siblings\nC Growing up with little protection from exposure to the suffering from the elements\nD Not having the same access to innovative, life-saving technology in his formative years\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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1,665 | 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>:\nIllustrated by Freas Miss Abercrombie, the manual therapist patted the old man on the shoulder. \"You're doing just fine, Mr. Lieberman. Show it to me when you have finished.\" and went back to his aimless smearing in the finger paints. Miss Abercrombie smoothed her smock down over trim hips and surveyed the other patients working at the long tables in the hospital's arts and crafts shop. Two muscular and bored attendants in spotless whites, buildings of the hospital and the hills blocked the view of the austere complex of buildings that housed the main wards. The therapist strolled down the line of tables, pausing to give a word of advice here, and a suggestion there. She stopped behind a frowning, intense patient, rapidly shaping blobs of \"And what are we making today, Mr. Funston?\" Miss Abercrombie asked. patient ignored the question. He hunched closer to his table as if to draw away from the woman. \"We mustn't be antisocial, Mr. Funston,\" Miss Abercrombie said lightly, Thaddeus Funston continued to mold the clay bits and put them in place. Without looking up from his bench he muttered a reply. \"Did,\" Funston murmured. Safely behind the patient's back, Miss Abercrombie smiled ever so slightly. \"Why that's very good, Mr. Funston. That shows real creative thought. I'm very pleased.\" There was a rustle of paint boxes and papers being shuffled and chairs being moved back. A tall, blond patient with a flowing mustache, put one Miss Abercrombie gazed around the cluttered room and picked up her chart book of patient progress. Moving slowly down the line of benches, she made short, precise notes on the day's work accomplished by each The late afternoon sun felt warm and comfortable as she walked the mile to the main administration building where her car was parked. As she drove out of the hospital grounds, Thaddeus Funston stood at the barred window of his locked ward and stared vacantly over the hills towards the craft shop. He stood there unmoving until a ward attendant came and took his arm an hour later to lead him off to the patients' burning in each ward office. A quiet wind sighed over the still-warm hills. At 3:01 a.m., Thaddeus Funston stirred in his sleep and awakened. He sat up in bed and looked around the dark ward. The quiet breathing and occasional snores of thirty other sleeping patients filled the room. small mushroom-shaped cloud, rose above the gaping hole that had been the arts and crafts building. Thaddeus Funston took his hands from his face and lay back in his bed with a small, secret smile on his lips. Attendants and nurses scurried through the hospital, seeing how many had been injured in the At 5:45 a.m. a cordon was thrown around both the hospital and the blast crater. In Ward 4-C, Thaddeus Funston slept peacefully and happily. \"It's impossible and unbelievable,\" Colonel Thomas Thurgood said for the fifteenth time, later that morning, as he looked around the group of Madame Curie was a misguided scrubwoman.\" doctor. \"Where's that girl you said was in charge of this place?\" \"We've already called for Miss Abercrombie and she's on her way here now,\" the doctor snapped. Outside the tent, a small army of military men and AEC technicians moved around the perimeter of the crater, scintillators in hand, examining At 4:00 p.m., the argument was still raging in the long, narrow staff room of the hospital administration building. Colonel Thurgood, looking more like a patient every minute, sat on the are all nuts. You're in the right place, but count me out.\" At his left, Miss Abercrombie cringed deeper into her chair at the broadside. Down both sides of the long table, psychiatrists, physicists, strategists and radiologists sat in various stages of nerve-shattered \"Miss Abercrombie,\" one of the physicists spoke up gently, \"you say that \"They'd crucify us, that's what they'd do!\" At 8:30 that night, Thaddeus Funston, swathed in an Army officer's greatcoat that concealed the strait jacket binding him and with an officer's cap jammed far down over his face, was hustled out of a small the runway with propellers turning. Two military policemen and a brace of staff psychiatrists sworn to secrecy under the National Atomic Secrets Act, bundled Thaddeus aboard the plane. They plopped him into a seat directly in front of Miss Abercrombie and with a roar, the plane raced down the runway and into There was nothing on the table but a bowl of water and a great lump of modeling clay. While the psychiatrists were taking the strait jacket off Thaddeus in the staff car outside, Colonel Thurgood spoke to the weary Miss Abercrombie. \"Now you're positive this is just about the same amount and the same hospital,\" she replied, \"and it's the same amount.\" Thurgood signaled to the doctors and they entered the shack with Thaddeus Funston between them. The colonel nudged Miss Abercrombie. She smiled at Funston. \"Now isn't this nice, Mr. Funston,\" she said. \"These nice men have one you made for me yesterday.\" A flicker of interest lightened Thaddeus' face. He looked around the parts that were dropped almost aimlessly into the open hemisphere in front of him. Miss Abercrombie stood at his shoulder as Thaddeus hunched over the table just as he had done the previous day. From time to time she glanced at her watch. The maze of clay strips grew and as Funston \"Time to go back now, Mr. Funston. You can work some more tomorrow.\" She looked at the men and nodded her head. The two psychiatrists went to Thaddeus' side as he put the upper lid of clay carefully in place. Funston stood up and the doctors escorted him from the shack. and photographed it from every angle. Then they left for the concrete observatory bunker, several miles down range where Thaddeus and the psychiatrists waited inside a ring of stony-faced military policemen. \"I told you this whole thing was asinine,\" Thurgood snarled as the scientific teams trooped into the bunker. Thaddeus Funston stared out over the heads of the MPs through the open door, looking uprange over the heat-shimmering desert. He gave a sudden cry, shut his eyes and clapped his hands over his face. the dim interior of the bunker and the pneumatically-operated door slammed shut just before the wave of the blast hit the structure. Six hours and a jet plane trip later, Thaddeus, once again in his strait jacket, sat between his armed escorts in a small room in the Pentagon. Through the window he could see the hurried bustle of traffic over the Potomac and beyond, the domed roof of the Capitol. In the conference room next door, the joint chiefs of staff were closeted with a gray-faced and bone-weary Colonel Thurgood and his baker's dozen of AEC brains. Scraps of the hot and scornful talk drifted across a half-opened transom into the room where Thaddeus Funston sat in a neatly-tied bundle. In the conference room, a red-faced, four-star general cast a chilling In the next room, Thaddeus Funston stared out over the sweeping panorama of the Washington landscape. He stared hard.\n\n<question>:\nWho is Miss Abercrombie\n\n<options>:\nA An art teacher brought in to supervise activity time at the institution\nB A government agent keeping tabs on the people at the mental institution under the guise of a therapist\nC A therapist who specializes in hand- and joint-related activities\nD One of the therapists personally appointed to keep an eye on Thaddeus\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>:\neBabe This week, soft-porn entrepreneur Ron Harris began auctioning the eggs of fashion models on the Internet. His site, ronsangels.com (named after the 1970s' babe show Charlie's Angels ), invites visitors to \"bid on eggs from beautiful, healthy and intelligent women.\" Like Dr. Richard Seed, who recently declared his intention to clone human beings, Harris has attracted the attention of the media and politicians who are \"looking into\" whether he can be stopped. Most people agree that Harris is a creep and that his site is an outrage. What they don't agree on is why. Here's what the critics have to say about the auction--and each other. 1. Egg auctions will produce designer babies. Harris cites his experience as a horse breeder and asks, \"We bid for everything else in this society--why not eggs?\" Alarmists, agreeing that Harris \"can put you into your own designer baby by selling eggs,\" predict that his success will steer \"the future of human breeding\" toward \"genetic engineering.\" 2. Egg auctions will fail to produce designer babies. While fretting about what will happen if Harris succeeds, fertility experts simultaneously debunk that scenario. \"Not only is it ethically ludicrous, but the fact is, no kid's going to look like the model's picture,\" observes ethicist George Annas. The experts give four reasons. First, the child of an ugly man and a pretty woman is just as likely to be ugly as to be pretty. Second, everyone carries \"recessive\" genes, which are invisible in this generation but may become visible in the next. A model with a small nose can pass on genes for a big nose. Third, even if both parents are attractive, a child can combine their features unattractively. For example, a girl can inherit her mother's weak nose and her father's strong brow. 4. Egg auctions will promote the survival of the unfittest. Harris writes that only men with \"substantial financial resources\" are fit to give his models' offspring \"a financially secure and stable life.\" But skeptics wonder whether women who sell their eggs to the highest bidder--and men who buy these eggs for the sole purpose of spawning good-looking children--may produce children just as dysfunctional as themselves. As Calgary Sun columnist Sydney Sharpe put it, \"Any woman ... who enters into this mephistophelian pact has a few screws loose. Maybe her kid will, too. Not to mention the buyers who sign her up.\" 5. Egg auctions will fail to promote the survival of the unfittest. Many models, if not most, have had cosmetic surgery. A model who is perfectly ruthless will conceal this fact when selling her eggs. (One of Harris' \"angels\" has already been caught lying about her age.) How does Harris know whether his models have had collagen injections and nose jobs? \"There's no way to know that. You can ask the girl and hope she tells you the truth,\" he says. Annas concludes that since there's \"no way to know how much of their beauty is a product of their genes, plastic surgery, a makeup artist, or exercise,\" only a \"naive\" person would buy their eggs on the basis of the photographs displayed on the site. \"You don't want to see the models,\" he points out. \"You want to see pictures of their parents.\" On this theory, children produced by the egg auction are likely to be the offspring of liars on one side and fools on the other. 6. Beauty doesn't convey health. Harris casually asserts that beauty \"shows healthiness and longevity.\" On his site, he writes, \" 'Natural Selection' is choosing genes that are healthy and beautiful.\" Skeptics question this assumed equivalence, noting that traits men find attractive in women these days--thinness, for example--are often unhealthy. When asked on the Today show how much \"medical screening\" he has given his egg donors, Harris answered, \"None.\" 7. Beauty is less meaningful than intelligence. Harris says he's not the first person to market good genes. Others, he notes, have sold sperm and solicited eggs on the basis of the donor's intelligence. Harris' detractors reply that beauty is \"superficial\" and conveys a \"harmful preoccupation with exterior appearances over intelligence and content of character.\" This critique is usually offered by a blow-dried TV interviewer who, after thanking Harris for his time, urges viewers to stay tuned for the movie starlet who will join the program after a brief commercial break. 10. The auction exploits desperate sellers. By late Monday, Harris had only a handful of bids, and only one was verified as legitimate. On the other hand, 50 women had asked him to put their eggs up for auction. Gradually, the media concluded that the donors were the true victims. USA Today described the models as \"struggling actresses,\" reported that they were unaware of the health risks of donating eggs, and quoted one as saying, \"I'd rather do this than do Playboy or Penthouse .\" Harris' sole verified bidder told the paper that selling eggs was \"better than prostitution.\" Harris constantly refers to the donors as his \"girls\" and describes them like cattle--\"We have a legitimate bid of $42,000 on one of the girls.\" He gets a 20 percent commission on each winning bid, though he takes no responsibility for executing financial transactions or medical procedures. \"We have no control over the quality, safety or legality of the items advertised, the truth or accuracy of the listings, the ability of sellers to sell items or the ability of buyers to buy items,\" he stipulates. His role, he explains, is simply to \"find beautiful girls, take beautiful photographs of them, [and] put them up on the Web.\" To some critics, the mystery isn't, as Harris suggests, how women throughout history have exploited their sexual power over men, but how pimps like him have come away with the profit. 11. The auction exploits voyeurs. The Washington Post thinks Harris isn't targeting either buyers or sellers. He's not serious about selling eggs, says the Post . He's just using the sex appeal of his models and the intriguing perversity of a human egg auction to drum up publicity and attract Internet traffic to his site, from which he can sell advertising and subscriptions ($24.95 a month to view profiles of the models), hawk his forthcoming book ( Naked Power ), and direct prurient visitors to his various porn sites. A spokesman for fertility doctors suspects that ronsangels.com is really aimed at \"adolescent boys.\" 14. Egg buyers will reap unintended consequences. Sophisticated skeptics point out that Harris' application of Darwin's theories to human professional success overlooks the interaction of genetics and human psychology. To begin with, if a child produced by Harris' auction fails to turn out as pretty as the buyer expected, the buyer may shun the child, or the child may grow to hate herself for disappointing her parents. (On the Today show, Harris said of this theory, \"That's a pretty cynical view of human nature.\") Second, if the child turns out pretty but doesn't want to be a beauty queen, her parents may force her in that direction anyway, thereby stifling her true talents and preventing her from becoming successful. Third, the child's good looks may attract too much attention of the wrong kind, eventually destroying her. Critics cite Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe as examples.\n\n<question>:\nWhy are the children produced by the egg auction likely to be the offspring of liars and fools?\n\n<options>:\nA Harris didn't verify the medical histories of the models. They could have lied on their donation forms. Only fools would buy human eggs from a man such as Harris.\nB Most models have had cosmetic surgery. Only fools would buy eggs based on internet photos.\nC Harris advertised that the eggs came from intelligent women, but he didn't verify their IQs. Only fools would buy human eggs from a man who sells pornography.\nD Some models lied about their ages. Only fools would buy eggs\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>:\nHere's why you should ask for a \"Feetch M-D\" next time Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] \"Feetch!\" grated Ogden Piltdon, president of the Piltdon Opener Company, slamming the drafting board with his hairy fist, \"I want results!\" \"But Mr. Piltdon,\" remonstrated Feetch unsteadily under his employer's \"For two years there hasn't been one lousy improvement in the Piltdon Feetch adjusted his spectacles with shaking hands. \"But Mr. Piltdon, dignity....\" \"Dignity,\" pronounced Piltdon, \"is for museums. Four months, Feetch! stronger, flashier and more musical than any other on the market. I want it completely developed, engineered and tooled-up, ready for production. Otherwise, Feetch—\" Feetch's body twitched. \"But Mr. Piltdon, four months is hardly time enough for development, even with an adequate staff. I've been trying thought Feetch. Twenty-five years of close supervision, dead-lines, production headaches, inadequate facilities and assistance. What had happened, to the proud dream he once had, the dream of exploring Ah, well, thought Feetch straightening his thin shoulders, he had managed somehow to design a few good things during his twenty-five years with Piltdon. That was some satisfaction. beginning to wonder if the answer is in the hand mechanical type at all.\" \"Got to be,\" answered Feetch tiredly. \"We must work along classical have no complaints. Although,\" a wistful note crept into his voice \"I would have liked a little recognition. Piltdon is a household word, but who has heard of Feetch? Well,\"—Feetch blew his nose—\"how do we two in work. Best performance, four point four, but model otherwise unsatisfactory.\" \"Hello,\" said Feetch as an aproned machinist entered carrying a glistening mechanism. \"Here's another model. Let's try it.\" The \"I'll risk that. Not a word to Piltdon.\" Several days later, however, Piltdon himself charged into the drawing room and slapped Feetch heartily on the back, causing him to break a pencil point. \"Feetch!\" roared Piltdon. \"Is this talk that's going \"Mr. Piltdon—\" said Feetch shakily. Piltdon stared at his chief engineer sharply. \"What's the matter, Feetch? The thing can be duplicated, can't it?\" \"Yes, sir. I've just finished checking that. But I'm in the midst of further investigation of the effect. There's more here than just a new engineers. Find out where the cans go. Put out a scientific paper on the effect.\" \"Feetch,\" bit out Piltdon, his face growing hard. \"Stow this hooey. I don't give a damn where the cans go. May I remind you that under our standard patent agreement, all rights to your invention belong to the explanation. Competitors found the patent impossible to circumvent, for any departure from its exact specifications nullified the effect. Piltdon, genial these days with success and acclaim, roared at Feetch: That's almost four dollars a week, man.\" \"Thank you, Mr. Piltdon.\" And still, thought Feetch wryly, he received no recognition. His name did not even appear on the patent. Well, nights at home investigating what had been named the Piltdon Effect. As soon as he could get hold of Piltdon, Feetch said trembling, \"Sir, I Feetch?\" That night, at six-ten p.m., the Borenchuck family of Selby, South Dakota, sat down to their evening meal. Just as they started in on the bodily injury. Lawsuits were filed against him. He barricaded himself in the plant, surrounded by bodyguards. Livid with fury and apprehension, he screamed at Feetch, \"This is your \"You're through, Feetch!\" raved Piltdon. \"Fired! Get out! But before you go, I want you to know that I've directed the blame where it belongs. I've just released to the press the truth about who created Klunk! A barrage of cans hit the floor, and both men took refuge under Piltdon's huge desk. \"No!\" yelled Piltdon at Feetch's face which was inches away. \"No, I——What did you say?\" \"A small design improvement sir, and the cans would disappear forever.\" Klunk! \"Forever, Feetch?\" \"Yes sir.\" Klunk! Klunk! \"You're positive, Feetch?\" Piltdon's eyes glared into Feetch's. production, at once, Feetch.\" Feetch felt himself sag inwardly. \"Mr. Piltdon,\" he said. \"I'm asking only one favor. Let me work full time on research and development, especially on the Piltdon effect. Hire a couple of extra men to help your job back, didn't you?\" The prospect of long years of heavy production schedules, restricted engineering and tight supervision suddenly made Kalvin Feetch feel very tired. Research, he thought. Development. What he had always \"Feetch!\" howled Piltdon. \"I order you to remain!\" Feetch almost submitted from force of habit. He hesitated for a moment, then turned abruptly. the inconvenience and losses caused by the deluge. It was not anxious to hire the man it regarded as responsible for the whole thing. \"Feetch,\" the personnel man would read. \"Kalvin Feetch.\" Then, looking up, \"Not the Kalvin Feetch who—\" \"Yes,\" Feetch would admit miserably. Piltdon, Feetch thought, feeling a strange sensation deep within his could he? Everything patentable in his work would automatically revert to Piltdon under the one year clause in the company patent agreement. No, Feetch told himself, he was revealing nothing that Piltdon might grab. The anger began to mount. \"I'll go up another ten dollars,\" grated the little Piltdon image. Feetch. I know you can't find work anywhere else.\" \"Thanks to you. Mr. Piltdon, I wouldn't work for you if—\" A barrage of rocks crashed against the heavy steel screening of the the rocks, the tomatoes, the rotten eggs, the sneaking out at night, have families too. Think of the men in the shop, the girls in the office, the salesmen on the road. All, all unemployed because of you. Think of that, Feetch.\" Feetch blinked. This had not occurred to him. over, Feetch.\" Feetch sat, thinking it over. Was it right to let all these people lose figured the Super-Opener can solve this.\" Feetch hung up. A glow of anger that had been building up in his chest grew warmer. He began pacing the floor. How he hated to do it. Think, Hanson had said. But he had. He's considered every angle, and there was no solution. Feetch walked into the kitchen and carefully poured himself a drink of water. He drank the water slowly and placed the glass on the washstand with a tiny click. It was the tiny click that did it. Something about the members of the press. \"Gentlemen,\" he said. \"I'll make it brief.\" He waved the papers in his hand. \"Here is everything I know about what I call the Feetch Effect, including plans and specifications for the New Type Super-Opener. All of you have special reasons for being keenly interested in this Piltdon leaped from his chair. \"Outrageous!\" He roared. \"Ridiculous!\" be a party to this?\" \"Well,\" murmured the Government man, \"I never did think Feetch got a fair shake.\" \"Mr Feetch—\" said Piltdon. Feetch looked up from his desk in the newly constructed Feetch Multi-Dimensional Development Division of the Piltdon Opener Company. \"Piltdon, don't bother me about production. Production is your problem.\" \"But Mr. Feetch—\" \"Get out,\" said Feetch. Piltdon blanched and left.\n\n<question>:\nHow did Piltdon feel about Feetch throughout most of the story?\n\n<options>:\nA He thought Feetch was brilliant\nB Feetch deserved credit for his work\nC Feetch was making more money than he deserved\nD Feetch was just another worker to control\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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297 | 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>:\nRetief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew \"All right, Mr. Councillor,\" Retief said. \"I'll play along finger. \"Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by \"Is that all?\" Retief said. \"You've still got two fingers sticking up.\" \"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this \"I'll carry it, sealed,\" Retief said. \"That way nobody can sweat it out situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is \"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The every other man is a mechanic of Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets Retief stood up. \"If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.\" \"They'll never guess,\" Retief said. \"I'll pose as a gentleman.\" \"You're right,\" Retief said. \"If I work at it, I might manage a Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the Retief from the corner of his eye. Retief glanced at him. \"If I have to come around this counter,\" Retief said, \"I'll feed that Retief looked at him. Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over. Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a \"Up there.\" The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall, \"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out.\" He rolled a cold eye at Retief as \"We'll see about you, mister.\" The man turned and went out. Retief Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The \"If you'll excuse me,\" Retief said, \"I want to catch a nap.\" He flipped Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a stared at Retief. \"When you can spare the time from your other duties,\" Retief said, Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief. Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk. \"Close the door as you leave,\" Retief said. Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned glances Retief's way. Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed up with mushrooms and garlic butter. \"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, look at a man like he was a worm.\" \"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the You like brandy in yer coffee?\" \"Chip, you're a genius.\" \"Like to see a feller eat,\" Chip said. \"I gotta go now. If you need anything, holler.\" Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up. The thug squinted at Retief. \"A wise hick,\" he began. Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed. bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough.\" Mr. Tony found his voice. \"Take him, Marbles!\" he growled. Retief heard the panel open beside him. \"Thanks, Chip,\" Retief said. \"I won't need it for these punks.\" Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol \"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you,\" Retief said. 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 \"I usta be about your size, when I was your age,\" Chip said. \"You handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day.\" \"I'll think of something,\" Retief said. \"This is shaping up into one of \"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?\" \"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.\" Retief looked at him questioningly. knock shook the door. \"They got to look you over,\" Chip whispered. \"Nosy damn Sweaties.\" \"Unlock it, Chip.\" The chef opened the door. 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 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.\" \"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts.\" \"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.\" \"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.\" Chip looked at Retief. \"You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much. You didn't come out here for fun, did you?\" \"That,\" Retief said, \"would be a hard one to answer.\" Retief awoke at a tap on his door. \"It's me, Mister. Chip.\" \"Come on in.\" The chef entered the room, locking the door. then turned to Retief. \"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 Retief sat up and reached for a cigar. Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain \"Power Section, this is the captain,\" he said. Retief reached across \"And one to go,\" Retief said. \"Tell him.\" \"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley hoods.\" \"You can't put it over, hick.\" Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door. \"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with a sick friend.\" Retief settled himself in a chair. Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.\n\n<question>:\nHow does Retief navigate his problems with most people?\n\n<options>:\nA His status working for Magan earns him respect with people, and he uses this to his advantage.\nB He is a good negotiator, as shown when he gets the captain to maintain the course.\nC Aggression and intimidation are his main means of negotiation in most situations.\nD He gets people to like him, much in the way he wins Chip over.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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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>:\nThe man with the handkerchief mask said, \"All right, everybody, keep tight. This is a holdup.\" There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall at his desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger. There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic named in the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels, withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were three bank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, they all wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers, brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs third one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walked quickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it with money. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall and the customers all over against the back wall, while the second man stayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed money into the black satchel. The man by the door said, \"Hurry up.\" out the front door and running down the street toward the police station in the next block, shouting, \"Help! Help! Robbery!\" The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel came running around from behind the counter, and the man by the door tried floor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front, in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine. Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch. Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars came driving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank, and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb and drove straight down the street toward the police station. The police cars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shooting like the ships in pirate movies. There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robbers were going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrong way and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clear path behind them. Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenly started jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. And all the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robbers when they crawled dazedly out of their car. operation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to their getaway car, you know what I mean?\" Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. \"They always slip up,\" he said. \"Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up.\" \"Yes, but their tires .\" \"Well,\" said Pauling, \"it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbed tires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't enough to melt your tires down.\" \"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,\" suggested Pauling. \"They picked the wrong car to steal.\" \"And that doesn't make sense, either,\" said Stevenson. \"Why steal a block away.\" \"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car,\" said Pauling. \"For a well-planned operation like this one,\" said Stevenson, \"they made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense.\" stolen almost immediately after it happened.\" \"That's right,\" said Hastings. \"I stepped into a bar on my route. I'm a wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my car was gone.\" \"You left the keys in it?\" \"Well, why not?\" demanded Hastings belligerently. \"If I'm making just a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one customer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?\" \"The car was stolen,\" Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. \"It's always been perfectly safe up till now.\" Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. \"It's ruined!\" he cried. \"What did you do to the tires?\" There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! What \"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car.\" \"It wasn't a bunch of kids,\" Stevenson told him. \"It was four professional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it in a bank holdup.\" \"Then why did they do that the trunk lid. \"I really don't know,\" he said. \"It wasn't there before the car was stolen?\" \"Of course not!\" Stevenson frowned. \"Now, why in the world did they do that?\" The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpion fights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avenging Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS! didn't rate a line in the paper. II The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn man went berserk. It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near Jamaica third time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home, brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand. out the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting, \"Murder! Murder!\" At this point, neighbors called the police. One \"I'm not sure,\" admitted Stevenson. \"But we've got these two things. First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt for what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?\" trunk?\" \"How do I know?\" demanded the captain. \"Kids put it on before the car was stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows? What do they say?\" \"They say they didn't do it,\" said Stevenson. \"And they say they never saw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd been there.\" The captain shook his head. \"I don't get it,\" he admitted. \"What are guess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and made desperately. \"How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do these things happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and they write 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happens all the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?\" same place, and forgotten. III The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but no pistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winner \"Hey, Eddie!\" shouted one of the other kids. \"Eddie, come back!\" Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chase the one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them would come running along after her. She didn't know what to do. A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems. And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had to pull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were later something,\" said Hanks severely. \"They heard the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it but weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over the\n\n<question>:\nWhat would have likely happened if the bank robbers' car tires had not melted?\n\n<options>:\nA The car would have wrecked regardless and the robbers would have been caught.\nB The police would have stopped them in a chase.\nC The robbers would have gotten away from the scene.\nD The robbers would have later returned to rob the bank again and get caught.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
1,813 | 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>:\nSTAR MOTHER By ROBERT F. YOUNG A touching story of the most enduring love in all eternity. That night her son was the first star. She stood motionless in the garden, one hand pressed against her heart, watching him rise and she wondered whether he was thinking he was thinking of her standing alone in the April night with her memories whether he was thinking of the verandahed house behind her, with its empty rooms and silent halls, that once upon a time had been his birthplace. and disappeared from sight. A round and round the world on a celestial carousel, encased in an airtight metal capsule in an Why don't they leave the stars came early the next morning: Expect to bring your son down sometime tomorrow . usual, collecting the eggs and allocating them in their cardboard boxes, then setting off in the station wagon on her Tuesday morning run. She had expected a deluge of questions from her customers. She was not disappointed. \"Is Terry really way up there all alone, Martha?\" \"Aren't you scared , Martha?\" \"I do hope they can get him back down all right, Martha.\" She supposed it must have given them quite a turn to have their egg woman change into a star mother overnight. She hadn't expected the TV interview, though, and she would have avoided it if it had been politely possible. But what could she do when the line of cars and the technicians got out and started setting up their equipment in the backyard? What could she Terry, as was fitting. From the way the suave young man asked them, though, she got whenever she opened her mouth or how difficult it had been for him to make friends because of his shyness, or the fact that he she started to mention haste to interrupt her and to twist her words, by requestioning, into a different meaning altogether, till Terry's behavior pattern seemed to coincide with the behavior pattern which the suave young man apparently considered the norm, but which, if followed, Martha was sure, would produce not young men bent on exploring space but trivia. A few of the questions concerned herself: Was Terry her only child? (\"Yes.\") What had happened to her husband? (\"He was killed in the Korean War.\") What did she think of the new law granting star mothers top priority on any and all information similar humanity toward the war mothers of World War II.\") It was late in the afternoon by the time the TV crew got everything repacked into their cars and trucks and made their departure. Martha fixed herself a light supper, then donned an old suede jacket of Terry's and went out into the garden to wait for the sun to go down. According to the time table the general had outlined in his first telegram, Terry's first Tuesday night passage wasn't due to occur till 9:05. But it seemed only right that she should be outside when the stars started to come out. Presently they did, and she watched them wink on, one by one, in the deepening darkness of the sky. She'd never been most of her life she'd been much too busy on Earth to bother with when she was much sometimes and once in a while, But this was different. It was different because now she had when you kept looking at them! They seemed to come alive, almost, pulsing brilliantly down out of the blackness of the night ... And they were different colors, too, she noticed with a start. ... green ... orange ... and she could see her breath. There was a strange crispness, a strange clarity about the night, that she had never known before ... She glanced at her watch, was astonished to see that the hands indicated two minutes after nine. Where had the time gone? Tremulously she faced the southern horizon ... and saw her Terry appear in his shining chariot, riding up the star-pebbled his own right, dropping swiftly now, down, down, and out of sight beyond the dark wheeling mass of the Earth ... She took a deep, proud breath, realized that she was wildly waving her hand and let it fall slowly to her him pleasant dreams and a safe return and wrapped the wish in all her love and cast it starward. Sometime tomorrow, the general's telegram had said— That meant sometime today! She rose with the sun and fed the chickens, fixed and ate her breakfast, collected the eggs and put them in their cardboard boxes, then started out on her Wednesday morning run. \"My land, Martha, I don't see how you stand it with him way up there! Doesn't it get on your nerves ?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it does.\") \"Martha, when are they bringing him back down?\" (\"Today ... Today !\") \"It must be wonderful being a star mother, Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a way.\") Wonderful ... and terrible. If only he can last it out for a few more hours, she thought. If only they can bring him down safe and sound. Then the vigil will be over, and some other mother can take over the awesome responsibility of having a son become a star— If only ... arrived that afternoon: Regret to inform you that meteorite impact on satellite hull severely damaged capsule-detachment mechanism, making ejection impossible. Will make every effort to find another means of accomplishing your son's return. Terry!— See the little boy playing beneath wind— Terry!— Up the lane the blue-denimed the falling in the hazy September air— Terry ... —probably won't get a chance to write you again before take-off, but don't worry, Ma. The Explorer XII it, and the odds are a million to one ... Why don't they leave the stars alone? Why don't they leave the stars to God? The afternoon shadows lengthened grew red and swollen over the western hills. Martha fixed supper, tried to eat, and couldn't. After a while, when the light began to fade, she slipped into Terry's jacket and went outside. Slowly the sky darkened and the stars began to appear. At her star appeared, but its swift passage blurred before her washed the darkness from the drive. A car door slammed. Martha did not move. Please God , she thought, let it be Terry , even though she knew that it couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps sounded behind her, paused. Someone coughed softly. She \"Good evening, ma'am.\" she saw the she saw the dark tired eyes. And she knew. Even before he spoke again, she knew— \"The same meteorite that damaged the ejection mechanism, ma'am. It penetrated the capsule, too. We didn't find out till just a while ago—but there was nothing we could have done anyway ... Are you all right, ma'am?\" \"Yes. I'm all right.\" \"I wanted to express my regrets personally. I know how you must feel.\" \"It's all right.\" \"We will, of course, make every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so that he can have a fitting burial on Earth.\" \"No,\" she said. \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\" She raised her eyes to the patch of sky where her son had passed in his shining metal sarcophagus. Sirius blossomed there, blue-white and beautiful. She raised her eyes still higher—and of Orion with its central motif of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung blooms of Betelguese and Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ... And higher yet—and there burgeoned the riotous wreath of the Crab there lay the pulsing \"No,\" she said again. The general had raised his eyes, too now, slowly, he lowered them. \"I think I understand, ma'am. And I'm glad that's the way you want it ... are beautiful tonight, aren't they.\" \"More beautiful than they've ever been,\" she said. After the general had gone, she looked up once more at the vast and variegated garden of the sky where her son lay buried, then she turned and walked slowly back to the memoried house. THE END\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Martha seem so calm when Terry's death is confirmed?\n\n<options>:\nA Martha made peace with Terry's death in the hours since the general's last telegram.\nB After communing with the stars in the afternoon, Martha realizes that this is the way Terry would want to go.\nC Martha is very angry with the general and is doing everything in her power to not yell at him.\nD Martha is in shock. The reality of Terry's death has yet to set in.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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2,193 | 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 JERRY SOHL Smith admitted he had made an error involving a few HB73782. Ultroom error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer new handler. But this did not deter Joe. He started off with the child. heels. \"I tell you, the man said he was my brother and he made me think he was,\" Nancy told her husband for the tenth time. \"I don't even have a brother.\" They found Reggie peacefully asleep in his crib in his room upstairs. hundred dollars, that's all.\" \"What do you do?\" \"Fine.\" \"And your wife?\" \"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 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,\" \"Those bodies,\" the sergeant said. \"Would you mind pointing them out to me, please?\" \"Aren't they—aren't they on the walk?\" Mrs. Laughton asked. \"But there must \"Yes, I know, Mrs. Laughton. We've been through that.\" The sergeant went to the door and opened it. \"Say, Homer, take another look around the walk and the bushes. There's supposed to be two of them. Shot with a .30-.30.\" He turned and picked up the gun and examined it again. \"Ever shoot a guy carrying your baby, don't you think?\" \"I shot him in the legs. The other—the other turned and I shot him in and sunshine.\" \"I'm not going to sit on the lawn alone with him, Martin. I just \"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 was familiar with what had happened to the Laughtons and she agreed to gurgled with delight at the change in environment. This peaceful scene was disturbed by a speeding car in which two men the child and mother. Reggie, attracted by the sudden noise, looked up to see the approaching vehicle. His mother stood up, set her palms in the chest. Since the scars are healed it obviously couldn't be the same man. But there's a real coincidence for you. And speaking of the \"The men . You'll remember, there were two. No, we never found a 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 with .30-.30?\" The state attorney shook his head. \"I wouldn't be here if I had.\" \"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. mine. There are a lot of angles to this case none of us understand. It looks deliberate, but where's the motive?\" \"Well, if Dr. Stone says he's normal, that's enough for me.\" The prosecutor was silent for a moment. Then, \"How about the husband?\" \"Laughton? We're afraid to let him see him. All broken up. No telling Arvid 6—for John Smith was Arvid 6—had lain in that position for Arvid 6 knew Tendal 13 had materialized and was somewhere in the \"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 here.\" \"I'm really if it hadn't. But to unnecessarily kill—\" The older man shook his 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 I was sorry for you, because someone older and more experienced than you was needed. I volunteered. Imagine that! I volunteered! Tendal 13 reaches the height of stupidity and volunteers to help Arvid 6 go back 6,000 years to bring Kanad back, to correct a mistake Arvid 6 made!\" 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 Mycenae when you let the lion escape the hunters' quaint spears and we with them. If that's adventure, you can have it.\" Tendal 13 sat down wearily and sank his head in his hands. \"It was you who conceived the 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 hole in your back. We were both nearly obliterated that time and we didn't even come close to getting the child. \"Still you wanted to run the whole show. 'I'm younger than you,' you 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.\" Tendal 13 turned and looked steadily and directly at Arvid 6. \"Do you 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 13 asked. 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.\" \"And you amused yourself with him.\" \"I suppose you'd think so.\" \"Who do you tell them you are?\" through a million years.\" Tendal 13 shook his head. \"I haven't heard. The transfers are getting 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 last jump was 342 years, a little more than average. The next ought to be around 2250. Things will be more difficult than ever there, probably.\" \"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 sending him back beyond his original birth date—\" Tendal 13 got up and commenced his pacing again. \"Oh, I suppose Kanad's partly to blame, wanting rejuvenating at only 300 years. Some have waited a 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 Hemisphere B, Quadrant 3, Sector I. Arrive his 329th Day. Arvid 6 rose from the cot and the two men faced each other. \"Before we leave, Arvid,\" Tendal 13 started to say. \"I hope I can count on that.\" Tendal 13 rang the jail buzzer. Matthews,\" Tendal 13 told the jailer. \"Yes, I remember,\" the jailer said mechanically, letting them both out of the cell. Arvid 6, an amused set to his mouth and devilment in his eyes, watched Tendal 13 walked briskly through the door, snatched Arvid 6 by the shoulders and shook him. The jailer watched stupified as the two men vanished in the middle of a violent argument.\n\n<question>:\nHow many times did Tendal 13 and Arvid 6 go to the Laughton's home?\n\n<options>:\nA One\nB Four\nC Three\nD Two\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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2,162 | 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>:\nLane said, \"I can do that a on the problem. But Lane Lane is through now. He has with the help of his cybrain. fall, fall. Lock me up in barracks. computer in the sub-basement of the Court House. All I wanted was a will be able to outthink Lane's cybrain, will predict Lane's cops over like paper dolls, back at the Armory. The black dog was on Lane's back. Old Mayor himself was going \"Why don't they clear those this is Lane.\" \"Lane, this is Trooper Court House. Lane cursed ahead of time. They keep Troopers in the Armory and teach them how to fight. They don't teach them about their own city, that they'll be fighting for. There's no time. From seven years old up, Troopers have too much to learn about rasped into Lane's ear: fighting. against my orders! Now look Mars. You know, the Lane waited for the electronic brain to come up with the answer. planet. Sir, she told me we girl from Mars is right, Lane. The cybrain jolted an impulse through his spine. Lane \"I am, Lane.\" The voice of nerves. Lane's own mind was \"I'm sorry, Lane.\" Lane pressed the stud on far as I can see, you're the pane dissolved. Lane streamed Lane laughed. \"Any of them Lane dropped lightly to the landed on Mars, they found Martians can't afford Lane frowned with the effort Lane, still in a crouch, chewed \"Lane broke through the cordon Armory. Two policemen were killed, four others seriously injured. Tammany Hall has outguess Lane's cybrain and directly to the controls of the blaster cannon battery. It will him. Lane is an insane killer. He is armed with the latest military weapons. A built-in electronic brain controls his reflexes—\" \"You deserve it, Lane.\" said Lane, and a sheathed finger time.\" Lane looked at Gerri. \"How Lane strode to the window. dive out that window, they shoot at me, not in here.\" \"And kill you all the sooner.\" \"Better than getting burned up in this lousy little room. dangerous. Citizens Lane's mailed hand snapped side. There's too many damn are cautioned to keep clear of Lane glanced out the window. says stay here, but I don't \"But you're safe in here!\" \"Worry about yourself, not about me.\" Lane picked up the check his moves ahead of Lane, of the Newyork Special outa-town, girlie. I ain't seen a Newyork girl with yellow hair in years. Orange or at Lane, either. They were Which way now? Looks says fly right for the him. \"What the devil do you Go to hell, old cybrain. think you're doing, soldier? I Republic of Mars. This I'm gonna see him. Lane plunged forward. He \"I don't,\" said Lane, unconcerned. is an embassy, if you know what that means.\" That's the Martian flag, soldier. on the balcony—emergency! Years of training and cybrain took over. Lane's hand shot \"Who sent you?\" \"My cybrain sent me.\" Lane Lane stood for a moment in about on the 3V. Where's the \"No. No, you're in the wrong room. The wrong building. That's the Mayor's suite Mayor? Ain't this his place?\" Armory. \"Colonel Klett, sir. You said if we captured the city over there.\" She pointed. \"See where the balcony is? This is Lane. \"Cybrain didn't know, the Embassy suite. If you Lane no more than me.\" The girl noticed the dark want the Mayor you'll have to his dress uniform. First Newyork's new Military Protectorate, and honoring there had been a ceremony in Trooper Lane. Now there was From Mars. I'm on a side of Lane. \"Yeah? Mars a big city?\" stable, and Mars can negotiate Mars.\" \"Planet? Oh, planet Mars. gotta go by spaceship. What's takes time. I'm going back to Mars, and I think \"Gerri Kin. Look, Lane, next time. Nothing personal—I What are you trying to do?\" just don't like it Lane said, \"I'm going to Mars, too.\" \"Did she ask you to?\" demanded they'll send another ambassador Lane shook his head. \"She's Mars. It's healthy, like.\" perfect defense. But also the road to the return to city-states. Lane said, \"Yeah? Well, we Anarchy.\" do. We did the fighting for them. So we come back home to Newyork and they lock us up in the Armory. Won't pay us. Won't let us go nowhere. They had cops guarding us. Lane said, \"It wasn't so stupid Lane broke off. There was \"I just didn't want her to nosing toward the force-screen. Lane could read the military man, have always maintained—that the deadliest Lane, or we'll blast you out.\" weapon in man's arsenal \"This girl from Mars is here.\" is still, and will always be, the sir,\" said Lane. \"That's why individual soldier.\" \"I repeat, Lane—come out \"You can't,\" Lane called. Lane turned to the girl. \"I sir. I want to be a human \"I'm tired of being a weapon, you are too, to them. Mars is \"What do you mean?\" asked Colonel Klett. I'm leaving Newyork.\" \"Yeah, but—\" Lane shook being.\" END Work is the elimination of the traces of work. \"No deal, Lane. We're coming straight up, out of the line of Lane looked down at the Square. Far below, the long, gleaming barrel of a blaster cannon caught the dim light filtering down through Newyork's voices rose from below. Lane Lane looked across the that Gerri Kin had pointed out as the Mayor's suite. \"Lane is holding the Martian hostage. You can see the Martian blaster cannon. Lane's defense Lane grinned back at Gerri Why the hell didn't they give Cybrain said no. It said the to hell. Poor girl from Mars, have to pick my room? Why did they send me to this crazy city? Private soldiers. Twenty million people living under Earth is sick and it's going to kill me. What's going to happen?\" Lane looked sadly at her. he met one he liked? Now that if she was too good for him. quick,\" said Lane. \"I'm what I said?\" \"What's a letter?\" \"You don't know where Mars is. You don't know what a letter is. You probably can't Lane on the conversation disinterestedly, professionally relaxed before battle. \"What's these things I can't do? They important?\" \"Yes. The more I see of this city and its people, the more important I realize they are. You know how to fight, don't you? I'll bet you're perfect with those weapons.\" \"Listen. They been training me to fight since I was a little kid. Why shouldn't I be a great little fighter?\" \"Specialization,\" said the girl from Mars. \"What?\" \"Specialization. Everyone I've met in this city is a specialist. because they're not trained to do anything.\" \"The Fans,\" said Lane. down there, come to watch the fight.\" \"You know why you were kept in the Armory, Lane? I heard them talking about it, at the dinner I went to last \"Why?\" \"Because they're afraid of good a job out in Chi. You are the deadliest weapon that has Lane said, \"They told us in Trooper Academy that it's the safe from bombs. They learned to be self-sufficient under of security, when you infiltrated Chi and conquered it.\" afraid to let you have a furlough in the city when you risk trouble with Mars just to Lane jumped to the window, \"But just one. Gotcha, cybrain. that generated his protective Lane laughed boyishly and shattered to rubble. In and around the open space\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Lane want to go to Mars?\n\n<options>:\nA To fulfill a mission he has been assigned\nB To follow Gerri Kin, for love\nC To have a chance to make his own decisions\nD To learn more about a place that is not the Armory\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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584 | 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>:\nMercury, he was selling his guns into the weirdest of all his exploits—gambling his life against the soft touch of a woman's lips. , a tight-frocked, limber-hipped, red-head was singing \" The Lady from Mars .\" The song was a rollicking, ribald ditty, a favorite of the planters and miners, the space pilots and army officers who frequented the garden. The girl rendered it with such gusto that the audience burst into a roar of applause. She bent her head in acknowledgment so that her bronze red hair fell 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 his fingers lightly, automatically picked out the tune. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, plastered his white coat to his back. Without looking up, he said: \"Have you spotted him?\" His voice was pitched to reach the singer alone. The girl, with an almost imperceptible gesture, shook her head. The night was very hot men and women sitting at the tables drank heavily of Latonka, the pale green wine of Mercury. Only the native waiters, the enigmatic, yellow-eyed Mercurians, seemed unaffected by the heat. They didn't Up on the stage the singer was about to begin another number when she stiffened. \"Here he is,\" she said to the pianist without moving her lips. The pianist swung around on his stool, lifted his black eyes to the gate leading to the street. \"May I join you?\" she asked in a low voice. \"I did not want to call you in, Jaro Moynahan.\" It was the first time she had used his name. \"You have the reputation of being unpredictable. I don't trust you, but since....\" She stopped as the waiter placed glasses on the table and deftly poured compelling note. His eyes, light blue and amused, were pale against his brown face. The girl drew in her breath. a trifle oblique with straight brows. The pupils were a pale and penetrating blue that could probe like a surgeon's knife. Now he caught the girl's eyes and held them with his own as a man spears a fish. \"Why call me all the way from Mars for that? Why not have that gunman at the piano rub Hodes out?\" You've got to find him, Jaro. He's stirring up all Mercury.\" \"Why? What makes you think that?\" \"He was seen,\" she began, then stopped with a gasp. \"Red!\" said Jaro in a low voice. Latonka. The pale green wine had a delicate yet exhilarating taste. It made him think of cool green grapes beaded with dew. On the hot, 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, a thought struck Jaro. These yellow-eyed Mercurians could see as well Jaro shrugged, dismissed the waiter. He had not expected to get much heat of the sun. Beneath his feet, he knew, stretched a labyrinth of rooms and passages. Somewhere in those rat-runs was Karfial Hodes, the revolutionist, and the girl. then glanced around casually. His eyes fastened on Jaro. He licked his Jaro said nothing. He ignored the hand, waited, poised like a cat. of Miss Mikail has—ah—forced my hand.\" He paused. Jaro still said nothing. Miss Mikail must be the red-headed singer, whom at different times he had known under a dozen different aliases. He doubted that even she remembered her right name. \"Miss Mikail made you a proposition?\" Albert Peet's voice was tight. \"Yes,\" said Jaro. Jaro laughed. \"How did you know Red had been kidnapped?\" Jaro raised his eyebrows. \"Perhaps then you know where she is?\" A second rapping at the door caused them to exchange glances. Jaro went \"It's for you,\" said Jaro over his shoulder. Jaro lit a cigarette. He padded nervously back and forth across the Jaro returned to his room, stripped off his pajamas, climbed back into Jaro descended the incline to the network of burrows which served Jaro halted before a door bearing a placard which read: then quite clearly he heard Albert Peet say in a high girlish tone: through the door shutting it after himself. At the sight of Jaro \"What're you sneaking around here for?\" Jaro settled himself warily, his light blue eyes flicking over the \"Let's get this straight,\" he said mildly. \"I've known your kind before. Frankly, ever since I saw you I've had to repress a desire to step on you as I might a spider.\" The youth's black eyes were hot as coals, his fingers twitching. His anyone called a doctor? Where's Miss Webb? Miss Webb! Oh, Miss Webb! That girl. Miss Webb!\" right. She had straight black hair which hung not quite to her shoulders, and dark brown eyes, and enough of everything else to absorb Jaro's attention. \"Call a doctor, Miss Webb.\" Miss Webb raised an eyebrow, went to the visoscreen. In a moment she \"Oh,\" said Miss Webb, \"the offices of the Latonka Trust.\" \"Thank you,\" said Miss Webb. She flicked the machine off, then added: Mr. Peet regarded Jaro Moynahan with distress. \"Poor boy?\" said Jaro mildly. \"Venomous little rattlesnake. I took \"Here, Miss Webb,\" he said, \"do something with these. Put them in my Miss Webb's eyes grew round as marbles. \"I wouldn't touch one of those Jaro eyed him coldly as with his good hand the youth dropped the dart into my office. The doctor will be here in a moment. Miss Webb, you may Albert Peet led Stanley through the door. Jaro and Miss Webb were alone. With his eye on the door, Jaro said: Miss Webb raised her eyebrows. \"What's this? A new technique?\" \"Look,\" began Jaro annoyed. Jaro began again patiently. \"Wait for me in the first grog shop. \"Don't you find the heat rather uncomfortable, Miss Webb. But perhaps you've become accustomed to it.\" \"Why, no, I mean yes,\" replied Miss Webb, a blank expression in her \"Goodbye, Miss Webb,\" said Mr. Peet firmly. Jaro grinned and winked at her. Miss Webb tottered out of the room. Jaro said nothing. \"That's fair enough,\" replied Jaro. \"Sorry,\" said Jaro Jaro got up, keeping an eye on Albert Peet, brushed off his knees. Without answering, Jaro backed watchfully from the room. he grinned. At a corner table, a tall glass of Latonka before her, sat Miss Webb. \" said Jaro coming up behind her and poking a long brown finger Miss Webb uttered a shriek, jerked so violently that her hat tilted over one eye. She regarded him balefully from beneath the brim. Still grinning, Jaro sat down. \"I'm Jaro Moynahan, Miss Webb. I think \"Yes,\" replied Miss Webb sweetly. A native waiter, attracted no doubt by her scream, came over and took Jaro's order. \"All right,\" Jaro smiled, but his pale blue eyes probed the girl thoughtfully. \"I'll have to confide certain facts which might be dangerous for you to know. Are you game, Miss Webb?\" \"Since we're going to be so chummy,\" she replied \"you might begin by calling me Joan. You make me feel downright ancient.\" \"Score one,\" breathed Jaro, \"I begin to see light. Miss Webb—ah, happen to be Albert Peet's private secretary?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Jaro ask to meet Miss Webb?\n\n<options>:\nA He doesn't have anyone else to talk to\nB He wants to know what's really going on\nC He wants her to be an assassin\nD He found her attractive\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
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>:\nRetief gave them more of observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time \"How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?\" Retief inquired. beret from the clothes tree. \"I'm off now, Retief,\" he said. \"I hope fancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question the weeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.\" Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. The glancing at the Memo for Record. \"That's a sizable sublimation.\" Magnan nodded. \"The Bogans have launched no less than four military Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous. campaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums of the Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that \"Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,\" Magnan said. \"Our function is merely to bring them together. See that you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This will be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. \"What is it, Miss Furkle?\" \"This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,\" Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle's sight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and held Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair. the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own. Retief.\" we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time. \"It sounds like I've been missing something,\" said Retief. \"I'll have Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. \"Come Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork, you're doing it for strangers.\" \"Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy,\" Retief said. \"What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?\" \"Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. But who can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright, We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a big vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Then As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleague across the table. \"Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie. What are they getting?\" Whaffle blinked. \"You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, over at MUDDLE,\" he said. \"Properly speaking, equipment grants are the blinked at it. \"Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLE interested in MEDDLE's activities?\" \"Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped up earlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards over on—\" \"That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir,\" Whaffle cut in. \"I have sufficient problems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.\" off, briefcase under his arm. \"That's the trouble with peaceful worlds,\" the SCROUNGE committeeman said. \"Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is out Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode the \"I represent MUDDLE.\" Retief nodded. \"Might as well.\" wait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.\" \"Not this time,\" Retief said. He watched the students, still emerging Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle. \"Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are bound Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. \"I'm sure I've never pried into these details.\" \"Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle?\" Retief \"For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on Lovenbroy.\" \"Well!\" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows. never mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?\" \"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business,\" Miss Furkle said. \"Mr. Magnan always—\" Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left the \"Come along.\" Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-lit CROANIE (general).\" He paused at a page headed Industry. Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of \"Retief here, Corps HQ,\" he said airily. \"About the MEDDLE shipment, Retief waited. \"Ah ... are you there, Retief?\" \"It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—\" And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use the equipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—\" \"I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other four \"I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatic tradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as a gift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some scheme cooking—\" \"Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction.\" \"Retief, this is unwarranted interference!\" \"And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorized transshipment of grant material?\" \"Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Bogan representative.\" \"And when will they be shipped?\" \"Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any new applications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placement \"And where will they be going?\" \"Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job is to provide transportation.\" \"Will there be any other students embarking this season?\" \"Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business.\" Gulver looked at Retief with pursed lips. \"As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching another After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. \"I'd like to have a Miss Furkle compressed her lips. \"If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm sure he wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments. I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the Croanie Legation—\" \"The lists, Miss Furkle.\" The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. \"MUDDLE, Retief speaking....\" \"How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?\" In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. \"Sorry if I'm rushing you, Retief,\" he said. \"But have you got anything for me?\" Retief waved at the wine bottles. \"What do you know about Croanie?\" \"You on good terms with them?\" \"Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.\" \"So?\" \"Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here\n\n<question>:\nDuring the duration of the story, what is Retief’s function in MUDDLE?\n\n<options>:\nA He is taking a few weeks off and leaving his responsibility to Miss Furkle.\nB He is in total control of MUDDLE while Magnan is away.\nC He plays a rubber stamp function for the Libraries and Education division while Magnan is away.\nD He is put in charge of investigating the Croanie-Boge conspiracy.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
393 | 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\"This is open aggression, Retief,\" he said, \"in case I haven't made finger. \"Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by the Theory group.\" He wrestled a third finger down. \"Lastly \"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this Retief stood up. \"If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.\" \"They'll never guess,\" Retief said. \"I'll pose as a gentleman.\" Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the Retief from the corner of his eye. Retief glanced at him. \"If I have to come around this counter,\" Retief said, \"I'll feed that The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye, Retief looked at him. Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall, \"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 glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned. Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The \"If you'll excuse me,\" Retief said, \"I want to catch a nap.\" He flipped stared at Retief. Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief. Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk. 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 \"Close the door as you leave,\" Retief said. glances Retief's way. As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing. The thug squinted at Retief. \"A wise hick,\" he began. With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug 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 long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in. Retief heard the panel open beside him. a well-honed french knife lay on the sill. \"Thanks, Chip,\" Retief said. \"I won't need it for these punks.\" Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol 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 \"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!\" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at the man on the floor. \"Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the slob.\" up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room. \"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 sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was yer age.\" Retief looked at him questioningly. \"Okay,\" Retief said. \"I've seen it. You can take it away now.\" I'm tempted to test it.\" \"Don't start anything with Skaw he can clip through steel with those snappers.\" \"Last chance,\" Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien \"I told you he was brittle,\" Retief said. \"Next time you invite pirates \"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat,\" Retief said. \"Tell him to pass \"He's dead.\" The captain stared at Retief. \"We're all dead men,\" he \"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back. We know their secret now.\" \"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n,\" Chip said. \"Sweaties die easy that's the secret.\" \"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.\" \"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's Retief awoke at a tap on his door. then turned to Retief. \"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 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?\" \"Let go my hand, buster,\" the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the the mike and looked up at Retief. Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door. \"What are you going to do?\" the captain demanded. Retief settled himself in a chair. The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark. Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.\n\n<question>:\nWhat would have likely happened if Tony had attempted to apprehend and remove Retief himself?\n\n<options>:\nA He would see the same fate as the others who had stood against Retief\nB Retief would have backed off and accepted he was not welcome\nC Retief would have communicated with him and solved their issue\nD Tony would have won any kind of fight by using his weapon\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
1,144 | 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>:\nIn repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on a Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly good 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 lot more!\" \"It is impressive,\" admitted Taphetta. \"But I find it mildly \"That's because you're unique,\" said Halden. \"Outside of your own world, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, and that's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the sole exception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it's accidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of human development. \"Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around the Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. \"But I thought it was children—and they might be his. He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Were they all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slime toward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no, through —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward and commented Taphetta dryly. \"It seems an unnecessary simplification.\" 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 about himself.\" It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerous though not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization as high as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there were together—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could be Taphetta rustled. \"The math is accurate?\" Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. \"And you think that where the two Halden flushed the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburn was the most advanced human type present, but while there were 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 lower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. And Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. \"I had other \"I'm complimented that you like our contract so well,\" said Taphetta, 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 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 \"Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could do Use them.\" \"It's an animal,\" said Firmon. \"We tried poison and got a few, but now Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body, \"Neither do we.\" The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. \"What kind of creatures are they?\" Taphetta rustled. \"Have you found out how it got on?\" smarter?\" \"I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to be so hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait's \"That's what I don't like,\" said Taphetta, curling. \"Let me think it humans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypothetical ancestor?\" Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, but nonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised a stubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggy 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 \"Very large,\" agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he was \"A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life,\" mused Taphetta. \"But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why?\" \"Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different from ours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do know they were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, because they visited so many of that type, yet different from it because they never stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big and long-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found. Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planet they needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendously advanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germ plasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of us did.\" independently and those who did were scattered equally among early and late species. It's well known that individuals among my people are often as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole we don't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're as advanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in the Taphetta. atomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thing for non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actually aggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselves Taphetta changed his questioning. \"What do you expect to gain from this was required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educational institutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectual curiosity.\" \"No doubt,\" said Taphetta. \"An archeologist would be interested in achieved that only within the last thousand years.\" \"But I think we have a better one than they did,\" said the Ribboneer. \"There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics, but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?\" \"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.\" \"To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover as much as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don't Taphetta was wrong That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind of exactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled?\" \"The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don't have to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough, they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it.\" \"What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by a creature without real hands?\" \"That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—and they'll never get away from the trap to try.\" like the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think of marrying you.\" her own world. She had something else in mind. \"I don't think I will, though. We might have children.\" \"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. \"Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientific about it, he'd give you children of the higher type.\" like him and he wouldn't marry me.\" \"He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough. There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is NOT a similarity between Taphetta and the rest of the crew?\n\n<options>:\nA All of them are critical to the success of the mission\nB All of them are respected in their fields\nC All of them have a comparably good reputation\nD All of them are smart\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
1,702 | 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... After a Few Words ... by Seaton McKettrig Illustrated by Summer This is a science-fiction story. History is a science the other was the forward part of the column. Far ahead, he knew, were the Knights troops, just behind the men of Poitou. Sir Robert turned slightly in his the lion-hearted Richard of England— gleaming in the glaring desert sun, the lions of England on his firm-held shield, was the King himself. Sir Robert de Bouain twisted again in his saddle to look at the knight the sun. Sir Robert's lips formed a smile. \"They are not far off, Sir Gaeton. \"Like the jackals they are,\" said Sir Gaeton. \"They assail us from the face us in open battle.\" \"Is it fear, or are they merely gathering their forces?\" that Saladin has at hand more than enough to overcome us, were they all this Hellish heat that is driving me mad.\" He pointed toward the eastern hills. \"The sun is yet low, and already the heat is unbearable.\" Sir Robert heard his own laugh echo hollowly within his helmet. \"Perhaps 'twere better to be mad when the assault comes. Madmen fight better than men of cooler blood.\" He knew that the others were baking inside their heavy armor, although he himself was not too uncomfortable. your English and your King Richard of the Lion's Heart, but I am a Burgundy against King Richard—\" He gave a short, barking laugh. \"I of England.\" Sir Robert's voice came like a sword: steely, flat, cold, and sharp. \"My lord the King spoke in haste. He has reason to be bitter against Philip of France, as do we all. Philip has deserted the field. He has returned to remain with us.\" \"Richard of England has never been on the best of terms with Philip he spoke in haste.\" \"And you intervened,\" said Sir Gaeton. \"It was my duty.\" Sir Robert's voice was stubborn. \"Could we have permitted a quarrel to develop between the two finest knights and warleaders in Christendom at this crucial point? The desertion of Philip Sir Robert felt his jaw set firmly. \"My king knows I am loyal.\" showed that he felt that Richard of England might even doubt the loyalty of Sir Robert de Bouain. Sir Robert rode on in silence, feeling the movement of the horse beneath him. Sir Robert turned his horse to look. thousand anvils. \"Stand fast! Stand fast! Hold them off!\" It was the voice of King Richard, sounding like a clarion over the din of battle. Sir Robert felt his horse move, as though it were urging him on toward the battle, but his hand held to the reins, keeping the great charger in which hardly moved in the still desert air, now that the column had stopped moving. The voice of the Duke of Burgundy came to Sir Robert's ears. \"Stand fast. The King bids you all to stand fast,\" said the duke, his and the Knights Templars. The Master of the Hospitallers was speaking in a low, urgent voice to the King: \"My lord, we are pressed on by the enemy and in danger of \"Good Master,\" said Richard, \"it is you who must sustain their attack. No one can be everywhere at once.\" The Master of the Hospitallers nodded curtly and charged back into the fray. The King turned to Sir Baldwin de Carreo, who sat ahorse nearby, and A voice very close to Sir Robert said: \"Richard is right. If we go to the aid of the Hospitallers, we will expose the column to a flank attack.\" It was Sir Gaeton. \"My lord the King,\" Sir Robert heard his voice say, \"is right in all but one thing. If we allow the Egyptians to take us from the rear, there time. Are you with me?\" \"Against the orders of the King?\" \"The King cannot see everything! There are times when a man must use his own judgment! You said you were afraid of no man. Are you with me?\" After a moment's hesitation, Sir Gaeton couched his lance. \"I'm with you, sir knight! Live or die, I follow! Strike and strike hard!\" \"Forward then!\" Sir Robert heard himself shouting. \"Forward for St. George and for England!\" Sir Robert felt the shock against himself and his horse as the steel tip The Saracen, impaled on Sir Robert's lance, shot from the saddle as he now his body dragged it down as he dropped toward the desert sand. saber, taking advantage of Sir Robert's sagging lance. The Egyptian's curved sword clanged against Sir Robert's helm, setting Behind him, Sir Robert heard further cries of \"St. George and England!\" Sir Robert's own sword rose and fell, cutting and hacking at the enemy. He himself felt a dreamlike detachment, as though he were watching the battle rather than participating in it. Breathing heavily, Sir Robert sheathed his broadsword. Beside him, Sir Gaeton did the same, saying: \"It will be a few minutes before they can regroup, sir knight. We may have routed them completely.\" \"Aye. But King Richard will not approve of my breaking ranks and disobeying orders. I may win the battle and lose my head in the end.\" \"This is no time to worry about the future,\" said the Gascon. \"Rest for a moment and relax, that you may be the stronger later. Here—have an Old Kings .\" to Sir Robert. There were three cigarettes protruding from it, one slightly farther than the others. Sir Robert's hand reached out and took that one. \"Thanks. When the going gets rough, I really enjoy an Old Kings .\" lighter in Sir Gaeton's hand. are a man's cigarette.\" Sir Robert could feel the soothing smoke in his lungs as he inhaled deeply. any cigarette.\" is the only real cigarette when \"That's for sure.\" Sir Robert watched a smoke ring expand in the air. There was a sudden clash of arms off to their left. Sir Robert dropped King Richard, on seeing his army moving suddenly toward the harassed Sir Robert and Sir Gaeton spurred their chargers toward the flapping The fierce warrior-king of England, his mighty sword in hand, was Sir Robert lost all track of time. There was nothing to do but keep his isolated and alone, cut off from the rest of the Christian forces! He breastbone. Where was Sir Gaeton? Where were the others? Where was the And the great king, in spite of his prowess was outnumbered heavily and Without hesitation, Sir Robert plunged his horse toward the surrounded monarch, his great blade cutting a path before him. their hands full with Sir Robert de Bouain. over the inert body of the fallen king, hewing down the screaming enemy, but presently he heard the familiar cry of \"For St. George and for boiling around the embattled pair, forcing the Turks into retreat. And for the second time, Sir Robert found himself with no one to fight. And then a voice was saying: \"You have done well this day, sir knight. Richard Plantagenet will not forget.\" Sir Robert turned in his saddle to face the smiling king. \"My lord king, be assured that I would never forget my loyalty to my call.\" King Richard's gauntleted hand grasped his own. \"If it please God, I shall never ask your life. An earldom awaits you when we return to Robert took off his helmet. helmet had projected into his eyes, the studio seemed strangely cavelike. \"How'd you like it, Bob?\" asked one of the two producers of the show. Robert Bowen nodded briskly and patted the televike helmet. \"It was O.K.,\" he said. \"Good show. A little talky at the beginning, and it needs a better fade-out, but the action scenes were fine. The sponsor ought to like it—for a while, at least.\" \"What do you mean, 'for a while'?\" Robert Bowen sighed. \"If this thing goes on the air the way it is, he'll lose sales.\" \"Why? Commercial not good enough?\" \" Too , and, believe me, the real\n\n<question>:\nWhat is Robert's role in the story?\n\n<options>:\nA He is the representative from Old Kings\nB He is one of the producers of the show\nC He is there to test the virtual reality helmet\nD He is asked offer feedback on an episode\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>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl like He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for every No mixing. That was the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm in and once they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. The breakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had ever known. But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming to attractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got off disciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear and him to judge their cases. block guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench, and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when the don't care. I don't care!\" had managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omitted clearly the next step for her. What's she in for?\" violate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her, Cap'n. She's a figger-lover!\" anything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, and look what she had made of it. The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is no exception, but with the difference that his is the one species that creates its own environment in which to specialize. From the moment to the point of smaller contact and less communication between the most basic physical necessities—and not even always then. But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degree of civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregation of each specialization—social and genetic measures to make them breed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man, or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting the specializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laborer or Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized, would be good at no specialization. And the basis of this specialization society was: \"The aptitude groups are the true races of mankind.\" Putting it into law was only the legal enforcement of a demonstrable fact. \"Evening, Cap'n.\" A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight and O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted those There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was a perfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk, right that he should be proud of it. He was civil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content to do a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a a mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. loaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he was Civil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers that weren't meant to be— \" elsewhere it was called \"the hole,\" \"the snake pit,\" \"the Klondike.\" When you're in it, you don't much care what it is called it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. guard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was on the outside. The inside guard muttered: \"Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.\" The outside guard shrugged. \"Detail, The outside guard said sourly: \"A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Leary knows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others all riled up.\" could ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough, against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was a passed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urge to retch. \"We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling so as not to disturb the lady!\" He screeched with howling, maniacal laughter. \"Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble, Flock!\" don't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beat your head off!\" human , she told herself miserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards the satisfaction of hearing her—they were animals! Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedly that resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectly normal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion against the vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was good that system— But did they have to scream so? The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself to \"Trouble? What trouble?\" did you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ball in the yard. That's what recreation periods are for.\" \"You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on the don't mix it isn't natural. And there are other things.\" O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden that it didn't just as important as my job,\" he said piously. \" Everybody's job is just as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick to our own jobs. We don't want to try to that for the warden to talk to him? after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right?\" He was don't want to worry about end of running the prison. And want to worry about trouble coming up. I smell the signs.\" \"But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose—\" \"Well, then,\" he said at last. \"You just remember what I've told you what ? You're going to WHAT?\" thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe the happen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch that actuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prison rules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited the Greensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst case lovely term for it. Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbed rubber the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. grateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like an here, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some people realized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning. Almost like meat scorching. vain about it, even at times he had been known to boast of his ability Every time but this. was something that glinted and smoked. it had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame God had been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. \"All right,\" whispered Flock, \"just walk out the door and you won't get hurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tell him not to, you hear?\" himself real bad and he needs a doctor.\" He gestured playfully at the every limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds of impact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merely a street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasers relaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among the corrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipes and no one cared but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. \"Riot!\" querulously awake in her nursery at home. \"What in God's name is the use of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'd they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-such were the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took up\n\n<question>:\nWhat might the story be trying to point out?\n\n<options>:\nA A society of specialized people would be incredibly difficult to manage, and ultimately inefficient.\nB A society of specialized people would be incredibly difficult to manage, but worth it for the work that would get done.\nC People will always try to rebel against the system, no matter what form it's in.\nD It goes against human nature to try to segregate people, no matter how it's done.\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>:\nwho knew chevrolet were so woke i can't believe they did that, so amazing Hang on, are they taking about the same ad? Hastily she opens her FB TV app, pulls up the game. The ad is just finishing. She hits the 10-second rewind icon a couple of times, then leans the phone on its side against a ketchup bottle. \"You should have let us come pick you up.\" A large, child's rendition of the American flag. Text flashes across the screen. ALERT CANCELLED. ALL PATROLS: STAND DOWN Fade to black. Chevrolet logo. White text against black. \"Did you - did you watch it?\" \"The Chevrolet ad?\" \"Good flight?\" \"Yeah. Fine. Y'know. Same as always.\" \"I thought I was gonna come pick you up from the airport?\" \"Ah, no. I got a cab. I didn't want to bother you.\" \"Bother me? You think I'm too old and infirm to pick my own daughter up from the airport?\" \"No Dad, of course not.\" The war spills out of Fox News, casualty figures scrolling across monochrome drone footage, attack helicopters circling over Caracas apartment blocks, pundits with bronzed skin and immaculate blond hair smiling from four-way split screens. He grins back at her. \"Like Super Bowl ads?\" \"Yeah.\" \"So you just got a cab?\" \"How much did that cost?\" \"Cabs are expensive. You shouldn't be wasting your money.\" She laughs. \"I guess. But you know what I mean, really.\" \"One of those driverless things?\" \"I know honey. And I'm sorry too. I didn't mean what I said earlier. I know you don't really hate this country.\" He gestures to the couch next to him. \"Why don't you sit down, huh? We can watch the rest of the game together.\" Ad break. An elderly couple ride a tandem bicycle through a park, laughing and smiling in Instagram-perfect sunshine, as a calm, relaxing voice lists the potentially lethal side effects of a diabetes drug. \"What did I tell you? You two just needed to spend some time together. Some quality time.\" \"It wasn't expensive. It wasn't a cab, it was a Lyft.\" \"That's not what I mean. They're stealing people's jobs.\" \"Well.\" There's a brief second, a fleeting moment, where Sara can bite her lip, let it go. She misses it. \"But I thought it was immigrants that are stealing people's jobs?\" From three different directions, three different Chevrolet jeeps appear, screeching to a halt, kicking up dust. From them jump Border Patrol agents and Minutemen militia, guns drawn and ready. Cut to: Border Patrol agents, opening fire. Text flashes across the screen. ALERT CANCELLED. THREAT NEUTRALISED. Fade to black. Chevrolet logo. White text against black. 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 Fox, Breitbart News, Family Values TV, Info Wars, The Rebel, Glenn Beck, The Voice of America, America First, The Bible Today and lots of hunting and sports channels she doesn't even recognise. It's signed in to her Dad's FB account, and the last thing she wants is to try and log in on hers before he gets back from the john. Yeah. There was no way that would end up with them keeping it civil. In her pocket her phone vibrates, purrs against her skin, reminding her it's there, making sure she's not forgotten where her real friends are, that there's a world outside, beyond Dad and his TV. She takes it out and cradles it in her hands, the dark screen fleetingly reflecting back her face before it jumps awake at her very touch, opening up to bathe her in blue light, in comfort and warmth and the familiar. For the first time since she got home she feels herself relax. \"They do. The material they use to coat them reacts to sunlight, and produces an airborne carcinogen. It's based on a particular kind of rare earth. It's a bit like teflon. The Chinese have known about this for decades but have kept it covered up, because they-\" \"-because they are the world's largest manufacturers of solar panels. But the research has been done. The scientific evidence is out there. Look it up.\" \"Look it up?\" Sara shakes her head, not knowing where to even start. \"Dad, who is telling you this stuff?\" \"No one is telling me it, Sara. I read it. It's in the news. I mean, really, I'm surprised you've not seen it. It was all over Facebook.\" \"Maybe on yours, but it's not all over my Facebook.\" She doesn't have the heart to tell him she muted him six months ago. \"There's no risk, Mom. None at all. Dad, I wish you'd stop believing everything you see on Facebook.\" Reluctantly, she takes it. His Facebook feed. Somewhere in the middle of it is the article, a very to the point CHINESE SOLAR PANELS CAUSE CANCER headline. But she can't even focus on it, because the rest of the screen is filled with distractions, looping videos and animated gifs, all adverts, and all for guns. Or security systems. Panic rooms. Back up power generators. Emergency rations. More guns. \"Jesus Christ Dad, these ads!\" \"No blasphemy at the dinner table, please honey\" says Mom. \"What about them?\" \"Just… just look at them. They're terrifying. They're like… like adverts for the end of the world! You know they show you this stuff just to make you scared, right? Just to keep you paranoid.\" \"They show me this stuff because they've got products to sell. That's how the economy works. That's how we create jobs. Godammit Sara, are you telling me you hate advertising \"I know. I'm sorry I-\" \"And the ads! The Super Bowl ads! You know how much he loves watching the new ads with you. It's a stupid thing, sure, but he loves it. Talks about it all the time. It's like a tradition to him. That's why he got so upset over dinner when you got angry at his ads. It's something special he has with you, he doesn't want to lose it.\" Cut to: drone footage. Grainy, monochrome. A group of figures move slowly through the desert. The camera tracks them. Zooms in. The pilot punches buttons. The figures become highlighted by a computer overlay, text appears next to them. ILLEGAL ENTRY ATTEMPT SUSPECTED. GROUND PATROLS ALERTED. Everybody seems to be talking about the same thing. omg im crying holy shit that chevrolet ad /fire emoji\n\n<question>:\nWhich is the most likely method that the ads were personalized?\n\n<options>:\nA The TV version is different from the streaming version people see on Twitter\nB Facebook is creating echo chambers of specific ways of thought for each user\nC Ed has a specific TV plan that allows him to see conservative-bent programming\nD The television network shows different videos in different regions\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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2,360 | 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 U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This was the endless problem of all spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men tomorrow on what they had eaten today! made her underwater periplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza and from aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to the groundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes. Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black sky through a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgusting Isaiah 36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast today what was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water. The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turning offal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard a spacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount. the stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequent bite he ate to a superior grade of sake . And for a third footnote to the ancient observation, \"God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,\" Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the Charles Partlow Robert Bailey. Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustrating tensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming, dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility to see that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds of water, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food. essential amino acids. The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill the 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 breed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury of squeamishness. Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knife is the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain. If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic duties of his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmann hemorrhoid. The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook. textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted the slabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat. For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste of with his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up the ladder from the dining-cubby. \"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 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.\" \"Belly-Robber,\" Winkelmann said, \"I had almost rather you served me this pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions and gazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding. \"Yes, I eat it,\" the Captain said, taking and talking through another \"Only good food,\" Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguised algae. He tapped his head with a finger. \"This—the brain that guides the ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me, Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. \"Yes, sir. But I really don't know what I can do to please you.\" \"You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban Hausfrau with the vapors,\" Winkelmann said. \"I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrums or weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that will mealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. \"Convey my compliments to the Chef, please,\" the Captain would instruct one of the crew, \"and ask him to step down here a moment.\" And the Cook would 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 into Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark in turkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacy a grainy and delicious \"cornbread,\" and had extracted from his algae a geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mere edibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you will have learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economics student. That will be all, Bailey.\" on the mysterious box as he sat to eat. \"What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today, Belly-Robber?\" he asked the Cook. Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'd had much practice. \"I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,\" he said. \"I think I've whipped the taste what was left was to get the texture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir?\" \"I understand,\" Winkelmann growled. \"You intend that your latest mess should feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right?\" steak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of special seasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaeal our food,\" the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression of distaste. \"It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but I never cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoils the meal.\" Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center of \"Try it,\" he urged the Captain. Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. The color was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smell masterpiece. \"The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.\" Lifting a hunk of the \"steak,\" streaming ketchup, to his mouth, Winkelmann chewed. \"Just the thing,\" he smiled. sufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep a bottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber.\" \"Watch your noun,\" Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. \"Your adjectives are insubordinate For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable in horribleness, a pottage or boiled theory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captain had pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, I thought. vehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, for the decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He served first-shift diners said. \"It actually tastes of food!\" \"Then he's beat the Captain at his game,\" I said. \"The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks,\" the crewman said. I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electric warming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three of us with the small \"steaks.\" Each contained about a pound of dried Chlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenched in a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black iron skillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cut a bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course there are but he did know how to coax maximum performance out of his Ship's Cook.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the narrator's profession?\n\n<options>:\nA astronaut\nB doctor\nC sailor\nD cook\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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1,156 | 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 U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could run no more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped with delight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see the he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutiny of brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from going to the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. \"On your mark!\" he shouted to the rippling stream and its orange heavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls and nimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purnie hurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much to And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora were frozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie had heard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothers in school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down the the spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eight more, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interrupted animation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thin 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 their respective tasks had been performed with continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped, not the world around him. He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet the done, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left its mark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked. The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching long enough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to its repast. Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything at once. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glided to a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first of 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 startled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter. He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them, expedition just to give your flunkies a vacation.\" The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself in When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested in the strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, and as they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering to what's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box.\" Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this day had brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for, the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circle He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle stepped back and made way for two others who came through carrying a box. Purnie sat up to watch the show. \"Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has no intention of running away.\" it, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He was surprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered. into the little crowd. \"I've got my lunch, want some?\" The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that, and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box. He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within a few feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was about motionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way in transverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie dragged himself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability to open-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on the spot where Purnie had been standing. \"My God, he's—he's gone.\" friends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide. Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the short distance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified at the spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals below The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf. Others were pinned down on the sand. \"I didn't mean it!\" Purnie screamed. \"I'm sorry! Can't you hear?\" He hopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic and shame. \"Get up! Please get up!\" He was horrified by the moans reaching about. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves. The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding of death. here in the water—\" Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of the animals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregarding the consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then he tugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie worked slowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as far as his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their condition where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. The hand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among the logs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. position, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock. Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue into a new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed the chaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period of time-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... without him. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness, he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and then for this. Hee-hee!\" Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone? He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks, where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moons \"That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on.\" As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw through glazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it was had become familiar. \"Where are you?\" Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend he was beyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when he Purnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in different directions. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scattered now, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a double shadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watched the creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction of the others. Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. The beach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmering white square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnie\n\n<question>:\nWhy was the water important in this story?\n\n<options>:\nA It's where Purnie went searching for a device to help his friends\nB It's where Purnie likes to hang out with his friends\nC It's where Purnie gets most of his food source\nD It's where Purnie went to save his friends\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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495 | 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. 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. True, some forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised over the ethical issues involved in \"test-tube babies.\" To date, nearly 30,000 such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents have been made happy. Who has been harmed? 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 ! 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. Suppose that Unsolved Mysteries called you with news of a long-lost identical twin. Would that suddenly make you less of a person, less of an individual? It is hard to see how. So, why would a clone be different? Your clone would be raised in a different era by different people--like the lost identical twin, only younger than you. A person's basic humanity is not governed by how he or she came into this world, or whether somebody else happens to have the same DNA. 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. 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.\n\n<question>:\nWhat concern was raised in recent years that is similar to cloning?\n\n<options>:\nA Genetic engineering\nB Same DNA in identical twins\nC Surfacing long-lost twins\nD IVF\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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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>:\nsent him winging out in a state of suspension to future rush of anxiety. \"No.\" \"Your name is David Corbin.\" I will always remember the scream of terror, the paralyzing fright of When I looked again I knew where I was. Why the little room had been shaped like quarter round. Why I drifted weightlessly. Why I was.... David Corbin. I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand Precaution against forgetting. could help me, guard me against another shock like seeing outside of the clear portholes. \"Do not begin operations until the others are removed from suspension.\" \"I can't remember what to do.\" waking up in strangeness I had missed the other doors in the passage. as death, motionless without warmth or breath as I hovered over him. I couldn't remember his face. I rolled back his eyelid. The eyelid remained open until I closed it A flat, illogical voice had instructed me to revive these men. I thought of time again. I was supposed to act according to ... plan. Did attire was brief like the rest of us, shorts and a man's shirt. Golden hair curled up around her lovely face. I wondered if she would ever smile or move that graceful head. I rolled back her eyelid and looked all, depending on a blind helpless fool who didn't know their names or could stand it no longer. Searching the ship made me forget my fear. I hoped I would find some had literally been reborn in this room, equipped with half ideas, and look for it. The chamber of the needle that had awakened me was empty. sent along to safeguard the others. Complete amnesia would have been me. I went back to the cabin where the powerful man lay. I had to risk failure with one of them. I didn't want it to be the girl. I fought down the thought that he might be the key man, remembering the voice that had given the message. It was up to me, and soon. The metal in the \"Yes.\" He unfastened the belt and sat up. I pushed him back as he floated up finding little humor in the comic expression on his face. \"You get used to it fast,\" I answered. I thought of what to say as he watched me. \"How do you feel?\" He shrugged at the question. \"Fine, I guess. Funny, I can't remember.\" He saw it in my face, making him stop. \"I can't remember dropping off \"I'm all right,\" he answered. \"There aren't supposed to be any effects \"The others. What about the others?\" he blurted. stumbled on the way to revive you.\" He shook his head, watching me like I was a freak. \"Let's check the rest right away.\" \"Yes. I've got to know if they are like me. I'm afraid to think they might be.\" \"Maybe it's temporary. We can figure something out.\" II The second man, the dark haired one, opened his eyes and recognized us. He asked questions in rapid fire excitement. The third man, the tall Viking, was all right until he moved. The weightless sensation made him violently sick. We put him back on the cot, securing him again with the belt, but the sight of us floating made him shake. He was retching without results when we drifted out. I followed him to the girl's quarters. \"What about her. Why is she here?\" I asked my companion. \"A girl?\" \"Dr. Thiesen is an expert, trained for this,\" he said. I looked at her. She looked anything but like a chemist. \"There must be men who could have been sent. I've been wondering why a girl.\" \"I don't know why, Captain. You tried to stop her before. Age and experience were all that mattered to the brass.\" \"It's a bad thing to do.\" \"I suppose. The mission stated one chemist.\" He held up his hand. \"We'd better wait, sir. Everything was supposed to be all right on this end. First you, then Carl, sick to his stomach.\" tried to smile as I sat on the cot, wondering what she was thinking. \"How do you feel?\" I asked. The question frightened her. \"Should I? I feel so strange. Give me a minute to think.\" \"What's happened to me?\" she asked. \"I'm trying. I know the ship is familiar, but I've looked it over. Maybe I'm trying too hard.\" \"I can't remember when,\" I said. I held the trembling girl against me, shaking my head. He glanced at the girl. \"If the calculations are right it was more than a hundred years ago.\" better for being together. John Croft named the others for me. I searched each face without recognition. The blond man was Carl Herrick, a metallurgist. His lean face was white from his spell but he was better. Paul Sample was a biologist, John said. He was lithe and restless, with dark eyes that studied the rest of us. I looked at the girl. She was staring out of the ports, her hands pressed against the transparent break in the smooth wall. Karen Thiesen was a chemist, now frightened and trying to remember. \"I can't grasp it. How can we go very far in a lifetime?\" \"It can be done in two lifetimes,\" John said quietly. \"You said I had flown this ship. You meant before this suspension.\" Carl caught my eye. \"Captain, we save this time without aging at all. It puts us near a calculated destination.\" \"We've lost our lifetime.\" It was Karen. She had been crying silently while we talked. \"Don't think about it,\" Paul said. \"We can still pull this out all right if you don't lose your nerve.\" \"What are we to do?\" she asked. this ship but I can't fly it.\" \"Can I?\" I asked. We set up a temporary plan of action. Paul took Karen to the laboratory in an effort to help her remember her job. Carl went back to divide the rations. \"I wish I knew what you were doing,\" I said savagely. \"Give it time.\" \"We can't spare any, can we?\" I asked. be shocked out of a mental state like that.\" \"I guess you're right,\" he said slowly. \"She's trained to administer the suspension on the return trip.\" I let my breath out slowly. \"I didn't think about that.\" \"We couldn't even get part way back in a lifetime,\" he said. \"How old are you, John?\" \"Twenty-eight.\" \"What about me?\" \"Thirty.\" He stared at the panel in thought for a minutes. \"What about shock treatment? It sounds risky.\" \"I know. It's the only thing I could think of. Why didn't everyone react the same?\" \"That had me wondering for a while. I don't know. Anyway how could you go about making her remember?\" \"Throw a crisis, some situation at her, I guess.\" He shrugged, letting his sure hands rest on the panel of dials. I headed back towards the lab. If I could help her I might help myself. It wasn't operating. John let go of the padded chair, grinning weakly. I was busy for a few seconds, feeding compensation into the gyros. Relief flooded through me \"What—made you—think of that,\" I asked weakly. \"Shock treatment.\" \"I must have acted on instinct.\" \"You did. Even for a sick man that was pretty fast,\" he laughed. \"It worked. I'm okay,\" I said in giddy relief. \"I don't have to tell you I was scared as hell. I wish you could have \"I wouldn't want to wake up like that again.\" John as he was at the base, big and competent, sweating in the blazing \"We'll have to go ahead without it. Any change?\" Earth to the single star could be in error several degrees, or we could\n\n<question>:\nIf David had entirely forgotten his life prior to the mission, what would've happened?\n\n<options>:\nA He probably would've done a bad job at healing his crew.\nB He probably would've failed to wake up the rest of his crew.\nC He probably wouldn't be able to fly the ship very well, leading to dangerous outcomes.\nD He probably would've flirted with Karen a bit more.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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2,356 | 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'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?\" Inventing an alternative to sterling might sound far-fetched, even illegal. But it's not that strange. In the UK we think of the pound like fish think about water, which is to say not at all. It might never have occurred to many of us that there are other types of exchange that can stand in for ragged bank notes tucked away in pockets, or other objects that can stand in for those notes. Not every country is so lucky. In crisis-hit Greece, where the euro can be hard to come by, businesses and citizens have turned to bartering using a points system where goods like pianos, pot and pans can be exchanged for security services or loaned farming equipment. In India last year, desperate people burned sacks of illegal cash after the government withdrew two high-denomination notes as part of a crackdown on corruption. Hoarders woke up to discover the banknotes under their mattresses were suddenly worthless. 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. 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] think they put money into a bank and someone else takes it out. What they don't understand is that banks have the power to create money. We've given the power to create money to private corporations and people don't understand that we can have it back,\" she says. In Stroud, suspicion of the local currency among local businesses became a barrier to success. Scott-Cato said traders refused to join the scheme because they were \"running a business\", as though putting the community first and placing the needs of others as equivalent to their own was in itself bad business practice, or as though they were somehow being disloyal to sterling. 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. 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.\" More than a third of children grow up in poverty in Glasgow. A Glasgow Pound might struggle to get poorer families to buy into a local currency that ties them to shopping at more expensive, independent shops, rather than getting deals at big supermarket chains. 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. Perhaps for that reason, experts like Duncan McCann have stopped thinking of complementary currencies as a one-size-fits-all solution. He said they can function as a kind of 'gateway drug' to introduce people to a new way of thinking about money. \"That is especially for those who use it, but also for those who just become aware of it,\" he says. Nothing is tying Glasgow to existing models for complementary currencies. But during the first meeting about setting up the Glasgow Pound, the workshop shows just how hard it would be to invent a new system that works for everyone. Each table is handed a wad of Post-it notes and a piece of white paper. A table leader asks everyone to write on the Post-its what they want the Glasgow Pound to achieve. Elbowing teacups out the way, people get to work. They scrawl a dizzying number of proposals, from keeping more wealth in the local area to empowering people who feel cut out of the national economy, or to moving towards land reform and saving the environment. Team leaders try to assemble these ideas in themes to report back to the room.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is a big obstacle for the Glasgow Pound?\n\n<options>:\nA There is a ten-year life expectancy gap between different parts of the city.\nB More than a third of the families grow up in poverty. A local currency makes shopping a little more expensive.\nC They must be used at independent shops, instead of big supermarket chains.\nD In deprived areas, people cannot afford time and money to put into their communities.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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1,342 | 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>:\nFor mean, how do we know Superior is maintaining the same position up here \"Of course,\" he said, grinning at his stupidity. \"And I guess we're not The town of Superior, Ohio, certainly was living up to its name! In what Radio messages stated simply that Superior had seceded from Earth. But Don Cort, stranded on that rising town, was beginning to suspect that nothing was simple about Superior except its citizens. Calmly they \"Well,\" Don said as they turned to go back to Cavalier, \"now we know that they know. Maybe we'll begin to get some answers. Or, if not answers, then transportation.\" to Cort: either find a way to anchor Superior, or spend the rest of his The town of Superior, Ohio, disappeared on the night of October 31. she said, \"before you deteriorate.\" Superior had been. The state police converged on the former site of Superior from several stop at Superior at 11:58. That seemed to fix the time of the had been over the state. Washington said no. The Pentagon and the Atomic Nor had there been any defense plants in Superior that might have blown A United Airlines pilot found Superior early on the morning of November course to avoid it. He noted with only minimum satisfaction that his A few minutes later he had relayed a message from Superior, formerly of It said that Superior had seceded from Earth. One other radio message came from Superior, now airborne, on that first \" stop at Superior on this run.\" that it was more than adequate. \"Will we be here long?\" Don asked the conductor. He didn't want to miss and even Don saw two men who must have been the engineer and the fireman talking to an old bearded gentleman wearing a civil defense helmet, a topcoat and riding boots. \"You'd go over the edge, I tell you,\" the old gentleman was saying. \"Look for yourself,\" the old man in the white helmet said. \"Go ahead. the old man. Then let's go.\" \"Well, let's hurry up. We haven't got all night.\" True, everything seemed to stop, and they could see stars shining low on the horizon where stars could not properly be expected to be seen. Don Cort and the fireman walked cautiously toward the edge while the professor ambled ahead with the familiarity of one who had been there before. But there was a wind and they did not venture too close. Standing on tiptoe and repressing a touch of giddiness, Don looked over on the edge of his seat during the exciting part of a movie, but the Don looked at the fireman, who had an unbelieving expression on his face, then at the bearded old man, who was smiling and nodding. \"Of course you could have stayed aboard the train,\" the man driving the old Pontiac said, \"but I really think you'll be more comfortable at Cavalier.\" Don Cort, sitting in the back seat of the car with the redhead from the say your name was, miss?\" \"Jen Jervis,\" she said. \"Geneva Jervis, formally.\" \"Miss Jervis. I'm Civek. You know Mr. Cort, I suppose.\" The girl smiled sideways. \"We have a nodding acquaintance.\" Don nodded and grinned. \"Me? No. I'm the mayor of Superior. The old town's really come up in the world, hasn't it?\" \"Overnight,\" Geneva Jervis said. \"If what Mr. Cort and the fireman say is true. I haven't seen the edge myself.\" \"You'll have a better chance to look at it in the morning,\" the mayor Civek—'everything's up in the air.' He was having his little joke, of course. I said, 'What?' and then he told me.\" \"Told you what?\" Jen Jervis asked. \"I mean, does he have any theory about it?\" the mayor wouldn't look foolish the next morning, not knowing his town had flown the coop.\" \"What's the population of Superior?\" \"Does Superior have an airport?\" Don asked. \"I've got to get back to—to \"No helicopters here, either.\" \"Maybe not. But I'll bet they're swarming all over you by morning.\" \"Hm,\" said Hector Civek. Don couldn't quite catch his expression in the rearview mirror. \"I suppose they could, at that. Well, here's Cavalier. Garet. I've got to see him—excuse me.\" The mayor was off across the campus. Don looked at Geneva Jervis, who was frowning. \"Are you thinking,\" he asked, \"that Mayor Civek was perhaps just a little less than completely honest with us?\" \"I'm thinking,\" she said, \"that I should have stayed with Aunt Hattie \"I'm with Senator Bobby Thebold, S.O.B.\" Don laughed again. \"He sure is.\" \" \" \"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 beside himself. We haven't had so much excitement since the around a corner, gesticulating wildly to someone wearing a white laboratory smock. II Don Cort had slept, but not well. He had tried to fold the brief case to Superior were up in the air. \"The same,\" she said. \"Also the only. A pity, because if there'd been I'm duty-bound to represent the second generation at the nut factory.\" down from ducks. How do you plan to get down from Superior?\" \"Scarcely , Mr. Cort. As for it being deliberate, that seems to be \"Actually there's only one, the Superior Sentry , a weekly. This is an extra. Ed Clark must have been up all night getting it out.\" She opened Don blinked at the headline: Town Gets High \"Ed Clark's something of an eccentric, like everybody else in Superior,\" Alis said. Don read the story, which seemed to him a capricious treatment of an advised not to. It's a long way down. Where Superior was surrounded by Ohio, as usual, today Superior ends literally at the town line. Don skimmed the rest. \"I don't see anything about it being deliberate.\" Alis had been creaming and sugaring Don's coffee. She pushed it across to him and said, \"It's not on page one. Ed Clark and Mayor Civek don't get along, so you'll find the mayor's statement in a box on page three, bottom.\" Don creased the paper the other way, took a sip of coffee, nodded his thanks, and read: Mayor Claims Secession From Earth Mayor Hector Civek, in a proclamation issued locally by hand and dropped to the rest of the world in a plastic shatter-proof bottle, said today that Superior has seceded from Earth. His reasons were as vague as The \"reasons\" include these: (1) Superior has been discriminated against (2) Cavalier Institute has been Professor Osbert Garet of Cavalier which the editor (a) does not (b) lacks space to publish and which (it being atrociously handwritten) he (c) has not the temerity to ask his linotype operator to set. Don said, \"I'm beginning to like this Ed Clark.\" \"He's a doll,\" Alis said. \"He's about the only one in town who stands up to Father.\" levitated Superior off the face of the \"Three months past. How old are , Mr. Cort?\" now—was that we can stroll out to where Superior used to be attached to On to the brink!\" \"Not that I know of,\" Don said. He introduced him to Alis Garet. \"What are you going to do?\" \"What Superior's water supply?\" topographer's map, far below. Don took another wary step, then sat down. going off the \"It isn't? Then where is it going?\" It was signed: Vincent Grande, Chief of Police, Hector Civek, Mayor . \"What's the other source, besides the faucet in your bathroom?\" Don\n\n<question>:\nWho will likely be in charge of all future decisions for Superior?\n\n<options>:\nA Alis Garet and Don Cort\nB Vincent Grande and Don Cort\nC Professor Garet and Mayor Civek\nD Mayor Civek and Ed Clark\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>:\nwife, Jane, that is....\" \"Yes?\" said the priest. He took his pen out of the holder. \"I think, with the proper ... ah ... you know. What I mean is, I think she might look with favor on you in the Changing of the Wives, if I said a few well chosen words in your behalf.\" \"And with your permission, Father....\" \"Ah....\" \"She's a very pretty woman.\" \"Ah.... Quite so.\" \"Well, about Wanda. I really shouldn't mention this. But Father, if we \"He shore better,\" the man in front of him said loudly. \"Be still,\" his wife said. \"People's lookin' at ya.\" are short one woman....\" \"Hummmm.\" \"I don't care a smidgen,\" he said, \"if en they ayre.\" \"Please,\" she said. participation in the Festival.\" \"Justice is a priestly virtue,\" Harry said. \"And you really think your wife would...?\" \"Oh, yes, Father.\" \"Well, ahem. But....\" \"Uh?\" \"That is to say, in order for a woman to join in the ritual of the Changing of the Wives, she must, ahem, be married.\" \"I never thought of that,\" said the third mate disconsolately. \"I think that can be arranged, however,\" said Nestir. \"If you go by the \"The other evening,\" he said, \"—Gelday it was, to be exact—one of the crew came to me with a complaint.\" \"Well, I'll be damned,\" Joanne Marie's husband said loudly. \"Well, then, say the first day of Wenslaus, that would be—ah, a Zentahday—I may depend upon you to wed Wanda Miller, the bosun's daughter, yes?\" \"No,\" said the captain. true.\" Joanne Marie's husband sighed deeply. \"Three, you will recall, were wise. When Prophet was at Meizque, they Nestir cleared his throat. \"It was about the Casting Off. That's why to say anything.\" that....\" ponderously, with great dignity, to his own. It was a very fine stateroom. The finest, but for Nestir's, in the whole ship. The velvet and gold drapes (his single esthetic joy) were scented with exotic perfume. The carpet was an inch and a half thick. He walked through his office without breaking his stride. The bed was large and fluffy. An unbroken expanse of white coverlette the day for the Festival of the Casting Off!'\" The little fellow was pleased by the rustle of approval from the audience. \"God damn, hit's about time!\" Joanne Marie's husband said. Nestir cleared his throat again. \"Hummm. Uh. And the day is not very far distant,\" said Nestir. \"I knowed there was a catch to hit,\" Joanne Marie's husband said. \"I know you will have many questions yes, I know you will have—ah, \"Husband,\" Wanda said simply. She closed the door behind her and stood staring at him. \"Madam,\" he said, \"I hope you will have the kindness not to refer to me by that indecent appelation a second time.\" \"Gee. You say the cutest things. I'm awful glad you had to marry me, huh.\" The captain stood up, adjusted his coat and his shoulders, and walked Festival, so you can look back on it and say, uh, uh—this day was the real high point of your whole life!\" Everyone but Joanne Marie's husband cheered. He sat glumly muttering to himself. Nestir bobbed his shiny head at them and beamed his cherubic smile. And noticed that there was a little blonde, one of the crewmen's wives, in the front row that had very cute ankles. While they were still cheering and stomping and otherwise expressing \"This?\" \"I say. Have you decided on this Carstar thing yet, Father?\" but of course I haven't the time. I'll have to decide something.\" \"He had a very pretty wife,\" the third mate said. \"Yes, very.\" Nestir agreed. \"But as I was saying, if it could be proven that the culstem fell due to no negligence on his part, either that no stigma would be attached.\" He speared his meat and chewed it thoughtfully. \"But it wasn't at all bloody,\" the wife of the second mate said. \"I scarcely think he felt it at all. It happened too fast.\" Nestir swallowed the mouthful of food and washed it down with a gulp of he died as miserable a death as anyone could desire.\" \"Yes,\" said the second mate's wife. \"I remember that. I read about it in the newspapers.\" \"But it was a case of obvious \"Oh, very,\" said the steward. \"I don't know,\" the second mate's wife said, \"whether you better count on my husband or not. I have my own plans for him.\" \"This problem of Carstar interests me,\" the third mate said. \"Did I ever tell you about my wife? She strangled our second baby.\" \"He was a very annoying child,\" his wife said. \"He probably wouldn't have lived, anyway,\" the third mate said. \"Puny \"That,\" said Nestir, \"is not at all like the Carstar case. Not at all. \"As I see it,\" Nestir said, \"if the intent was the natural maternal instinct of the mother to release her child from its duty, then....\" \"Oh, not at all,\" the third mate's wife said. \"I did it to make him stop crying.\" \"Well, in that case, I see no reason why he shouldn't get his Reward.\" \"I do not,\" Jane contradicted. \"Now, honey, you know you do so.\" At that moment, he lost interest in his wife and leaned across the table toward the captain, \"Well?\" he asked. The captain rolled the wine over his tongue. \"You were right, of woman.\" \"There wouldn't be one short if he had brought a wife,\" the first mate's wife said, looking squarely at the captain. because you have to stay with your husband.\" \"All right, so I am. But it's true. And if Carstar hadn't been killed, there would have been two short.\" She shot a wicked glance at Nestir. \"Why don't you and him share a woman—\" \"Martha!\" \"Although the Prophet knows what woman in her right mind would consent to....\" it, someone will have to do without a woman.\" Nestir blushed. \"I'll look it over very carefully, but you must realize The third mate, whose name was Harry, stood before the mirror combing his hair. He had been combing his hair for the last fifteen minutes. \"I suppose the crew is celebrating?\" his wife said. \"I suppose.\" She stood up and walked over to the dresser. Absently she began to \"Pish-tush.\" \"No, Harry. I mean it. Helen looked at me strangely all through dinner. She has three children, you know.\" \"You're imagining things.\" \"But she does have three children.\" \"I mean about her looking at you.\" \"Oh.\" \"Yes, dear?\" \"Don't you really think she's awful young?\" \"Huh-uh.\" \"I mean, why don't you pick someone else? Like Mary? She's awful sweet. I'll bet she'd be better.\" \"Probably.\" \"She's a lot of fun.\" \"Oh, I don't know.\" She looked down at her legs, raised them up from the floor and held them out in front of her. \"I think I'd kind of like Nestir. With his funny bald head. I hope he asks me.\" \"I thought so. Well, remember this, dear: It isn't the day of the Changing of the Wives yet. Don't forget.\" \"If Nestir lets me.\" \"Say. Harry. Do you suppose your wife would...?\" shrugged. \"I don't exactly approve, of course, but ... I'm sure if he doesn't want her, she'd be glad to hear your offer.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the Carstar thing?\n\n<options>:\nA Someone was killed.\nB A person attempted to avoid duty by hastening to the Reward.\nC There was questionable intent.\nD He had a very pretty wife.\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>:\nEleven-Twelfths of 1999 In Review When 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 --Jim Chapin 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! You've got the wrong year. That was 1998 . 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 : 5. Rest in Peace 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) 6. 1999: The Road Not Taken What an extraordinary year! A right-wing conspiracy topples the president, and the governor of Texas reveals himself in a series of debates to be a natural leader with an innate gift for connecting with his audience, a sure sign of his electoral success next year. A new Thomas Harris book brilliantly takes us deeper into the mind of a serial killer a new Star Wars movie redefines the very nature of entertainment --Mike Gebert 7 . Children Behaving Badly in 1999 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. You also left out all the shooting rampages . Several were done in the name of God or love supposedly. They were all committed by \"quiet, shy\" people who \"mostly kept to\" themselves. I've started to hang around only loud, obnoxious people. 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. 9. A Big Shot Calls for Decriminalizing Drug Use in 1999 10. Don't Worry in 1999 The Dalai Lama proclaimed that most important thing in the world is to be happy. --Margaret Taylor 12. Another Overlooked Foreign-Policy Event in 1999 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. --Jerry Skurnik Don't forget, Susan Lucci finally won an Emmy . 15. Annals of Justice in 1999 Matthew Shepard: the despicable defense . -- anonymous tipster 16. Get Me a New Century, Quick --Ananda Gupta 17. The Most Important Thing of All That Happened in 1999 18. All Dolled Up and Nowhere To Go in 1999 General Pinochet 20. Unremarked Natural Disaster in 1999 The Indian Supercyclone is the biggest, this century at least. --Samir Raiyani Photographs of: Donald Trump by Peter Morgan/Reuters\n\n<question>:\nWho died in 1999?\n\n<options>:\nA Jim Landau\nB Mel Torme\nC Susan Hoechstetter\nD Thomas Harris\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>:\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. 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. And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? \"I found her to be sensitive and likeable.\" Plus, she could \"do a mean Charleston.\" There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and humiliated wife doing \"a mean Charleston.\" When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on \"Grains of the World\" or Elizabeth Drew's supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the publication of two early installments, \"Daddyji\" and \"Mamaji,\" each the length of a book, one critic cried: \"Enoughji!\" 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 is the writer's view of Mehta's works?\n\n<options>:\nA They found it boring.\nB They wished that Shawn set a restriction on how many words he allowed Mehta to publish.\nC They appreciate that he persisted in telling his story.\nD Like other critics, they found the growing word count intolerable.\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>:\nSisko Rolf was fighting his greatest Sisko Rolf's stocky body was a blur of motion as he cut the rocket \"Trapped us neatly,\" Rolf said through clenched teeth. \"Tolled into can't escape, that's certain. They know these caverns better than.... We'll down some of them, though.\" \"Right!\" That was old Garmon Nash, his fellow patrolman aboard the Rolf swung the lax controls over hard as the bursts of fire revealed a of the flyer crumple inward. The cabin seemed to telescope about him. In a slow sort of wonder Rolf felt the scrape of rock against metal, and then the screeching of air through the myriad rents in the cabin's Down plunged the battered ship, downward ever downward. Somehow Rolf momentarily, but the nose of the vertically plunging ship dissolved split open like a rotten squash, and Rolf felt himself that he lay crushed against a rocky wall. Much later Rolf groaned with the pain of bruised muscles and tried to sharp breathlessness that strained at his chest meant cracked ribs. There was light in the narrow pit in which he found himself, light and heat from the yet-glowing debris of the rocket flyer. The outlaws had blasted the crashed ship, his practiced eyes told him, and Garmon Nash must have died in the wreckage. He was alone in the waterless trap of a deep crevice. Rolf laughed. Without a pressure mask on the surface of Mars an flooded into his muscles he set off around the irregular wall of the pit. He found the opening less than ten paces from the starting point, an light reached his eyes Rolf did not know—it had seemed an eternity of \"They may have found the sunken seas of Mars,\" thought Rolf as he moved his feet had betrayed him, and he realized that he had fallen through the other half. Toward this barrier the spinner bore him, and Rolf was it seemed to Rolf that he must be falling free through black dust, and he came to a stop. Deftly Rolf nested the rocks ahead. Rolf's slitted gray eyes narrowed yet more and his hand The voice had spoken in English! Rolf took a step forward eagerly and Rolf found himself staring, open-mouthed, at the sleek-limbed vision \"Altha,\" he scolded, scrubbing at his reddened bald skull with a The girl laughed, a low liquid sound that made Rolf's heart pump She smiled again as Rolf's face slowly reddened. \"Do not be ashamed,\" Rolf threw up the mental block that was the inheritance from his \"Sorry,\" said the tall man as Rolf sprang easily from the ground to \"She one of them?\" Rolf's voice was low, but he saw Altha's lip twitch. Rolf followed the direction of the other's pale blue eyes. Overhead now lifted above the restless dark waters of a vast sea. Rolf realized with a wrench of sudden fear that they actually hung head downward like \"One,\" repeated Rolf slowly. \"You mean there are more?\" Rolf felt new strength pump into his tired bruised muscles. Here lay \"Mark!\" The girl's voice was tense. Rolf felt her arm tug at his sleeve \"I will take the glider.\" Altha was on her feet, her body crouched Rolf watched the column of barbarically clad warriors file out upon the Rolf's eyes slitted. There was something vaguely unhuman about those Rolf raised his expoder, red anger clouding his eyes as he saw these Rolf and Mark Tanner came to their feet. Rolf's expoder rattled briefly like a high-speed sewing machine as he The expoder hammered in Rolf's heavy fist. Tanner smashed an elbow into Rolf's side. \"Retreat!\" he gasped. \"Now where?\" Rolf snapped another burst of expoder needles at the furry shattered heart. An unseen furry shape sprang upon Rolf's shoulders Tanner's finger pointed. \"Altha!\" Rolf saw the graceful wings of the glider riding the thermals back toward the Barrier. \"She had warned the \"The weasel heads won't follow us here?\" asked Rolf. Rolf laughed. \"Like the pleasure globes of the wealthy on Earth.\" \"But,\" Rolf frowned thoughtfully, \"what keeps Lomihi from crashing into Rolf caught a glimpse of a sleek rocket flyer diving upon Altha's frail section of the wall swung slowly inward. Rolf sprang to his side. The older man's eyes were hot. He jerked at Rolf's hands and then Rolf pushed up and outward with all the strength of his weary muscles. The glider knifed forward with that first swift impetus, and drove out had taken shelter, noting as he did so that the rocket flyer had landed A man stood on guard just outside the flyer's oval door. Rolf lined up comrades. But if the outlaw saw him Rolf knew that he would be the about. Rolf pressed the firing button Rolf snapped his weapon overhand at the Frog's hairless skull. The momentarily. In that instant Rolf launched himself from the open They went down, Rolf swinging his fist like a hammer. He felt the Frog go limp and he loosed a relieved whistle. Now with a rocket flyer and not too tight, the man could free himself in the course of a few hours. He shrugged his shoulders wearily and started to get up. A green bulge showed around the polished fuselage and Rolf pressed his captured weapon's firing button. A roar of pain came from the wounded And something that felt like a mountain smashed into his back. He was crushed downward, breathless, his eyes glimpsing briefly the soiled This sledge was hammering relentlessly as Rolf sensed his first undisciplined men would have permitted to accumulate. Cautiously his head twisted until he could look forward toward the as he moved his arm. But Rolf had learned that his limbs were not The ship bumped gently as it landed and the thrum of rockets ceased. The cabin shifted with the weight of bodies moving from their seats. Rolf heard voices from a distance and the answering triumphant bawling oily floor flame. He lay unmoving while the thick smoke rolled over him. \"Fire!\" There was panic in the outlaw's voice. Rolf came to his knees not on the prisoners, and so the impact of Rolf's horizontally The outlaw was game. His fists slammed back at Rolf, and his knees jolted upward toward the patrolman's vulnerable middle. But Rolf smoke, and then the fingers of the outlaw clamped around Rolf's throat The patrolman was weary the wreck in the upper cavern and the long trek afterward through the dark tunnels had sapped his strength, and now he felt victory slipping from his grasp. He felt something soft bump against his legs, legs so far below that he he heard a cry of pain and the blessed air gulped into his raw throat. Rolf swung, all the weight of his stocky body behind the blow, and the himself into the spongy control chair's cushions and sent the ship rocketing skyward. Behind him the thin film of surface oil no longer burned and the conditioning unit was clearing the air. \"Everything bongo?\" Rolf wanted to know. \"Of course,\" she smiled crookedly. \"Glad of that.\" Rolf felt the warmth of her body so close beside him. A sudden strange restlessness came with the near contact. Altha smiled shyly and winced with pain. \"Do you know,\" she said, \"even Rolf grinned up at her. \"Need to?\" he asked. Then they were over the Barrier and Rolf saw the last of the beaten Rolf snorted. \"Shorty,\" he said disgustedly as they landed, but his arm\n\n<question>:\nAfter realizing his situation after the crash, why did Rolf laugh?\n\n<options>:\nA He was facing certain death\nB His laughter was caused from the thick air\nC He was satisfied with their journey.\nD He was happy to be away from Garmon\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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772 | 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 MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever [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.] The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. the water would light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet 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. his brain, bathing it in a gentle, warm flood. all else was at rest. Images began to appear, drawn from inexhaustible files, wherein are kept all thoughts, past, present, and future.... \"I've got something to tell you, and something to show you.\" \"Oh, a ring, and it's a diamond, too!\" she cried in her rich, happy voice which always seemed to send a thrill through his body. \"It's for you so long as you wear it, I'll come back, even from the dead, if need be. Read the inscription.\" She held the ring up to the light and read aloud, \"It is forever.\" unexplored, some vastly different emotion he could never quite explain. shimmering light, letting it spin at the end of its chain. It caught the shadows of the fire and reflected them, greatly magnified, over the room. It was in the shape of a star, encrusted with emeralds, with one 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 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. miles lay behind, a dead man on every foot of those miles. Yet victory was near. The Russians had not yet used the H-bomb the threat of annihilation by the retaliation forces had been too great. He had done well in the war, and had been decorated many times for bravery in action. Now he felt the victory that seemed to be in the air, and he had wished it would come quickly, so that he might return to her. Home. The very feel of the word was everything a battle-weary grew louder and louder until he knew what it was. \"Heavy bombers!\" The alarm had sounded, and the men had headed for reflecting a blinding light. They were bound for bigger, more important targets. When the all-clear had sounded, the men clambered from their shelters. An icy wind swept the field, bringing with it clouds which covered the sun. A strange fear had gripped him then.... The defending planes roared into the sky to intercept the on-rushing bombers. The horrendous battle split the universe. Many bombers fell, across the sky which none could escape. But too many bombers got through, dropping their deadly cargo upon the filled with the poisonous gases that the wind swept away to other 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 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 nothing. Their families had long since died, their bodies turned to exodus was just beginning. Somehow he had managed to hold together 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 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 had heard was the occasional swish of the wind as it whisked along what He had been on the trail for a long time. His food was nearly found a horse. Not a normal horse, but a mutation. It was almost twice as large as a regular horse. Its skin seemed to shimmer and was like glassy steel to the touch. From the center of its forehead grew a horn, straight out, as the horn of a unicorn. But most startling of all were the animal's eyes which seemed to speak—a silent mental speech, which he could understand. The horse had looked up as he approached it and seemed to say: \"Follow me.\" started the long journey home. How, he did not know, for it was much changed. A sensing, perhaps, of all would be well, and his long journey would be over. mirror. His muscles were lean and hard, evenly placed throughout the length of his frame. A deep ridge ran down the length of his torso, separating the muscles, making the chest broad. Well satisfied with his then swiftly returned to the clean air, tingling in was a torch that pierced his skin, seeming to melt his bones into a burning stream within his body. But day at last gave way to night, and the sun to the moon. The torch became a white pock-marked goddess, with stopped suddenly. The wind swirled through its vast emptiness, voices—mournful, murmuring voices, echoing up from the misty depths. Night paled into day day burned into night. from his tired body. He stopped. There it was! Barely discernible to the inner gloom, he saw how bare the room was. No matter. Now that better than it had been before. 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 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 was turning wearily away from the window when the movement of the trying to decipher some inscription inside it. He knew then. He had come home. feet were stones, reluctant to leave the earth. His body was a weed, shriveled by thirst. He grasped the doorknob and clung to it, looking up at the night sky and trying to draw strength from the wind that passed over him. It was no use. There was no strength. Only fear—a 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. He closed the locket and fastened the clasp, and hung it on the doorknob. It moved slowly in the wind, back and forth, like a pendulum. \"Forever—forever. Only death is forever.\" He could have sworn he heard the words. He ran. Away from the house. To the large horse with a horn in the of strength left him. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped onto his chest. vast emptiness.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the overall tone of the article?\n\n<options>:\nA Serious\nB Grim\nC Violent\nD Objective\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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1,966 | 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>:\nresearch did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. The Cosmic Express tube exhausted of air, at a speed that would have made an old subway rider gasp with amazement. barely managed to become one of COSMIC EXPRESS a distinguished group of discoveries by stealing the cover of the in AMAZING STORIES and fiction authors ever to sit down at the typewriter. When the vogue for science-fantasy altered Janeiro.... Two hundred seventy dollars and eighty cents, please.... Your turn next. Remember this is just an experimental Shock. Finally, when only psychological studies of the future the half-hidden machine, spoke courteously. The Cosmic Express Hope you found the transit pleasant.\" \"But my Violet! My precious Violet!\" a shrill female voice came from the machine. \"Sir, what have you done with my earliest indication of a more general \"I'm sure I don't know, madam. You lost it off your hat?\" \"None of your impertinence, capability. The lightness of the handling is especially modern, barely avoiding the farcical by the validity of the notion that darling Violet?\" wireless transmission of matter granted, regardless of the quantity of wonders, and proceed with the story. With only a few thousand scanning-disk television sets in existence at the time of the writing, the surmise that this gems, waddled pompously out of the door through which the frantic French doctor had so recently vanished. She rolled heavily across the room, and out into the corridor. Shrill words \"My days were filled,\" he remembers, \"with monotonous rounds of what seemed an endless, drought and frost and dust-storms, poison-weeds and hail, for the sake of survival on the there.\" \"To Venus? Impossible. My orders are to use the Express of science fiction and has gone on record as follows: \"I feel that \"Sure, old boy. I'd send you to heaven for that, if you'd give me the micrometer readings to set the ray with. But I tell you, this is dangerous. I've got a sort of science-fiction is the folklore of the new world of science, and five centuries before, when the Age of Aviation was beginning. Suddenly there was a sharp tingling sensation where they touched and two inches thick, with an intricate mass of machinery below it. the polished surface. our operator drunk. I've no idea \"I think the Express Ray is I say—how're you coming back? I haven't got time to watch you.\" \"Go ahead. We aren't coming Above the glass, over this New York of 2432 A. D., a freezing blizzard was sweeping. But small \"Gee! What is it? Elopement? I thought you were married already. from the plants below—air kept, winter and summer, exactly at A bell jangled. \"So long,\" the youth called. Nada and Eric felt themselves 20° C. With another yawn, Mr. Eric there was a sharp tingling sensation where they touched the polished surface. Then blackness, blankness. The next thing they knew, the fires were gone from about garments stained with black mud. \"Yes, we're on our feet now, not parasites on the machines.\" Nada.... But now we must be practical. We must build a fire, find weapons, set up be very abundant, and of a most sticky consistence. They sank into it ankle deep at every step, their feet. A mile they struggled on, without finding where a provident nature had left them even a single fragment of quartz, to say nothing of a mass of pure copper. \"A darned shame,\" Eric grumbled, \"to come forty million tripping into the study, gay and vivacious, and—as her husband Nada stopped. \"Eric,\" she said, \"I'm tired. And I don't believe of a few months most justly miles, and meet such a reception soil seemed to be of alluvial origin. Shouldn't be surprised if the native rock is some hundreds of feet underground. Your idea is better.\" breakfast sent up the automatic shaft from the kitchens below. never tried it, myself. We need some dry sticks, first.\" They resumed the weary march, with a good fraction of the new planet adhering to their feet. Rain was still falling from the dark heavens in a steady, warm downpour. Dry wood seemed scarce as the proverbial hen's teeth. were extinct, there were no wild flowers, and no one had time to \"Matches! Of course not! \"You didn't bring any matches, dear?\" bother about sunsets. We're going back to Nature.\" they did not seem to abound in living under glass, like hot-house flowers.\" \"If we could only go somewhere—\" the Venerian jungle. Even small write about the West, Africa, South Sea Islands. But they were all filled up two hundred \"If only we lived on Venus! I was listening to a lecture on the television, last night. The that it has not cooled so much. It has a thick, cloudy atmosphere, and low, rainy forests. There's ruined it.\" With the darkness, the temperature fell somewhat, and \"Yes, Kinsley, with his new infra-red ray telescope, that penetrates Swarms of mosquito-like insects, seemingly not inconvenienced in the least by the inclement elements, swarmed about them in clouds. or something of the sort. This world seems to be in about the same state as the Earth when The Cosmic Express.\" \"The Cosmic Express?\" \"A new invention. Just perfected a few weeks ago, I understand. mighty tread. \"Eric,\" a thin voice trembled. \"I've quit bothering about science. It has ruined nature, filled the world with silly, artificial \"Don't you think—it might have The earth trembled beneath a both are simply etheric vibration, of different sorts.\" She smiled proudly. \"I can give you examples, even of the change. The disintegration of the radium atom, making helium and lead and an atom.\" \"Fine! I thought you said you weren't a scientist.\" He glowed the new Cosmic Express, is simply atoms at the destination.\" \"But the amount of energy must be terrific—\" \"It is. You know short waves ones. The Express Ray is an from the invisible monsters. The pitiful roof collapsed on the bedraggled even the Cosmic Ray, and correspondingly humans. Nada burst into tears. \"Oh, if only—if only—\" Suddenly the crystal block. Dizziness, insensibility overcame them. A few moments later, they were lying Cosmic Express office, with all the Express Ray picks up an \"So sorry—an accident—inconceivable. I can't see how he \"An analogy from television might help. You know that by means of the scanning disc, the picture is transformed into mere rapid fluctuations in the brightness of a beam of light. In a parallel manner, the focal plane of the Express Ray moves slowly through the object, progressively, dissolving layers of the thickness of a single atom, which are accurately reproduced at the other focus of the instrument—which something about Venus. I consulted the auto-register, and where he got the stuff. He muttered up, and the 'dry-laws' are on the job. I hope you won't hold us for with radio apparatus because even with the best beam transmission, all but a tiny fraction of the power is lost, and power is required to rebuild the atoms. Do you understand, dear?\" \"Not altogether. But I should \"I don't wonder. You look like you've been through—I don't death about the Cosmic Express! society—\" \"We can go to their office—it's only five minutes. The chap that operates the machine for except between the offices they have scattered about the world. But I know his weak point—\" \"All right, madam. Walk out. minutes later Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding and his pretty\n\n<question>:\nAll of the following factors reveal that the Cosmic Express is in the initial stages of development EXCEPT for\n\n<options>:\nA the qualifications of the operating staff\nB the limited number of receiving stations\nC the disappearance of Violet\nD the lack of micrometer readings\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
1,666 | 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>:\nhave finished.\" The oldster in the stained convalescent suit gave her a quick, shy smile and went back to his aimless smearing in the finger paints. Miss Abercrombie smoothed her smock down over trim hips and surveyed the other patients working at the long tables in the hospital's arts and crafts shop. Two muscular and bored attendants in spotless whites, Through the barred windows of the workshop, rolling green hills were seen, their tree-studded flanks making a pleasant setting for the mental buildings of the hospital and the hills blocked the view of the austere complex of buildings that housed the main wards. The therapist strolled down the line of tables, pausing to give a word of advice here, and a suggestion there. She stopped behind a frowning, intense patient, rapidly shaping blobs of clay into odd-sized strips and forms. As he finished each piece, he \"And what are we making today, Mr. Funston?\" Miss Abercrombie asked. The flying fingers continued to whip out the bits of shaped clay as the patient ignored the question. He hunched closer to his table as if to draw away from the woman. but firmly. \"You've been coming along famously and you must remember to answer when someone talks to you. Now what are you making? It looks very Without looking up from his bench he muttered a reply. \"Atom bomb.\" A few minutes later, one of the attendants glanced at his watch, stood up and stretched. being moved back. A tall, blond patient with a flowing mustache, put one more dab of paint on his canvas and stood back to survey the meaningless smears. He sighed happily and laid down his palette. warm, afternoon sunlight and the door closed behind them. Miss Abercrombie gazed around the cluttered room and picked up her chart made short, precise notes on the day's work accomplished by each patient. The late afternoon sun felt warm and comfortable as she walked the mile to the main administration building where her car was parked. As she drove out of the hospital grounds, Thaddeus Funston stood at the barred window of his locked ward and stared vacantly over the hills towards the craft shop. He stood there unmoving until a ward attendant came and took his arm an hour later to lead him off to the patients' mess hall. The sun set, darkness fell over the stilled hospital grounds and the ward lights winked out at nine o'clock, leaving just a single light burning in each ward office. A quiet wind sighed over the still-warm hills. At 3:01 a.m., Thaddeus Funston stirred in his sleep and awakened. He sat up in bed and looked around the dark ward. The quiet breathing and occasional snores of thirty other sleeping patients filled the room. Funston turned to the window and stared out across the black hills that sheltered the deserted crafts building. He gave a quick cry, shut his eyes and clapped his hands over his face. The brilliance of a hundred suns glared in the night and threw stark shadows on the walls of the suddenly-illuminated ward. An instant later, the shattering roar and blast of the explosion struck Thaddeus Funston took his hands from his face and lay back in his bed men offered timidly. \"Not over three kilotons.\" \"I don't care if it was the size of a peanut,\" Thurgood screamed. \"How did it get here?\" A military intelligence agent spoke up. \"If we knew, sir, we wouldn't be \"And I've got to find out how it happened.\" Thurgood slumped into a field chair and gazed tiredly up at the little expression. \"He did make an atom bomb,\" she cried. Colonel Thurgood, who had snapped from his chair at her words, leaped forward to catch her as she collapsed in a faint. At 4:00 p.m., the argument was still raging in the long, narrow staff room of the hospital administration building. Colonel Thurgood, looking more like a patient every minute, sat on the edge of his chair at the head of a long table and pounded with his fist on the wooden surface, making Miss Abercrombie's chart book bounce with every beat. \"It's ridiculous,\" Thurgood roared. \"We'll all be the laughingstocks of are all nuts. You're in the right place, but count me out.\" At his left, Miss Abercrombie cringed deeper into her chair at the weariness. \"Miss Abercrombie,\" one of the physicists spoke up gently, \"you say that the IQ of an ape could make an atomic bomb out of kid's modeling clay? \"They'd crucify us, that's what they'd do!\" At 8:30 that night, Thaddeus Funston, swathed in an Army officer's greatcoat that concealed the strait jacket binding him and with an officer's cap jammed far down over his face, was hustled out of a small secrecy under the National Atomic Secrets Act, bundled Thaddeus aboard miles up the barren desert wastelands, a cluster of scientists and military men huddled around a small wooden table. Thaddeus in the staff car outside, Colonel Thurgood spoke to the weary A flicker of interest lightened Thaddeus' face. He looked around the atomic scientists watched in fascination. His busy fingers flew through the clay, shaping odd, flat bits and clay parts that were dropped almost aimlessly into the open hemisphere in front of him. Miss Abercrombie stood at his shoulder as Thaddeus hunched over the table just as he had done the previous day. From time to time she glanced at her watch. The maze of clay strips grew and as Funston finished shaping the other half hemisphere of clay, she broke the tense The two psychiatrists went to Thaddeus' side as he put the upper lid of from the shack. There was a moment of hushed silence and then pandemonium burst. The and cameras clicking. For two hours they studied and gently probed the mass of child's clay and photographed it from every angle. Then they left for the concrete observatory bunker, several miles down range where Thaddeus and the psychiatrists waited inside a ring of stony-faced military policemen. \"I told you this whole thing was asinine,\" Thurgood snarled as the scientific teams trooped into the bunker. Thaddeus Funston stared out over the heads of the MPs through the open door, looking uprange over the heat-shimmering desert. He gave a sudden cry, shut his eyes and clapped his hands over his face. A brilliance a hundred times brighter than the glaring Nevada sun lit the dim interior of the bunker and the pneumatically-operated door slammed shut just before the wave of the blast hit the structure. Six hours and a jet plane trip later, Thaddeus, once again in his strait Through the window he could see the hurried bustle of traffic over the Potomac and beyond, the domed roof of the Capitol. In the conference room next door, the joint chiefs of staff were closeted with a gray-faced and bone-weary Colonel Thurgood and his baker's dozen of AEC brains. Scraps of the hot and scornful talk drifted across a half-opened transom into the room where Thaddeus Funston sat in a neatly-tied bundle. In the conference room, a red-faced, four-star general cast a chilling glance at the rumpled figure of Colonel Thurgood. \"I've listened to some silly stories in my life, colonel,\" the general said coldly, \"but this takes the cake. You come in here with an insane asylum inmate in a strait jacket and you have the colossal gall to sit In the next room, Thaddeus Funston stared out over the sweeping panorama of the Washington landscape. He stared hard. In the distance, a white cloud began billowing up from the base of the\n\n<question>:\nWhat are the necessary components for Thaddeus to cause an \"event\"?\n\n<options>:\nA An object and his stare\nB Clay and his stare\nC A physical object\nD His stare, at a particular time of day\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
1,249 | 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>:\nsign 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 according to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I got dressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that my place looked wife-deserted. It had been a bad day they were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was the usual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular, the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon which rung of the ladder you have achieved. The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to the He said, \"Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed it reasons she supposes. pencil was standing on its end. There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hear some of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from the sentence. Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising. one that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: \"Garbage picked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. I love you.\" What can you do when the girl loves you? exercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to be him, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and the impulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and he \"Here!\" he said, holding out a deck of cards, \"For Pete's sake, look at they're not marked! All I know is five straight....\" somebody else has four aces....\" rest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at that moment. to a lamp. Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time at brightened up considerably. \"I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office,\" he said. \"You know, I think this would make an item for the paper.\" He grinned and nodded toward the pandemonium. uptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe he \"Not in the least,\" I said. \"Come on over here. I've got something for was too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letter \"Well,\" McGill said, \"nothing you've told me is impossible or 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 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 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 his head. Then he brightened. \"I have an idea. Maybe we can have a He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. \"Have you any must have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. \"Do you think \"Did you accumulate all that change today?\" \"No. During the week.\" He shook his head. \"In that case, no. Discounting the fact that you would be actually tell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see if they all come up heads.\" \"Well,\" I said, \"what more do you want?\" \"Great Scott,\" he said, and sat down. \"I suppose you know that there are two great apparently opposite principles governing the 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 against it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidental He shook his head. \"No. All I mean is that improbable things usually I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of the \"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 frowning look. heard one of them say to Danny, \"I don't know what the hell's going anything like it.\" replaced by looks of suspicion and then determination. Mr. Graham?\" he asked. \"I don't know what's going on around here, but fenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious right?\" Was I all right! \"I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what to \"Of course I'm all right. But why....\" sure you're all right?\" \"Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham,\" was all he said. 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. \"But so far as I can see,\" Molly answered, \"it's mere probability, and 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?\" 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 mainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field, 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 \"Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?\" has a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agree it does not convert what it feeds on it merely rearranges it into a \"I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea about \"Because I don't think this thing got going before today and repairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen. \"I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister,\" he said with strong disapproval. \"Not exactly broken to explain to me what had happened with the phone. \"You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced the impulses. Yes, I know how you feel,\" he said, seeing my expression. McGill raised an eyebrow. \"If all this, as you call it, will let us.\" but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved in some mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?\" \"He's got a theory,\" said Molly. \"Come and eat with us and he'll tell and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made the \"If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham,\" Danny said, \"it's at the 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. expression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out a pick, his face pink with exasperation. a baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to the which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience had Molly lit a cigarette and said, \"I suppose this is all part of it, \"Hey! What's the idea?\" snarled the sour-looking man. licked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. The\n\n<question>:\nWhat wouldn't Mr. Graham likely wish for at the beginning of the story?\n\n<options>:\nA better weather\nB kinder neighbors\nC his wife to come home\nD a better job\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
444 | 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 suffering, but I could recognize it. \"You yourself have said it,\" I told him. \"I am a being of logic, just Then he cried suddenly, \"But I am your friend, Robert!\" then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it. A tear was trickling down my cheek. Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with satisfaction. His dream was perfect laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow, glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay stern—all the children of his brain. Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified, of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part: \"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy superior to ourselves in every way . challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy the Invaders!\" Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the mechanism to \"Etaoin Shrdlu,\" principally because he hated double-talk. There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow defiling the air they floated in and below them, a pitiful huddle of 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. strangled voice. \"Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the streets....\" His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it. Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately. \"They have to,\" he told her grimly. \"There will be panics and suicides, and they know it but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough.\" The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared 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. There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty gurgle and died, leaving silence again. Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms She was after him, clinging to his arms. \"No, Peter! Don't go in there! Peter! \" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward. range of vision. Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin, Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin. In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood, 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 scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened. \" ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous. \" He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first 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 fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in the room. It was a scream to split eardrums out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much sooner. \"But where is she?\" Peter complained. \"You still haven't explained why Arnold frowned. \"All right,\" he said. \"I guess you're strong enough to take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children, and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go, \"But why?\" Peter whispered. Arnold's strong jaw knotted. \"We're hiding,\" he said. \"Everything else has failed.\" Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at 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.\" Arnold laughed harshly. \"You are. You've got to be. You're part of our last hope, you see.\" \"Our last hope?\" the left of the airlock— The Avenger . He stepped away now, and joined the group a little distance away, silently waiting. 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.\" \"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. \"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 they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer.\" can't fight them , but a superman could. That's our only chance. Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?\" She choked, \"But why can't you take me along?\" too. You'd be their murderer.\" Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone boys !\" he slumped down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate. of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out, The Avenger curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and the silence pressed in about him. mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was were searching for.\" His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. \"You are. Your brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours can kill the Invaders, Robert.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy was Robert the only choice for returning to Earh?\n\n<options>:\nA He was the only changeling-child who grew to have no fear.\nB He was the only changeling-child who had not been destroyed\nC He was the only one will the powerfully strong talons that could defeat the Invaders\nD He was the strongest of the group\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
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