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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>:\nWhat cities in the post-Brexit era could learn from a 14th-century trading bloc 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. 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.\" 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. \"Cities both exist within nations and transcend nations. Their power lies not just in the extent of 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.\" 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. Yet for all the potential pitfalls, city states can thrive. Look at Singapore, Hong Kong, or de facto city states like Dubai and Abu Dhabi. One of the most telling characteristics about these four – all of course former British imperial enclaves – is that they are utterly outward looking. To return to the sky analogy, it's the airlines of each of these (Singapore Airlines, Cathay Pacific, Emirates and Etihad) that open up each respective city to the world in the way that the machinery of the Hanse did on the Baltic Sea 600 years ago. And it's the unions each city makes with other places that also look thoroughly Hanseatic in character. A model for modern city states, then. But is it one that we want? \"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\n\n<question>:\nAccording to the author, how should progressive urban cities function differently than states?\n\n<options>:\nA They should expand their operations into more rural areas to bring economic prosperity to those regions\nB They should maintain an isolationist approach from other cities as well as rural areas within their own nations\nC They should partner and contend with other cities to form international networks of commerce\nD They should work establish a symbiotic relationship with their states to ensure longevity of both entities\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>:\nThis was the endless problem of all spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men tomorrow on what they had eaten today! 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. Slimeheads remember the H. M. S. the stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequent bite he ate to a superior grade of sake the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook was 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. 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 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 the carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not. \"Belly-Robber,\" he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea, you eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this Schweinerei you are feeding me.\" Captain Winkelmann blotted his chin 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.\" imploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The big man's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed. \"You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain,\" I said. I gazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding. \"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, by that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain at 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. \"We are not amused,\" said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a second helping of the pseudo-turkey. \"You are improving, Belly-Robber, but only arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to require Captain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embark on an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their last few days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and many memories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men had Captain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advice that would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, when Winkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook. Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cards interested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability alien to his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'd 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 \"I understand,\" Winkelmann growled. \"You intend that your latest mess should feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right?\" \"Remarkable, Bailey,\" I said. \"It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about with 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 table and tenderly lifted a small \"steak\" onto each of our plates. \"Try it,\" he urged the Captain. ripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewed the cap. \"Ketchup,\" he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey's masterpiece. \"The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.\" Lifting a hunk of the \"steak,\" streaming ketchup, to his mouth, \"That's better,\" Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He said meditatively, \"Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I have sufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep a bottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber.\" \"But, Sir....\" Bailey began. \"You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threat to the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealistic slops for another hundred days, without the small consolation of \"Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship's Surgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain,\" Winkelmann said. and tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey, red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann as though daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of the I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses were now strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults of irony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that was a price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmann 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. Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tasted of salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment were 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 Captain may be a hard man, Bailey but he did know how to coax maximum performance out of his Ship's Cook.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhich is the best description of the impact of ketchup being a personal effect?\n\n<options>:\nA It showed how dedicated the captain was to his ploy to get the cook to be more creative\nB It made the rest of the crew angry that they did not have condiments of their own\nC It took away from the weight allowances of the rest of the crew, showing how selfish the captain is\nD It showed how little the captain thought of the cook's abilities, if he expected to use all of the ketchup he brought\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>:\nand sewed up tight. Sure, the crystals are deadly, but I was smuggling them legitimately, in a manner of speaking, for this doctor to experiment with. He wasn't hear the words in my mind. But they didn't match what the judge was saying. I stood there gaping like a beached fish while I sorted it out. Then I croaked, \"Jupiter! What for? Are you running outa space in stir? Want to choke me to death in chlorine instead?\" Being civil to the court didn't seem important just then. Jupiter was worse than the pen, a lot worse. Jupiter was a death sentence. he said. \"Every spaceman has, I am sure. Insect-like creatures who Suddenly I smelled a rat as big as an elephant. That whole Kooleen been able to figure how they'd cracked my setup.... At the thought my larynx froze up tight. This was worse than I'd thought. Government men trapping me and then beaming at me. And a full pardon. And a reward. Oh, no! I told myself, it wasn't possible. Not when I already had more counts against me than a cur has fleas. Not unless it was a straight suicide mission! Crude, but it was all I could squeeze out. I squeezed out more when I saw those pictures, though. Those inhabitants were charming, just charming if you like scorpions. Well, a cross between a scorpion and a grasshopper, to be accurate. Floating among that red stuff, they showed up a kind of sickly purple turning to gangrene around the edges. The bleat of anguish that accompanied my first view of those beauties He shrugged, trying for nonchalance. \"About the size of a man, I collapsed onto my chair. A crafty-eyed buzzard across the table leaned toward me. \"So this is the great Casey Ritter, daredevil of the Solar System!\" he sneered. into a sea of ammonia among man-size scorpions just for the hell of and after awhile I braced him. when we met, and then I asked him what's his rap this trip. \"Oh, a pretty good jolt if they can keep hold of me,\" he says. \"I just \"Oh, no!\" I moaned. \"What were you trying to do, start a feud between us and Mars?\" He shrugged, but his little black-currant eyes began to sparkle with real passion, the high voltage kind that only a woman in a million, or and flawless, I'm a-shoutin', not a flaw!\" His eyes watered at the memory, yearning like a hound-dog's over a of them idiotic scorpions that lives on Jupiter. I sold her the if it wasn't so much trouble to dig 'em out—\" He went off into a dream \"You mean those scorpions have really got brains?\" people! And not ferocious, neither, in spite of how they look, if you just leave 'em alone. That's all they want, just to be left alone. Peace an' quiet, and lots of methane and ammonia and arsenic, that's fer them. Besides, the space suit rig you got to wear, they can't bite nails, I bit myself. So I faced it. Casey Ritter lost his nerve, and alive. That thought ate me to the quick, and I began to wonder if it was too late, after all. I could hardly wait for morning to come, so those scorpions, and how he'd made Akroida mad. I found out that them scorpions can't stand yeller. It just plain some perfume that drives them nuts the other way sorta frantic with remember, don't use but a drop. It's real powerful.\" II Real powerful, said the man. What an understatement! But the day I was set adrift in that sea of frozen ammonia clouds mixed with nice cozy methane gas I sure prayed for it to be powerful, and I clutched that tiny bottle like that boy Aladdin clutching his little old lamp. \"These—\" he had proclaimed with a disdainful flourish, like a placer That twitch of the nose riled me no little. \"I ain't failed yet!\" I looming ahead bigger than all outdoors and the Red Spot dead ahead. I patted my pretty enameled suit, which was a study in paris green and passionate purple. was as nervous as a cat with new kittens. Feeling again for my little bottle of horrid stench, I breathed a prayer to the god of idiots and whole universe was a fierce, raw luminous red. Out beyond it at first there had been fringes of snow-white frozen ammonia, but now it was all The stuff was plants! Plants as big as meadows, bright red, floating that the ammonia around them wasn't frozen any more and peeked at the hopper-scorp traveling straight toward me, sort of rowing along with my Scorpion-Come-Hither lure on the chest of my spacesuit, opened the intimate—or rather, the taps were. There was even a rather warm expression discernible in the thing's eyes, so I took heart and decided to ignore the ferocious features surrounding those eyes. After all, the then he examined me with it just like an old-time earl with one of close enough to get a whiff.... A shudder of ecstasy stiffened him. His head and eyes rolled with it, and he wafted closer still. Right there I began to harbor a premonition that there might be such a thing as being too popular in Scorpdom, but He lolled his hideous cranium practically on my shoulder. \"Anything! Just anything you desire, my dearest friend.\" I tried to back off from him a bit, but the ship stopped me. \"I'm Casey nuts. Then I got a glimmer through my paralyzed gray matter. \"Who named Well, I'd met the first of the brood and was still alive. Not only alive but loved and cherished, thanks to Pard's inventiveness and to mandibles and other embellishments calculated to interest my hosts. natural lump on his back, and he darted away from me. I opened the throttle and tore after him among the immense red blobs that were now beginning to be patterned with dozens of green-and-purple scorpions, Other scorpions oared and floated about in twos and threes in a free and peaceable manner that almost made me forget that I was scared to death of them, and they stared at my boat with only a mild interest that would have taught manners to most of my fellow citizens of Earth. something began to loom out of the mist, and I forgot the playboys and the field workers. It loomed higher and higher. Then we burst out into diameter, and its sides were pierced with thousands of openings through which its nightmare occupants appeared and disappeared, drifting in and out like they had all the time in the world. I stared until my eyeballs felt paralyzed. airlock. III That palace was like nothing on earth. Naturally, you'll say, it's what about Casey Ritter, who hadn't cultivated even a feather? just flew out into mid-air in a room that could have swallowed a city block, skyscrapers and all. It was like a mammoth red cavern, and it glowed like the inside of a red light. No wonder those scorpions like green and purple. What a relief from all that red! here and there as though she was just itching to take a hunk out of shaking the jewels that were hung all over her repulsive carcass, and making the Halcyon Diamond on her chest blaze like a bonfire. bone and sharp as a needle. She pulled an eyeball out about a yard and those hopper-scorps. I didn't need their particular brand of Morse Code ducked his head and fearfully waited. maddened stallion and began to thrash around and flail her couch with\n\n<question>:\nHow would Casey describe most of the scorpions he saw?\n\n<options>:\nA intelligent and fierce\nB huge and curious\nC ugly yet caring\nD terrifying yet peaceful\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 Monster Maker \"Irish!\" Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. \"Irish. The U.S. Cavalry it is!\" His eyes darted over the machines. \"Here. Help me. We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century.\" Marnagan winced. \"You breathing oxygen or whiskey?\" \"There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete picture was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only By RAY BRADBURY \"Get Gunther,\" the official orders read. It weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. nearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and you ended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk of metal death. What a fade-out! \"Irish!\" he heard himself say. \"Is this IT?\" \"Is this what my oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left.\" The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoric rocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supply remembering something. He said it out: \"Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, looked it right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot. here somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us. Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get back to Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a pirate whose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally wins it. As for me—\" he twisted his glossy red face. \"Keeping alive is me hobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order.\" Click nodded. \"Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish. It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor and ?\" Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless and limbless, suddenly. \"Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge!\" \"Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! No horrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts with the creatures at all. \"Irish!\" Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an incline toward the mouth a small cave. \"This way, fella!\" Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. \"They're You enjoyed it, every moment of it.\" \"I did that.\" Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. \"Now, what will we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door?\" \"Let me think—\" didn't know what. Something about these monsters and Gunther and— \"Which one will you be having?\" asked Irish, casually. \"A red one or a blue one?\" doing it. Joking in the face of death.\" \"Me father taught me keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck.\" That didn't please the photographer. \"I'm an Anglo-Swede,\" he pointed out. Marnagan shifted uneasily. \"Here, now. You're doing nothing but anything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and they had sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts. When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used it ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces.\" Marnagan rumbled. \"Where is the dirty son, then!\" \"He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them.\" Hathaway nodded at the beasts. \"People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or from wounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animals like a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it. Maybe— Hathaway said it, loud: \"Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of this mess! Here—\" He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film, Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. \"If anyone is going anywhere, it'll be me does the going.\" \"I can't let you do that, Irish.\" \"Why not?\" \"You'd be going on my say-so.\" \"If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, stand aside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle their profile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into The Lion's Den.\" \"Irish, I—\" \"Shut up and load up.\" Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it. \"Ready, Click?\" \"I—I guess so,\" said Hathaway. \"And remember, think it hard, Irish. Think it hard. There aren't any animals—\" \"Keep me in focus, lad.\" \"All the way, Irish.\" \"What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!\" Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one, monsters! \"And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, you coward!\" \"Smile when you say that, Irish.\" \"Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears in your sweet grey eyes?\" have frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. If that isn't being dangerous—\" The Irishman whistled. \"But, we've got to move , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen. In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source, Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters.\" Click \" Do we, now?\" Irish. Marnagan cursed. \"All right, lad. Let's have at it!\" The monsters returned. A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarming in malevolent anticipation about the two men. \"This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, a sending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on!\" Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contorted \"Click—\" He was fighting hard. \"I—I—sure now. Sure—\" He smiled. \"It—it's only a shanty fake!\" \"Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up.\" Marnagan's thick lips opened. \"It's only a fake,\" he said. And then, irritated, \"Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet!\" Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, and little bubbles danced in his eyes. \"Irish, you forget the monsters. Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily. \"We'll be taking our chances on guard,\" hissed Irish. \"I'll go ahead, draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then, you The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, dropped his gun to the floor. \"Get his gun, Irish.\" Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward. Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. \"Thanks for Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen on their backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard, hid him in a huge trash receptacle. \"Where he belongs,\" observed Irish Irish. \"We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turn up any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project the monsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves?\" Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. \"Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would come riding over the hill—\"\n\n<question>:\nReferring to the passage’s title, who was the “Monster Maker”?\n\n<options>:\nA Click\nB Human imagination\nC Gunther\nD Irish\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>:\nAI: what's the worst that could happen? Stephen Cave: Thinking about the impact of AI is not something that any one discipline owns or does in any very systematic way. So if academia is going to rise to the challenge and provide thought leadership on this hugely important issue, then we’re going to need to do it by breaking down current disciplinary boundaries and bringing people with very different expertise together. I think there are many areas of science where more interdisciplinary engagement would be valuable. Biotech’s another example. In that sense AI isn’t unique, but I think because thinking about AI is still in very early stages, we have an opportunity to shape the way in which we think about it, and build that community. At a recent talk, Naomi Klein said that addressing the challenge of climate change could not have come at a worse time. The current dominant political and economic ideologies, along with growing isolationist sentiment, runs contrary to the bipartisan, collaborative approaches needed to solve global issues like climate change. Do you see the same issues hampering a global effort to respond to the challenges AI raises? Climate change suffers from the problem that the costs are not incurred in any direct way by the industrialists who own the technology and are profiting from it. With AI, that has been the case so far although not on the same scale. There has been disruption but so far, compared to industrialisation, the impact has been fairly small. That will probably change. AI companies, and in particular the big tech companies, are very concerned that this won't go like climate change, but rather it will go like GMOs: that people will have a gut reaction to this technology as soon as the first great swathe of job losses take hold. People speculate that 50m jobs could be lost in the US if trucking is automated, which is conceivable within 10 years. You could imagine a populist US government therefore simply banning driverless cars. And I think the more we understand a technology's relationship with those things, and the more we then consciously try to shape those things, the more we are going to influence the technology. So, for example, developing a culture of responsible innovation. For example, a kind of Hippocratic oath for AI developers. These things are within the realms of what is feasible, and I think will help to shape the future. One of the problems with intervention, generally, is that we cannot control the course of events. We can attempt to, but we don't know how things are going to evolve. The reality is, societies are much too complex for us to be able to shape them in any very specific way, as plenty of ideologies and political movements have found to their cost. There are often unforeseen consequences that can derail a project. I think this is very important because historically, we've had an overwhelming tendency to anthropomorphise. We define what intelligence is, historically, as being human-like. And then within that, being like certain humans. But luckily, we have got to that point in recent years of accepting that we are not the only form of intelligence. But now, AI is challenging that from a different direction. Just as we are accepting that the natural world offers this enormous range of different intelligences, we are at the same time inventing new intelligences that are radically different to humans. And I think, still, this anthropomorphic picture of the kind of humanoid android, the robot, dominates our idea of what AI is too much. And too many people, and the industry as well, talk about human-level artificial intelligence as a goal, or general AI, which basically means like a human. But actually what we're building is nothing like a human. And until now, people have been fairly shy about describing them as intelligent. Or rather, in the history of AIs, we think solving a particular problem would require intelligence. Then we solve it. And then that's no longer intelligence, because we've solved it. Chess is a good example. There was a point I read in something you wrote on our ideas of intelligence that I thought was very interesting. We actually tend to think of intelligence at the societal level when we think about human ability, rather than at the individual level but in the end conflate the two. I think that's a very good point, when we think about our capabilities, we think about what we can achieve as a whole, not individually. But when we talk about AI, we tend to think about that individual piece of technology, or that individual system. So for example if we think about the internet of things and AI, we should discuss intelligence as something encompassed by the whole. Yeah, absolutely. Yes, right now, perhaps it is a product of our anthropomorphising bias. But there is a tendency to see a narrative of AI versus humanity, as if it's one or the other. And yet, obviously, there are risks in this technology long before it acquires any kind of manipulative agency. Robotic technology is dangerous. Or potentially dangerous. But at the same time, most of what we're using technology for is to enhance ourselves, to increase our capacities. And a lot of what AI is going to be doing is augmenting us – we're going to be working as teams, AI-human teams. Where do you think this AI-human conflict, or concept of a conflict, comes from? Do you think that's just a reflection of historical conversations we've had about automation, or do you think it is a deeper fear? I do think it comes both from some biases that might well be innate, such as anthropomorphism, or our human tendency to ascribe agency to other objects, particularly moving ones, is well-established and probably has sound evolutionary roots. If it moves, it's probably wise to start asking yourself questions like, \"What is it? What might it want? Where might it be going? Might it be hungry? Do I look like food to it?\" I think it makes sense, it's natural for us to think in terms of agency. And when we do, it's natural for us to project our own ways of being and acting. And we, as primates, are profoundly co-operative. And so I think it's very natural for us to see AIs in terms of agents. We anthropomorphise them as these kind of android robots. And then we think about, well, you know, are they part of our in-group, or are they some other group? If they're some other group, it's us against them. Who's going to win? Well, let's see. So I think that's very natural, I think that's very human. There is this long tradition, in Western culture in particular, with associating intelligence and dominance and power. It's interesting to speculate about how, and I wish I knew more about it, and I'd like to see more research on this, about how different cultures perceive AI. It's well known that Japan is very accepting of technology and robots, for example. You can think, well, we in the West have long been justifying power relations of a certain kind on the basis that we're 'cleverer'. That's why men get to vote and women don't, or whatever. In a culture where power is not based on intelligence but, say, on a caste system, which is purely hereditary, we’d build an AI, and it would just tune in, drop out, attain enlightenment, just sit in the corner. Or we beg it to come back and help us find enlightenment. It might be that we find a completely different narrative to the one that's dominant in the West. One of the projects the centre is running is looking into what kind of AI breakthroughs may come, when and what the social consequences could be. What do you think the future holds? What are your fears – what do you think could go right and wrong in the short, medium and long term? I think one worry that we haven't talked about is that we've become extremely dependent upon this technology. And that we essentially become deskilled. There's an extent to which the history of civilisation is the history of the domestication of the human species sort of by ourselves, and also by our technology, to some extent. And AI certainly allows for that to reach a whole new level.\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the author view as the purpose of AI\n\n<options>:\nA To eliminate natural selection\nB To achieve ultimate convenience\nC To amplify social improvement\nD To mitigate climate threats\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>:\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 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>:\nWhat best summarizes Fiss' main motive as discussed in the article?\n\n<options>:\nA He wants to problematize the U.S. constitution and its values.\nB He wants to build animosity against contemporary liberals.\nC He wants to highlight problems with free speech.\nD He wants to teach minority and underrepresented groups how to gain true free speech for themselves.\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>:\ngently hellish, from the viewpoint of the to have nothing to do with him. But surface of the Moon's far side, and, to Earth. the Big Crack's edge, above the shack and the landing field and the Quite accidentally, he developed of the physical appearance of hell. By day the environment was heat and torment. By night—lunar night, of course, and lunar day—it was frigidity the horizon from Lunar City with Moon. All freight had to be hauled to Earth. The rocket went around the equator of the Earth. the landing field marks with magnesium no strictly lunar material which Crack would have had to shut down. the side of the Moon that Earth is nothing like it on Earth, of course. descended into it to examine the exposed of the Moon before its craters opened in the ship's side. But nothing marble on the Moon. Naturally! Yet from the Big Crack's edge. It looked like a dust-heap thirty feet high, and it was. The outside was surface had to be knocked cold and shipped Early one lunar morning he was of Lunar City. Which was more impossible still. air-tight bulkheads for safety, and a the westward poured out monstrous It curved downward. The rockets on the Moon. But it wasn't fun, even underground. In the Moon's slight gravity, of agoraphobia. With such an aid, a cubbyhole, and feel solidity above It was an altogether clumsy landing. The ship was not even perfectly vertical landing-area marked by silvery triangles. One of its tail-fins crumpled slightly. It tilted a little when fully whimpering, to the Moon to get far no way to get around him. It was difficult to get away from the mine, within half a mile, an air-lock door the low gravity to tear a man's came out of the lock. No space-suited kinks in his head to survive. And down with the singular deliberation of falling objects on the Moon. those kinks— on the far side of the Moon. in low gravity—long enough to be utterly unable to face and half the rocketship was dazzling the idea of open spaces. Even now white and half was blacker than The first men to leave the colony It was just barely past lunar sunrise over their heads so they didn't have but there were some tougher didn't come from Lunar City, but why. He did not even wildly connect The air-lock was perfectly normal He pulled the outer door shut and jerk which removed it. \"Don't come in!\" he said mockingly. \"And I don't give a damn about how you are. This isn't social. memories. They were not sharp, though, and he hunted up Sattell again to find out if he was right. It's business!\" lock-door. He saw that the interior plastic. The walls were bare insulation, a rocketship from Lunar City got and went out the air lock. He usually weapon. It drew blood. It was wanton, savage brutality. \"Pay attention!\" snarled the red-headed man. \"A stickup, I said! Get reached the moondozer about the of jagged crater-walls. It slowed, and therefore, he wanted to hurt. \"Move!\" he rasped. \"I want the from Lunar City! Bring 'em!\" Pop licked blood from his lips and the man with the weapon raged at him. to cover up the cargo. It was necessary. at space-shadow temperature, the foil quivering if he wasn't used to space or the feel of one-sixth gravity on the Moon. He panted: swing over your shack! The rocket-blast smashes it! We burn you down! Then we swing over the cable melts it! You die and everybody that space-travel—then, at its memories of his wife—and the way savagery due to terror. But, of course, Pop was helpless to resent it. There were no weapons on the he'd felt about her—and some fugitive could do nothing. sealed it. The outer door opened. Outrushing air tugged at Pop. After to the ground. side of the Moon, Pop Young had cannister with greasy-seeming white crystals shaped like two pyramids base to base. The filled cannister would weigh a hundred pounds on Earth. Here it weighed eighteen. But on Earth its contents would be computed behind the air-apparatus. It rattled hours to urge its disk above the Lunar City ship that would be due landing strip would destroy shack were only stars overhead and the keep you from holding him down there. But he won't know his friends gravity—tended to lose all confidence \"No,\" said Pop, \"they'll do it anyhow. If we were able to tell about 'em, they'd be chased. But if I'm Moon in the first place because Sattell So they'll do all they can no matter grisly humor—Pop didn't even hate when they stopped. One-sixth gravity. so for the far side of the Moon. He was a rather fussy unfailing source of extreme low He tore bed linen from his bunk froze solidly out of it there, stress. On the Moon, it was not desirable that diamonds be exposed to repeated violent changes of temperature. moisture froze, and lumps of water the men in the rocket were shaky and its bulb, exposing the filament within. in balance. He poured the frigid, Outside the shack, jagged stony craters complained of the bombardment pushed the cannister-top down. He break a frozen-brittle switch as it descended. When it came off, the magnesium in contact with it and between two particular rocket-landings abomination of desolation which was He checked over the moondozer. Tall, jagged crater-walls rose from the lunar plain. Monstrous, extended floated low at the edge of things and seemed to hate all creation. whined. His suit sagged against his the inner door, the hand-weapon pounds on Earth. live on the surface of the far side of the Moon, whether anybody else \"Any tricks,\" he rasped, \"and you know what happens!\" to the lunar state of things. Living on the Moon was bad enough down, inside the ship, from some had made no overt attempt to revenge himself because he planned some retaliation so horrible and lingering the outer. Air rushed out. He ferocity. And fear. In his mind the need to escape became an obsession on top of the other psychotic states normal to a Moon-colonist. There was the most luridly bright leave. There was Pop. He couldn't The rocketship was still in the act in liquid oxygen is not quite as He wrote with the desperate, impassioned, frantic blend of persuasion and information and genius-like invention of a prisoner in a high-security the trip back to Earth. And it blew, nothing. The Moon swung in vast circles about the Earth, and the Earth to the Moon's surface. On the Moon, swung sedately about the Sun. The to ply between Earth and Moon. It looked like a perfect set-up. 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, and fame hitherto reserved for honest explorers! the plastic zestfully on the table There were just two passenger them. He began to plan, gloatingly, the thing he would carve out of a four-inch section of the plastic. When it and shielded from all reasons for happens when a self-centered alarm. And they couldn't be. Something and complacent individual unsuspectingly looks out of a spaceship blindness against reality. It is shattering. not endure his own smallness in the face of immensity. Not one passenger disembarked even for Lunar City. Most of them cowered in their 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\n\n<question>:\nWhat makes the far side of the moon intolerable?\n\n<options>:\nA extreme temperatures\nB loud noises from the mines\nC social isolation\nD vicious predators\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>:\n\"They've found the tractor,\" McIlroy said. the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Some men just haven't got good sense. They just can't seem to learn the most fundamental things. Like when there's no use trying—when it's time to give up because it's hopeless.... long.\" \"You're a genius, man!\" Jones exclaimed. \"No,\" Evans answered, \"a Welshman, nothing more.\" hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand was paid for. The rest was promissory notes and grubstake shares. When he was broke, which he had a fortune in chromium. The chromite petered out in a month and a claim.\" \"Claim?\" \"Sure, man, I've thousands of tons of water here. It's the richest mine half, and he was lucky to break even. reserve—plus one is five—plus sixteen days normal supply equals twenty-one days to live. In seventeen days he might be missed, but in seventeen days it would be dark again, and the search for him, if it ever began, could not begin for thirteen more days. At the earliest it would be eight days too late. position. \"Batteries must be dead,\" he told himself. \"What batteries?\" he asked. \"There're no batteries in here, the power He thought this one out carefully. The generator was not turned by the used. It was one day's supply if used wastefully. It was ostentatious luxury for a man with a month's supply of water and twenty-one days to live. McIlroy decreased the density again until the room was comfortably to function properly, and to prevent air loss in case of the highly improbable meteor damage. McIlroy thought that on the whole, he was disobeying his own orders no more flagrantly than anyone else in the survey. McIlroy had no illusions about his ability to lead men. Or rather, he did have one illusion he thought that he was completely unfit as a leader. It was true that his strictest orders were disobeyed with cheerful contempt, but it was also true his mildest requests were complied with eagerly and smoothly. Everyone in the survey except McIlroy realized this, and even he accepted this without thinking about it. He had fallen into the habit of suggesting mildly anything that he wanted done, and writing orders he didn't particularly care to have obeyed. For example, because of an order of his stating that there would be no alcoholic beverages within the survey building, the entire survey was assured of a constant supply of home-made, but passably good liquor. Even McIlroy enjoyed the surreptitious drinking. \"How do you do, Mr. Phelps,\" McIlroy greeted him. \"I'll certainly be glad to get them off my hands,\" McIlroy said. \"I hope they're in good order.\" \"There doesn't seem to be any profit,\" Mr. Phelps said. \"That's par for a nonprofit organization,\" said McIlroy. \"But we're amateurs, and we're turning this operation over to professionals. I'm sure it will be to everyone's satisfaction.\" \"Well,\" said McIlroy, \"that's not so silly. I don't know either.\" \"Well, there you are,\" laughed McIlroy, \"it isn't that time doesn't mean threatened to tear several of the mirrors loose. \"What happened here?\" Spotty Cade, one of the electrical technicians asked his foreman, Cowalczk, over the intercommunications radio. \"I've got about a hundred pinholes in the cables out here. It's no wonder they don't work.\" rumble.\" \"Sounds pretty bad.\" \"Could have been worse,\" said Cowalczk. commented. \"That could hurt,\" Cowalczk admitted, \"but there was only one of them.\" right, or something very much like it. One of the crystals that he thought was quartz turned out to be calcite, and one of the ones that he was sure could be nothing but calcite was actually potassium nitrate. out. At this time he was visiting with his old friend McIlroy. \"I swear, Mac,\" said Jones, \"another season like this, and I'm going back to mining.\" \"I thought you were doing pretty well,\" said McIlroy, as he poured two McIlroy had heard all of this before. \"How's that?\" he asked politely. \"You may think it's myself running the ship,\" Jones started on his tirade, \"but it's not. The union it is that says who I can hire. The union it is that says how much I must pay, and how large a crew I need. And then the Commission ...\" The word seemed to give Jones an unpleasant taste in his mouth, which he hurriedly rinsed with a sip of Scotch. \"The Commission,\" he continued, making the word sound like an obscenity, McIlroy noticed that his friend's glass was empty, and he quietly filled it is that says what I'll sell it for. If I had my way, I'd charge only fifty cents a pound for freight instead of the dollar forty that the Commission insists on. That's from here to Earth, of course. There's no \"Why not?\" asked McIlroy. He knew the answer, but he liked to listen to \"What good would it do to charge fifty cents a pound?\" asked McIlroy. and not worth mining here the low-grade ores of uranium and vanadium, they need these things on Earth, but they can't get them as long as it \"Even though I say it who shouldn't, two-eighty a quart is too much to pay for water.\" Both men fell silent for a while. Then Jones spoke again: half. Can't you get in touch with him by radio?\" \"He isn't carrying one. Most of the prospectors don't. They claim that a \"Oh, of course,\" McIlroy grinned as he refilled the glasses. \" Slainte, McIlroy, bach. \" [Health, McIlroy, man.] \" thought grew on him as he worked that this couldn't be the only such resolved not to leave the tractor again, and reluctantly abandoned his \"How come we have to blow the boilers now?\" asked Lehman. \"Because I say so,\" Cowalczk shouted, surprised at his outburst and \"What's going on out there?\" demanded McIlroy on the intercom. \"Sorry,\" McIlroy said, realizing that this was no time for officials. power in it to crush the scale.\" McIlroy released a statement today that Howard Evans, a prospector is missing and presumed lost. Evans, who was apparently exploring McIlroy has expressed a hope that Evans will be found before his dark. Little hope is held for radio contact with the missing man as it is believed he was carrying only short-range, intercommunications equipment. Nevertheless, receivers are ... Captain Nickel Jones was also expressing a hope: \"Anyway, Mac,\" he was saying to McIlroy, \"a Welshman knows when his luck's run out. And never a word did he say.\" \"Like as not, you're right,\" McIlroy replied, \"but if I know Evans, he'd never say a word about any forebodings.\" \"Well, happen I might have a bit of Welsh second sight about me, and it tells me that Evans will be found.\" McIlroy chuckled for the first time in several days. \"So that's the \"Well, yes,\" Jones answered. \"I thought that it might happen that a McIlroy for a moment, and when he moved slightly in his sleep, she McIlroy woke up slowly. He leaned back in his chair and stretched. His \"Any news?\" asked McIlroy. McIlroy was fully awake. He glanced at Phelps and wondered how long it had been since he had slept last. More than that, McIlroy wondered why this banker, who had never met Evans, was losing so much sleep about finding him. It began to dawn on McIlroy that nearly the whole search. The director turned to ask Phelps about this fact, but the banker was It was three hours later that McIlroy woke Phelps.\n\n<question>:\nOf the options presented, which represents McIlroy's greatest flaw as a leader?\n\n<options>:\nA He is too lenient\nB He is hypocritical\nC He is too strict\nD He is untrustworthy\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>:\nsense of humor, though, even in the Ultroom! HB73782. Ultroom error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer scream—half from hurt and half from sudden lack of confidence in his child. \"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.\" just—just plain nuts, Nancy!\" \"Don't you think I know it?\" Nancy said tearfully. \"I feel like I'm going crazy. I can't say I dreamt it because there was Reggie with his bleeding knees, squalling for all he was worth on the grass—Oh, I don't even want to think about it.\" \"We haven't lost Reggie, Nancy, remember that. Now why don't you try When her husband did not answer, her head sank to her arms on the \"Nancy, for heaven's sake, of course I believe you. I'm trying to Nancy shook her head in her arms. \"They'd—never—believe me either,\" \"I'm going with you,\" Nancy said, hurriedly rising and coming over to him. \"We'll go up and look at him together.\" They found Reggie peacefully asleep in his crib in his room upstairs. They checked the windows and tucked in the blankets. They paused in the room for a moment and then Martin stole his arm around his wife 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 The police sergeant looked at the father, at Nancy and then at the Nancy had taken a sedative and was asleep by the time Martin finished over to his assistant and took the baby. Together they walked out the 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 \"One of them was the same man!\" she cried. Martin gasped, sinking into a chair with the baby. \"I believed them,\" doctors. One of them was the same man who tried to take the baby this guy carrying your baby, don't you think?\" \"Thank God you woke up, Nancy,\" Martin said. \"I'd have let them have the baby.\" He reached over and smoothed the sleeping Reggie's hair. Nancy, who was rocking the boy, narrowed her eyes. \"I wonder why they want our baby? He's just like any other baby. We don't have any money. We couldn't pay a ransom.\" \"Reggie's pretty cute, though,\" Martin said. \"You will have to admit that.\" Together they rose and walked around the room. They found him in a corner, eyes open, tongue protruding. He was dead. If we keep Reggie in the house much longer he'll turn out to be a hermit,\" Martin said at breakfast a month later. \"He needs fresh air and sunshine.\" they were coming back. They probably got somebody else's baby by this moved slowly across the summer sky and a warm breeze rustled the trees. It would be a crime to keep Reggie inside on a day like this, Nancy thought. So she called Mrs. MacDougal, the next door neighbor. Mrs. MacDougal was familiar with what had happened to the Laughtons and she agreed to keep an eye on Nancy and Reggie and to call the police at the first sign of trouble. With a fearful but determined heart Nancy moved the play pen and set it up in the front yard. She spread a blanket for herself and put Reggie in the pen. Her heart pounded all the while and she watched the street for any strangers, ready to flee inside if need be. Reggie just gurgled with delight at the change in environment. This peaceful scene was disturbed by a speeding car in which two men were riding. The car roared up the street, swerved toward the parkway, tires screaming, bounced over the curb and sidewalk, straight toward the child and mother. Reggie, attracted by the sudden noise, looked up to see the approaching vehicle. His mother stood up, set her palms against her cheeks and shrieked. The car came on, crunched over the play pen, killing the child. The mother was hit and instantly killed, force of the blow snapping her \"That's odd. The man who accosted Mrs. Laughton in the afternoon was bitten by their dog. Later that night she said she shot the same man reclining. Even as he lay, his mouth held a hint of a smile. Arvid 6—for John Smith was 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 \"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 when her husband mistook me for you and you let him take me apart 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 idea of taking Reggie right out of his play pen. 'Watch me take that child right out from under its mother's nose' were your exact words. And before I could stop you, you did. Only you forgot an important the poor thing by suggesting suffocation to it that night. didn't even come close to getting the child. 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 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 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 of pneumonia for the two-year-old. A simple procedure. It wouldn't 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 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?\" whatever you say.\" \"You remember the chief said it's all right to take him with me, Matthews,\" Tendal 13 told the jailer. \"Yes, I remember,\" the jailer said mechanically, letting them both out several with no luck. Arvid 6, an amused set to his mouth and devilment in his eyes, watched 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 Nancy allow the man claiming to be her brother to take her child?\n\n<options>:\nA She believes that she can trust her brother with Reggie.\nB She knows that Reggie is actually Kanad, and feels no attachment toward him.\nC She is hypnotized by Arvid 6, who is posing as her nonexistent brother.\nD She is being bribed by Tendal 13 and Arvid 6 to give Reggie away.\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>:\nEarth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. Quest III , as for forty hours the ship had decelerated. nebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement men and women, they the same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the the oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been born in the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in low voices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what might lie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III Quest III's captain, came slowly down the narrow but as the immense stores were spent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spread out from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship was them with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, \"We've sighted Earth.\" A feverish buzz arose identified it—no more.\" But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed round remember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer.... He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, \"What did you think might have happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years.\" \"That's just it,\" said Lesra shakily. \"Nine hundred years have gone by— Quests returned successful, or if they returned at all. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It's possible—not likely, though—that something has happened to break civilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has been The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending Lesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either. He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the Quest III's fuel stores and the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so the Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundred Earth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years older than when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along the time axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks and months had passed for the Quest III in interstellar flight while years and decades had raced by on the home world. since leaving Earth. \"Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twice Procyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned after an absence of not much over twenty years Earth time. \"It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We go its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If success comes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the Quest ships \"We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probably true—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that we may complete our search without finding even one new Earth. \"It makes no difference, of course one world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this ship and its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor and energy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained and exhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selfless and transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids, or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of the twentieth century. \"Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy are the result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, and Quests . Perhaps our effort will prove as futile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter to very many people to other stars but Earth could at least go into its decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward, expanding limitlessly into the Universe.... \"Hopeless, unless we find planets!\" Omega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away.... \"Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the Quest III of aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enough fuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth after more than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, and perhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory. \"That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other Quests , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, according to the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if the other expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstable overpopulation. \"Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget about Earth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to a decree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may be forgotten back there? Earth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been able to alter that. such collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could have been done. The Quest III's collision armor was nonmaterial and for practical purposes invulnerable. interstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said, \"Now—attacked by what?\" \"Ships,\" said Gwar Den helplessly. \"Five of them so far. No, there's a Quest III's framework. The There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts. Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The Quest III shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millions of horsepower behind them \"Well?\" he snapped. \"What are they doing?\" Gwar Den spoke. \"There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, and whatever was hitting the Quest III's shell was doing it at velocities where the distinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist. the ship the impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and opposite The people in the Quest III would have felt nothing at all of the vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that their Earth. At least, I suspect the answer's there.\" The Quest III bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even if one were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating or paying attention to him. The men on the Quest III's bridge looked questions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashed Quest III , except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Their as it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of human origin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxy they had explored, but one of the other Quests might have encountered and been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able to conquer. It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by a hours.\" \"We'll have reached Earth before then,\" Gwar Den said hopefully. \"If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first.\" repeating on each the same brief recorded message: \"Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition Quest III ....\" And so on, identifying themselves and protesting that they were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, and multiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greater amounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, but from Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart Quest III's ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehow frightened it. So it was trying to frighten them.\n\n<question>:\nOf the following, which is the best plausible explanation for the behavior of the Earthen ships?\n\n<options>:\nA Since the Quest III trip promised to locate more planets, the current Earthens didn't trust them when they learned of their success because of how unlikely it was.\nB Since the Quest III trip promised to locate more planets, the current Earthens didn't trust them when they learned of their failure.\nC Since the Quest III trip promised to locate more natural resources, the current Earthens didn't trust them when they learned of their failure.\nD 900 years passed on Earth. The populations were different enough that the Quest III Earthens scared the current Earthen population.\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>:\nHis house was dancing. It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one's one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions. But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject to begin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking so deeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too many people were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum Dome 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 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. from the blackness of the living room. \"These are not Optimum Dome Conditions!\" the voice wailed. \"The temperature is not rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job. \"I told 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 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 \"What have I done?\" Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock. \"I'm not sure what's going to come of this,\" he said to Lanfierre with an astonishing amount of objectivity, \"but the entire dome air supply is now coming through my bedroom.\" up the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with a Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker. Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. \"Sometimes his house shakes ,\" Lanfierre said. \"Is there something I can turn?\" Lanfierre asked. ,\" Lanfierre said, shaking his head. ?\" he asked in a somewhat patronizing tone of voice. Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBride was a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. He ,\" Lanfierre murmured. \"I knew that much.\" to MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre had the house toward the side of the dome. \"It says here,\" Fownes shouted over the roaring, \"that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twister and that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land \"I'll tell you something else,\" Lanfierre went on. \"The all close at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden every single window in the place will drop to its sill.\" Lanfierre leaned confines of everyday living 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 first so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city? And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode into \"Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!\" The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with the .\" precipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then, emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quickly mountainous puffs of glass as he went. \"Mrs. Deshazaway!\" he shouted. \"Is there something I can turn?\" Lanfierre asked. Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited, MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and then ,\" Lanfierre said. \"The family of thirsty and clean kids, and he still \"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 Lanfierre nodded. \"I can't wait to see what he's got in there,\" Lanfierre murmured, of his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn't noticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. He had a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and the high-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of the house. At least, he called it buffeting he'd never thought to watch from outside. draw-pull. Every window slammed shut. \"Tight as a kite,\" he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward the the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a more satisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion. to wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they made one gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance as high-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening the Studebaker valve wider and wider.... practical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die.\" 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, particularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. worse for him.\" \"I don't seem to mind the air.\" they'll find out? 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 wasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can't to be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask me a \"But my dear Mr. Fownes,\" she said, leaning across the table. \"We're lost, you and I.\" \"Not if we could leave the dome,\" Fownes said quietly. \"That's impossible! How?\" or is it the other way around? No matter. How would you like the dome.\" \"I see.\" \" \" Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then came 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 look of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt a Lanfierre sighed.) eighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like the unintelligibility. \"Here's one,\" she said to him as he entered. \" Gulliver's Travels. 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 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, obtained the insight. \"If a sound foreign policy can't be created the only alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus the movement into domes began— by common consent of the governments . This is known as self-containment.\" Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lull in the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might be arranged for him to get out. \"Out?\" the leader said, frowning. \"Out? Out where?\" \"Outside the dome.\" \"Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up and leave.\" .\" \"Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is Lanfierre's profession?\n\n<options>:\nA He ensnares and imprisons rogue citizens in the Dome\nB He has no job -- he is a criminal from the Movement\nC He reports instances of divergence from Dome policy\nD He trafficks humans from the outside world into the Dome\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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141
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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>:\nof the afternoon.\" some answers to go with the questions?\" \"I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigator In a back room Tremaine said, \"To everybody but you this is just a visit to the old home town. Between us, there's more.\" Jess nodded. \"I heard you were with the guv'ment.\" \"It won't take long to tell \"I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of these \"That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with the to TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lord intended.\" \"Course,\" said Jess, \"there's always Mr. Bram ...\" hundred years old when I was kid.\" \"Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys his groceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.\" \"Well, what about him?\" \"Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A little touched in the head.\" \"There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember,\" Tremaine said. \"I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me something I've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me. \"I've never seen any harm in Bram,\" said Jess. \"But you know how this town is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bram has blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and he talks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like an ordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right. But we never did know where he came from.\" \"How long's he lived here in Elsby?\" \"Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all about ancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. She was kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that same old place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she died five years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town every Wednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.\" then?\" \"What was the idea of that?\" \"Why Bram?\" Tremaine persisted. \"As far as I know, he never had any dealings to speak of with anybody here in town.\" \"Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy,\" Jess chuckled. \"You never knew about Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.\" Tremaine shook his head. guess she was retired by the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and in her day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. I Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used to think she was some kind of princess....\" \"What about her and Bram? A romance?\" Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling, frowning. \"This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'n her an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was setting her cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over six foot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger to bucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funny about any kind of socializing never would go any place at night. But there and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town, practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancy shay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished off her reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It was ten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she was already old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bram in front of her.\" and eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess. Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights.\" \"After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitely repeating logarithmic sequence, based on—\" he said. \"I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must be \"I guess you're right.\" The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. \"Lots of funny stories about funny noises and lights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place.\" \"I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?\" \"Maybe so.\" The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look. \"There's one story that's not superstition....\" Tremaine waited. \"You—uh—paying anything for information?\" \"I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.\" \"What date was it you wanted?\" \"I'll remember.\" The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the front page. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-American You'll have to come back tomorrow.\" \"What's the matter? Run out of signal?\" \"I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gave doing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.\" out a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedalling all over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county—\" \"The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighs Tell him if he queers this—\" moonshiners.\" \"Don't tell me my job, Tremaine!\" the voice snapped. \"And don't try out Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremaine thought, startled. \"I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll,\" he said. \"You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.\" \"I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, even as a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.\" information. This is an important matter. May I rely on your \"How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?\" \"There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needs to be in the national interest.\" \"I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means, James. I distrust these glib phrases.\" \"I always liked Mr. Bram,\" said Tremaine. \"I'm not out to hurt him.\" \"Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of the year.\" \"What does he do for a living?\" \"I have no idea.\" \"Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolated piece of country? What's his story?\" \"I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.\" \"You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or his last?\" be helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you and it may help him.\" She paused. Tremaine waited. \"Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go with him to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale. \"I'd be grateful for any lead.\" \"Bram fears the thunder.\" asked: me. He smells headlines in this he doesn't want to be left out.\" \"Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'm \"Better get it.\" \"What do you make of it. Jimmy?\" heard....\" \"What did you hear?\" \"They're lookin for the spies.\" \"Who's looking for spies?\" \"Cops.\" \"Who says so?\" me over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em get them spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people around hers.\" \"And you mentioned Bram?\" The boy darted another look at Tremaine. \"They said they figured the \"Anything else?\"\n\n<question>:\nIf you were to recommend this story to someone else, of the following options who'd enjoy it the most?\n\n<options>:\nA Someone who loves true crime and murder mysteries.\nB Someone who loves white-collar crime and historical fiction.\nC Someone who loves mysteries and small-town gossip.\nD Someone who loves small-town gossip and romance.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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1,440
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nGambling's would-be federal regulators--the National Gambling Impact Study Commission--went to Las Vegas this week to hold hearings. In today's dispatch, we learn how gambling's foes seek to demonize wagering as a pernicious tobaccolike vice. In yesterday's dispatch, gambling's foes learn the folly of having brought their anti-sin crusade to an adult Disneyland. The sleek Vegas types, whose Strip palaces scramble casinos, theaters, restaurants, arcades, discos, cabarets, theme parks, concert halls, sports arenas, and museums into one giant orgy of amusement, have been selling the idea that gambling is just entertainment--Disney in the desert. This effort has largely succeeded, because Vegas is still the dominant image of American gambling, if not the dominant reality. The antis, meanwhile, cry that gambling is like cigarettes: unsafe for kids, viciously addictive, deceptively marketed, unhealthy, expensive, and unacceptable unless mightily regulated. Judging by today's hearings and by conversations with most of the commissioners, the tobacco model is winning. Today's panelists tell the commission that kids are starting to gamble too young and are getting addicted too easily, that compulsive gambling appears to be increasing as gambling spreads, that gambling marketing may be designed to addict customers, and that the industry exploits problem gamblers by allowing them to draw repeated credit card advances from ATMs on casino floors. The testimony clearly impresses the commissioners and seems especially to impress the three nonaligned commissioners who will be the swing votes on the June 1999 report. It is starting to become clear what that report will say. The commission won't (and can't) take any grand stand against gambling. Instead it will opt for small, targeted policies, concentrating on compulsive gambling. It will probably propose that casinos and state lotteries fund gambling-addiction research and that casinos take much stronger measures to bar problem gamblers from wagering. The commission may recommend that gaming taxes be used to underwrite treatment of pathological gamblers and that insurance companies be encouraged to cover gambling addiction. Similarly, the commission will try to reduce gamblers' access to cash by limiting the size of ATM advances and prodding casinos to remove the machines from their floors. If the comments of the pro-industry commissioners can be believed, the industry will happily endorse such a report. Gamblers don't quite accept the cigarette analogy--though commission member Bill Bible, a former chief of the Nevada Gaming Commission, did concede that gambling was like alcohol--but they're happy to sign on to the specific measures. The casino industry is even trying to get ahead of the commission. It has already established a (mostly) independent center to fund research into pathological gambling. I suspect that the industry will not only agree to the commission's recommendations but will become their strongest advocate. Casino owners will avidly lobby Congress and state legislatures to enact the recommendations into law. Why should the pro-gamblers cooperate with a critical study? Because it provides superb cover for them. It medicalizes the problem of compulsive gambling, blaming it on psychological abnormality rather than industry machination. Likewise, cracking down on compulsives is also politically cost-effective. In exchange for losing a few compulsive gamblers, the casinos will (falsely) appear more concerned with the health of their customers than with profits. The cigarette agenda will also distract the commission and the public from the true reasons for worry. A few years ago, gambling was confined to Las Vegas and Atlantic City. It is now thriving in 48 states, and there is no sign that anyone can stop it. In this election, gambling interests dropped $100 million on a single California ballot initiative, toppled governors in two states, and bought senators and representatives by the crate. What the commission ought to be investigating is whether the gambling industry has become so powerful that it's politically untouchable. But it can't, because the gambling industry has become so powerful that it's politically untouchable. Talk about quick defeats: The first sign I see outside the MGM Grand ballroom all but declares that the National Gambling Impact Study Commission has already lost. The sign reads: \"National Gaming Impact Study Commission.\" \"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. There are also a fair share of gleeful gambling regulators, bookmakers, and casino employees among the panels of expert witnesses the commission hears from. Critics who gripe about the perils of sports gambling and the evils of convenience store slot machines leaven the pro-gambling folks. Everyone, including the gambling industry shills, agrees that Internet gambling is evil and should be destroyed. Everyone agrees to this because no one in Las Vegas is making any money off Internet gambling. If they were, you can be sure they would explain why it's as American as nickel slots and scratch-off games. 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.\n\n<question>:\nWhat isn't the gambling industry willing to do?\n\n<options>:\nA regulate online gambling\nB donate money for gambling-addiction research\nC donate money to improve other areas of Las Vegas\nD change their term to \"gaming\"\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>:\nwas to laugh! For Click and Irish were \"There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete picture marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only and fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall down against your eighty-five.\" ended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk of directness. \"A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was the \"Is this what pursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed.\" \"Impossible!\" \"I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther.\" A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, lounging They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand of on carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet and listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end over \"Both. The other guy went after the Patrol.\" gravity guns with them in their tight hands. Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air. \"Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!\" quick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reach film, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this from filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther was throwing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of his fragile, bony legs and their atrophied state. thinking \"Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll—\" Overhead, the sun poised mashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or was suffocation a better death...? Sixty minutes. They stood and looked at one another. . And then some way back to Earth.\" through to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, by with except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We got fifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'll It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor and the crash this way.\" down, and the green eyes blazed. They stopped, together. \"Oops!\" Click said. that ?\" They ran back. \"Let's try it again.\" They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened. \"Gravity should not act this way, Click.\" Gunther'd do anything to—did I say anything ?\" scene!\" \"Use your gun.\" \"They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase, eh, Click?\" \"Yeah. Sure. \"Irish!\" he heard himself say. \"Is this IT?\" funny about something didn't know what. Something about these monsters and Gunther and— \"Which one will you be having?\" asked Irish, casually. \"A red one or a me doing it. Joking in the face of death.\" Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. \"What in hell's the use? All this swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it.\" \"Then,\" retorted Marnagan, \"we'll develop it for our own benefit negotiations betwixt me and these pixies.\" anything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and they had sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts. When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used it up arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him: that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So, what's he do is lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, which wounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animals tend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtle then.\" impressions. Quick stuff. \"It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroid monsters complete.\" \"What!\" with pretending to be happy in front of nothing . mess! Here—\" He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film, it'll be me does the going.\" \"I can't let you do that, Irish.\" \"Why not?\" \"You'd be going on my say-so.\" \"Ain't your say-so good enough for me?\" \"If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, stand aside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle their profile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into The \"All the way, Irish.\" \"What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!\" at me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail and ran away!\" \"And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, you coward!\" hunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are part of his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased back into their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothing suspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animals kill them.\" \"Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill.\" have frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. If that isn't being dangerous—\" dead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates they never had a chance to disbelieve them.\" \"If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—\" \"Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident—\" Click stopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head and came from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to come \"Come back? How?\" \"They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if we believe in them again, they'll return.\" Marnagan didn't like it. \"Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—if we believe in 'em?\" in them to a certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen and felt. We only want to see them coming at us again.\" \" Do Irish. A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarming in malevolent anticipation about the two men. \"This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, a \"Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force into your mind! It's not real, I tell you!\" Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you might forget.\" Marnagan showed his teeth. \"Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? And besides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty.\" Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily. \"We'll be taking our chances on guard,\" hissed Irish. \"I'll go ahead, draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then, you show up with your gun....\" \"I haven't got one.\" \"We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. They The strange harsh voice said, \"That's better. Don't try and pick that How'd you get past the animals?\" One wanted, anway. A nice sordid death.\" acting.\" \"What!\" They found themselves in a complete inner world The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank of intricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored film with images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated them into thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius. \"So here we are, still not much better off than we were,\" growled Irish. \"We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turn\n\n<question>:\nWhich best describes the relationship between the protagonists?\n\n<options>:\nA They're friendly but their friendship detracts from their ability to problem-solve and be productive.\nB They're both in a tough situation but their hatred for one another pushes them to work independently.\nC They work together and are able to coordinate with each other pretty well.\nD They don't like each other too much; they put up with each other at best.\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>:\nalong to write up the first trip to Mars. He was always getting me things like that—appearances on TV shows, or mentions in writers' magazines. If he didn't sell Kroger and Pat, brought us right to Kroger and Pat, whole trip. If there are fights or accidents, they won't tell me about them.\" \"Nonsense,\" said Louie, sipping carefully at a paper cup of scalding coffee. \"It'll be just like the (a group of maybe ten, huddling public going along vicariously. \"how'll I go about it? A story? An article? A you-are-there But I said where there's life there's hope, and now he won't talk to me. I congratulated Kroger on the lichen I'd seen, but he just said a short and unscientific word and went to sleep. mouthful of teeth. Kroger says the We're either in a docket or a be, or else). pilot, co-pilot, navigator and biochemist. And, of course, me. I've met all but the pilot (he's very enough. Dwight Kroger, the biochemist, is rather old to take the \"rigors of the journey,\" as he puts it, but the government had a choice between sending a green scientist who could stand the trip or an accomplished man who would probably not survive, so they picked Kroger. We've safety. Kroger told Pat he was Martian whistled like crazy and dragged it away. We'd end up drowned in some grotto in the heart of the planet, says Kroger. jokes in the washroom with the co-pilot. better than starving.\" I didn't quite catch his first name) is scarlet-faced, barrel-chested and gives the general appearance of belonging It is not. of scales. The Martian whistled furiously and went away. When the sleeping cycle here), Kroger talked for some reason or other) and then calling numbers over a microphone to the pilot. His hair is red and curly, and he looks as too. So far, all he's said is, \"Scram, I'm busy.\" Kroger tells me that the pilot's . Kroger during blastoff. The inertial gravities didn't bother me so much as the gyroscopic spin they put on the the stream while they're watching us, being careful not to get their lips (all sugar, of course) wet. He (Kroger spelled that word on the way to the galley (the \"I don't get it,\" I said politely, when he'd finished his spiel. \"Simple,\" he said, as though he were addressing me by name. \"They have a twofold reason to fear water. One: by complete solvency in that medium, they lose all energy I still haven't met the pilot. \"So now what do we do?\" \"We remove our boots,\" said Kroger, sitting on the ground and Kroger shrugged. \"We'll have to to go down fighting than to die of starvation.\" But there's some kind of a \"drag.\" I told him I hoped it didn't mean place no matter how much we spin. we'd land on Mars upside down. He just stared at me. space. It's been done much better in the movies. There's just no awesomeness to it, no sense of depth or immensity. It's as impressive as a piece of velvet with salt sprinkled sounding like a locomotive whistle gone berserk. We made the surface in another Kroger. He said there was a good and Kroger finished his coffee and to stay and that it's urgent to return and tell what we've learned about Mars (we know there are sugar). \"Why,\" I said, \"can't we just tell it on the radio?\" poem, sort of. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, \"Because,\" said Pat, \"if we tell we may be lucky and get a parade.\" \"Maybe even money,\" said Kroger, whose mind wasn't always them now, by the time we get back we'll be yesterday's news. This way \"But they'll ask why we didn't radio the info, sir,\" said Jones uneasily. accurate, but that I should stick to shortly after landing.\" prose. Well, it's time for takeoff. Mars, so escape velocity didn't have to be so fast, hence a smoother (relatively) trip on our shock-absorbing bunks. I'll be the one to quit. Kroger is busy in his cramped lab space trying to classify the little . They didn't take as long as I thought they would, except for . Kroger says all those sly digs at the aristocracy, with copious interpolations by Mr. Thackeray in case you didn't get it when he'd pulled a particularly With Martian rime, Venusian slime, Earth for instructions. We can't. Here we are, somewhere in a void headed for Earth, with enough air and water left for maybe three days—if the Martians don't take any more. Kroger is thrilled that he is And a radioactive hoe. Martian reproductive processes. When he told Pat, Pat put it to a vote whether or not to jettison Kroger through the airlock. However, again. We're going to land, so Kroger had only studied them, and Jones had brought them aboard. So Kroger stays, but meanwhile did me at takeoff. Earth seems awfully Kroger put us all into a state time, eight months away. Kroger to wear gas masks with oxygen hook-ups. Kroger says the air is breathable, but thin, and it has too thirsty. Kroger says that at least—when much dust in it to be any fun to inhale. He's all for going out and Air is foul and I'm very to wait. The air is very cold, but the Kroger suggests baking bread, The Martians ate the bread. Jones came forward to tell us the means so are the Martians. Kroger says the Martians must be intelligent, otherwise they and he told Kroger. Kroger says let's jettison Kroger. see the ship again. Kroger said to Kroger, but he got a last-minute reprieve be pulverized and mixed with sulphuric acid. He says this'll produce So does Kroger. for us. The acid-sugar combination not only produces carbon but water vapor, and the gauge has gone up a notch. The air is too thin to carry sound well. masks, but I couldn't hear them. and we voted to let Kroger stay inside to make a landing. Pat says at least our vector will carry us to Earth and we can die on our home planet, which is better than perishing in space. The hell it is. Kroger?\" Kroger says watch out. \"Water must be dangerous to Pat and Kroger haven't come in a descending spiral into one of than a submarine, he insists, and it will float till we're rescued, if the plates don't crack under the impact. \"Who knows what's 'menacing' in an alien?\" We're going to look for Kroger when they're startled. Their attitudes aren't menacing, but their Kroger says he must have dissolved the jeep to follow the aliens' region on Earth. Kroger tried to explain to me about salinity osmosis and hydrostatic pressure and crystalline life, but in no time at all from Mars. Needless to say, we're no longer and Kroger and I were allowed to sign on for the flight to Venus scheduled within the next few days—because of our experience. Kroger says there's only enough fuel for a one-way trip. I don't care.\n\n<question>:\nWhat's ironic about the narrator's and Kroger's decision to sign on for the flight scheduled to Venus?\n\n<options>:\nA The narrator is going to fabricate more events to make his story sound appealing to the general public\nB They have the least amount of technical experience compared to the other members of the Martian crew\nC They were permitted to attend due to their 'experience,' but their experience created a major crisis on Earth\nD The narrator's deadpan tone is not likely to convey the true excitement of the Venusian journey\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>:\nWhen he began his talk with \"You got your health, don't you?\" it touched those spots inside me. That was when I did it. Why couldn't what he said have been \"The best things in life are free, buddy\" or \"Every dog has his day, fellow\" or \"If at first you don't succeed, man\"? No, he had to use that one line. You wouldn't blame me. Not if you believe me. The first thing I can remember, the start of all this, was when I was and I was left there in the dark. Being four or five, I didn't know any better, so I thought Dad made it him. Because they were real, I talked about them as if they were real, and I almost earned a bunk in the home for retarded children until I got school after my thirteenth birthday party, the one no one came to. There was reason for me to steal, if I could have got away with it. The others got money from home to buy the things they needed—razor blades, before they were killed, saying they had sent money or that it was enclosed, but somehow I never got a dime of it. When I was expelled from reform school, I left with just one idea in mind—to get all the money I could ever use for the things I needed and the things I wanted. It was two or three years later that I skulked into Brother Partridge's up around my stubbled jaw. I made my hand shaky as I ran it through my knotted hair. Partridge was supposed to think I was just a bum. As an inspiration, I hugged my chest to make him think I was some wino nursing a flask full of Sneaky Pete. All I had there was a piece of Partridge didn't seem to notice me, but I knew that was an act. I knew amening. I could see he had a lot to be thankful for—somewhere he had received a fix. \"Brothers,\" Partridge went on after enjoying the interruption with a prepared by Sister Partridge, a generous supply of sweet rolls and I had to laugh at all those bums clattering the chairs in front of me, scampering after water soup and stale bread. As soon as I got cleaned up, I was going to have dinner in a good restaurant, and I was going to order such expensive food and leave such a large tip for the waiter and send one to the chef that they were going to think I was rich, and some executive with some brokerage firm would see me and say to himself, room into the kitchen. Even Partridge made his way down from the I had all the rest. It felt like about two dollars, or close to it. Then I found the bill. A neatly folded bill in the box. Somehow I knew monkey reaches through the hole for the bait, and when he gets it in his hot little fist, he can't get his hand out. He's too greedy to let While keeping a lookout for Partridge and somebody stepping out of the \"This,\" Brother Partridge said, \"is one of the most profound experiences of my life.\" My head hinged until it lined my eyes up with Brother Partridge. The The pipe was suddenly a weight I wanted off me. I would try robbing wasn't dumb enough to murder. Somebody, somewhere, would be a witness to it. I had never got away with anything in my life. I was too smart to even try anything but the little things. \"I may be able to help you,\" Brother Partridge said, \"if you have faith and a conscience.\" \"I've got something better than a conscience,\" I told him. Brother Partridge regarded me solemnly. \"There must be something Partridge prodded me with his bony fingers as if making sure I was As long as it stalled off the cops, I'd talk to Partridge. most of it. It was hard work on an empty stomach I wished I'd had some of that turkey soup. Then again I was glad I hadn't. Something always After some time Sister Partridge bustled in and snapped on the overhead —reminded of Job. William, you are being punished for some great sin. Of that, I'm sure.\" \"William, all I can tell you is that time means nothing in Heaven. Do \"Of course you have, William! Say you don't remember. Say you don't want to remember. But don't say you have no personal experience!\" \"And you think I'm being punished for something I did in a previous life?\" He looked at me in disbelief. \"What else could it be?\" \"I don't know,\" I confessed. \"I certainly haven't done anything that this life.\" \"William, if you atone for this sin, perhaps the horde of locusts will lift from you.\" It wasn't much of a chance, but I was unused to having any at all. I shook off the dizziness of it. \"By the Lord Harry, Brother, I'm going to give it a try!\" I cried. \"I believe you,\" Partridge said, surprised at himself. \"Perhaps this will help in your atonement,\" he said. I crumpled it into my pocket fast. Not meaning to sound ungrateful, I'm when I got out of the reformatory and the one when I tried to steal Brother Partridge's money, I killed a man. It was all an accident, but killing somebody is reason enough to get punished. It didn't have to be a sin in some previous life, you see. I stacked boxes the first day. I stacked more the second. The third day for November. Two of them, dressed like Harvard seniors, caps and striped duffer \"Work inside, Jack?\" the taller one asked. \"Yeah,\" I said, chewing. \"What do you do, Jack?\" the fatter one asked. \"Stack boxes.\" \"Got a union card?\" \"No,\" I said. \"I'm just helping out during Christmas.\" make an example of him and do something permanent and I squirmed away across the rubbish like a polite mouse. . There was a pick-up slip from the warehouse under the fingers of one hand, and somebody had beaten his I suppose I was to blame anyway. If I hadn't been alive, if I hadn't looking at it like that. But there was nothing to be said for telling Brother Partridge about the accident, or murder, or whatever had happened that day. Searching myself after I left Brother Partridge, I finally found a good pipe tobacco. I had been here before. In this world, it's the man with education who makes the money. I had been reading the Funk & the idea she was flushed with pleasure. I'm pretty ugly and I looked like a bum, but I was young. You had to grant me that. She waved a hand at the rows of bound Executive Suite while Walter Pidgeon and the rest wore Ivy Leagues. Maybe I would look like an eccentric executive. I bought a new shirt, a good used pair of shoes, and a dime pack of it had done. You can run being economical into stinginess. I tossed it I thought about going back to the hotel for some sleep Partridge's. Let's see, it was daylight outside again, so this was the day after Thanksgiving. But it had only been sixteen or twenty hours I left the money on the counter for the hamburgers and coffee and the He turned slowly, his jaw moving further away from his brain. I winked. \"It was just a bet for me to say that to you. I won two one of the singles. But I hadn't. I now had $6.68 left. \"I that they used to destroy when I was locked up with them in the dark. Except this was a man, scaled down to child's size. He had sort of an ugly, worried, tired, stupid look and he wore a shiny suit with a piece eyebrow. They couldn't do anything worse to the small man than they had done to the young boy. It was sort of nostalgic watching them, but everybody could hear but which I didn't say. It wasn't any worse to be the only sane as I ever was. There was no doubt about that. But a new thought suddenly impressed itself on me. Whatever was punishing me for my sin was determined that I turn back\n\n<question>:\nOnce William received the money from Partridge, what didn't he decide to do?\n\n<options>:\nA research the murder\nB clean himself up\nC eat his fill\nD make a better future for 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>:\nFight Club , a movie about a fictional organization of men who strip down and beat each other to pulp, has provoked more than its share of media hand-wringing, particularly diatribes about Hollywood's infatuation with violence and Faludi-esque ruminations about the emasculated American male. Fight Club , however, has not sparked an iota of interest in a real organization of men who strip down and beat each other to pulp: the Ultimate Fighting Championship. UFC's flameout from national sensation to total irrelevance is a tragedy of American sports, a cautionary tale of prudishness, heavy-handed politics, and cultural myopia. UFC began in 1993 as a locker-room fantasy. What would happen if a kickboxer fought a wrestler? A karate champion fought a sumo champion? Promoters built an octagonal chain-link cage, invited eight top martial artists, and set them loose in no-holds-barred, bare-knuckles fights. \"There are no rules!\" bragged an early press release. Contestants would fight till \"knockout, submission, doctor's intervention, or death.\" UFC allowed, even promoted, all notions of bad sportsmanship: kicking a man when he's down, hitting him in the groin, choking. Four-hundred-pound men were sent into the Octagon to maul guys half their size. Only biting and eye-gouging were forbidden. Instead of being carnivals of gore, UFC fights looked strangely like ... sex. Almost all fights ended on the ground, one man mounting the other in missionary position, the pair of them wiggling mysteriously along the canvas for five, 10, even 30 minutes. There were few spectacular knockouts. The referee--yes, there was always a referee--stopped many bouts, and in most others, fighters \"tapped out,\" surrendering to mild-looking but agonizing chokes and joint locks. It was not barbarism. It was science. The UFC spawned a new breed of \"mixed martial artists.\" World-class wrestlers learned to kickbox. Champion kickboxers learned to grapple. (The karate experts learned to stay home.) They became, without doubt, the best fighters in the world. (Click for more about the fighters.) Mike Tyson wouldn't last 30 seconds in an ultimate fighting match. When Olympic gold medal wrestler Kevin Jackson came to the UFC, a fighter named Frank Shamrock KO'd him with a submission hold in 16 seconds. Ultimate fighting schools began sprouting up all over the country, replacing the stylized gestures of the Eastern martial arts with techniques that actually work. UFC's promoters predicted that it would supplant boxing as America's martial art. Instead, it fell apart. The collapse began in 1996, when Sen. John McCain, R-Ariz., saw a UFC tape. McCain, a lifelong boxing fan, was horrified at the ground fighting, kicks, and head butts. It was \"barbaric,\" he said. It was \"not a sport.\" He sent letters to all 50 governors asking them to ban ultimate fighting. The outcry against \"human cockfighting\" became a crusade, and like many crusades, it was founded on misunderstanding. When I tell people I'm an ultimate fighting fan, they invariably respond: \"Don't people get killed all the time doing that?\" But no one has ever been killed at the UFC--though boxers are killed every year. No one has even been seriously injured at the UFC. On the rare occasions when a bout has ended with a bloody knockout, the loser has always walked out of the ring. But logic has not served the UFC well. Where McCain led, a prudish nation followed. George Will opined against UFC. The American Medical Association recommended a ban. New York state outlawed ultimate fighting, as did other states. The Nevada Athletic Commission refused to sanction UFC bouts, barring the UFC from the lucrative casino market. (One public TV station refused a UFC sponsorship ad. The only other organization the station ever rejected was the Ku Klux Klan.) Lawsuits blocked or delayed UFC events all over the country, forcing the promoters to spend millions in legal fees. The UFC was exiled from mega-arenas to ever-smaller venues in ever more out-of-the-way states: Louisiana, Iowa, and Alabama. The match I attended in October 1997 was held in the parking lot of a small Mississippi casino. The cable TV industry struck the fatal blow. In early 1997, McCain became chairman of the commerce committee, which oversees the cable industry. In April 1997, the president of the National Cable Television Association warned that UFC broadcasts could jeopardize the cable industry's influence in Washington. Time Warner, TCI, Request, Cablevision Systems, Viewer's Choice, and other major operators stopped airing UFC events, saying they were too violent for children. Never mind that 1) UFC only aired on pay-per-view, so children could not see it unless their parents paid for it and 2) the same cable outfits carried boxing matches, R and NC-17 movies, and professional wrestling shows far more violent than UFC. The UFC's \"addressable audience\"--the potential number of PPV subscribers--shrank from 35 million at its peak to 7.5 million today. \"It was a very cheap way for the cable companies to portray themselves as anti-violence. It did not cost them much and it made them look good in Washington,\" says Carol Klenfner, spokeswoman for UFC's parent company, SEG. The ultimate fighting industry did little to help its own cause. The UFC promoted itself less as a serious sport than as a circus of carnage. Its early ads emphasized extreme fighting's potential for death. UFC folks accused McCain, without any evidence, of opposing the sport as a favor to campaign contributors. Extreme fighting was tarnished when fighters from the other ultimate fighting operation, the now-defunct Battlecade, were arrested for violating Canadian prizefighting laws when they fought on an Indian reservation outside Montreal. In the past two years, an increasingly desperate UFC has been trying to assuage its critics. The competition, which had been gradually adding safety rules since the first fight, imposed even more. It institued rounds and a \"10-point must\" scoring system. It banned head butts and groin strikes. You can no longer kick a downed man or elbow someone in the back of the head. Fighters are required to wear thin martial arts gloves (a purely cosmetic change). The UFC imposed weight classes, ending the David-and-Goliath mismatches that made early fights so compelling.\n\n<question>:\nWhat was likely the biggest impact of the lawsuits against the UFC?\n\n<options>:\nA Being in a legal battle doesn't look good, and it made the fans distrust the organizations promoting UFC\nB The cost of the lawsuits drained the resources of the promoters so they didn't have the money for ads, fighters, and venues\nC The lawsuits took up so much time that fights were delayed long past when the fans were willing to wait until\nD The UFC's lawyers were tied up in TV network disputes, and were too busy to guarantee good contracts for the fighters\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>:\nCOMPLEXITY AND HUMANITY everything from food and shelter to communications and security. Working otherwise, is a breakdown of systems. For a time, chaos reigns. For a affect each other. And from this scale of practical effects, complexity application of knowledge to the creation of new knowledge, innovation to innovation, and information to making more information has become These two features−the global scale of interdependence of human action, and the systematic acceleration of innovation, make contemporary life a unpredictability makes it unwise to build systems that take too much discuss, learn, and repeat. That is why we have seen many more systems take on a loose, human centric model in the last decade and a half: from the radical divergence of Toyota’s production system from the highly structured model put in place by Henry Ford, to the Internet’s radical T system that preceded it, and on to the way Wikipedia constructs human knowledge on the fly, incrementally, in ways that would have been seen, until recently, as too chaotic ever to work systems work best by making work human. Modern Times Modern times were hard enough. Trains and planes, telegraph and telephone, all brought many people into the same causal space. The solution to this increased complexity in the late 19th, early 20th century was to increase the role of structure and improve its design. During the first two-thirds of the twentieth century, this type of rationalization took the form of ever-more complex managed systems, with control. In business, this rationalization was typified by Fredrick Taylor’s Scientific Management, later embodied in Henry Ford’s assembly line. The ambition of these approaches was to specify everything that needed doing in minute detail, to enforce it through monitoring and rewards, and later to build it into the very technology of work−the assembly line. The idea was to eliminate human error and variability in the face of change by removing thinking to the system, and thus neutralizing the time, and what it did to humanity, more vividly than Charlie Chaplin’s At the same time, government experienced the rise of bureaucratization and the administrative state. Nowhere was this done more brutally than in the totalitarian states of mid-century. But the impulse to build fully-specified systems, designed by experts, monitored and controlled so as to limit human greed and error and to manage uncertainty, was basic and widespread. It underlay the development of the enormously successful state bureaucracies that responded to the Great Depression with the New Deal. It took shape in the Marshall Plan to pull Europe out of the material abyss into which it had been plunged by World War II, and shepherded Japan’s industrial regeneration from it. In technical systems too, we saw in mid-century marvels like the AT& system and the IBM mainframe. For a moment in history, these large scale managed systems were achieving efficiencies that seemed to overwhelm competing models: from the Tennessee Valley Authority to Sputnik, from Watson’s IBM to General Motors. Yet, to list these paragons from today’s inevitable victory. The increasing recognition of the limits of command-and-control systems led to a new approach abandonment, of the goal of perfect rationalization of systems design, which assumed much of the human away. What replaced planning and control in these systems was the myth of perfect markets. This was achieved through a hyper-simplification of human nature, wedded to mathematical was widespread and influential it still is. And yet it led to such expected costs, and is given by EUm = B - C(1-Pm)(Pf) and EUf = B - humanity−no more than the economists’ utility curve−and neglecting any bureaucratic rationalization, perfect-market rationalization also had successes. But, like its predecessor, its limits as an approach to human systems design are becoming cleare seeing instead is the rise of human systems that increasingly shy away to coordinating human action will disappear. But these managed systems motivations and social relations. Dress codes and a culture of play in the workplace in Silicon Valley, like the one day per week that Google make the most innovative region in the United States a Ludic paradise, gratifying employees at the expense of productivity, but rather to the only core business competency−innovation. Wikipedia has eclipsed all IPO and hiring the smartest guys in the room, but by building an open The set of human systems necessary for action in this complex, agency, learning and adaptation, is as different from managed systems and perfect markets as the new Toyota is from the old General Motors, or as the Internet now is from AT& T then. The hallmarks of these newer systems are: (a) location of authority and practical capacity to act at cooperation, judgment and insight the regularities and dependencies among objects and processes are less all human and material elements of the production system. The ambition of scientific management was to offer a single, integrated system where could be isolated and controlled. Fordism took that ambition and embedded the managerial knowledge in the technological platform of the routines. Toyota Production System, by comparison, has a substantially reliance on small teams where each team member can perform all tasks, all communicate. The system is built on trust and a cooperative dynamic. The enterprise functions through a managerial control system, but also through social cooperation mechanisms built around teamwork and trust. However, even Toyota might be bested in this respect by the even more loosely coupled networks of innovation and supply represented by But let us also consider the system in question that has made this work possible, the Internet, and compare it to the design principles of the T network in its heyday. Unlike the Internet, AT& T’s network was fully managed. Mid-century, the company even retained ownership of the behavior, although it didn’t hurt either that this policy effectively excluded competitors). This generated profit, but any substantial technical innovations required the approval of management and a re-engineering of the entire network. The Internet, on the other hand, was designed to be as general as possible. The network hardware merely hard processing work−manipulating a humanly-meaningful communication (a a stream of packets−was to be done by its edge devices, in this case computers owned by users. This system allowed the breathtaking rate of innovation that we have seen, while also creating certain These vulnerabilities have led some to argue that a new system to manage the Internet is needed. We see first of all that doubts about trust and security on the Internet arise precisely because the network was originally designed for people who could more-or-less trust each other, and offloaded security from the network to the edges. As the network agents in the system were competent and benign, or at least sincere) declined. This decline was met with arguments in favor of building security into the technical system, both at its core, in the network effective means of preventing copyright infringement or system failure, and preserving corporate security (these are the main reasons offered for implementing such systems). Trusted computing in this form is the ultimate reversal of the human-centric, loosely-coupled design approach of the Internet. Instead of locating authority and capacity to act at Reintroducing the Human Taylorism, the Bell system and trusted computing are all efforts to remove human agency from action and replace it with well-designed, tightly-bound systems. That is, the specifications and regularities of time. Human agency, learning, communication and adaptation are minimized in managed systems, if not eliminated, and the knowledge in the system comes from the outside, from the designer, in the initial design over contrast, loosely-coupled systems affirmatively eschew this level of control, and build in room for human agency, experimentation, failure, communication, learning and adaptation. Loose-coupling is central to the agency over time, only imperfectly constraining and enabling any given system designers are accepting the limitations of design and foresight, To deal with the new complexity of contemporary life we need to taught us anything, it is that what makes for human insight is extremely difficult to replicate or systematize. At the center of these new experiment, learn and adapt. But enabling human agency also provides the mainstream of system design in the twentieth century, we must now Free software, Wikipedia, Creative Commons and the thousands of emerging information economy give us real existence proofs that human-centric systems can not merely exist, but thrive, as can the human beings and\n\n<question>:\nWhat state bureaucracy development saved Europe after WWII?\n\n<options>:\nA Frederick Taylor's Scientific Management\nB The New Deal\nC The Marshall Plan\nD The Tennessee Valley Authority\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>:\nWORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A IN THE GARDEN they skipped several steps in the procedure. on the body? it required a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they found nothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Then it came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. \"Limited,\" said Steiner, \"as though within a pale. As though there were but one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of the surface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hours before it's back in our ken if we let it go now.\" had refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself, told the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, that Glaser did not he had only ordinary , the machine insisted. the acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been a it had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out of So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the area individual, though this could not be certain) and got very definite action. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, and assumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. of us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will go down on that one the next time it is in position under us, in about twelve hours.\" \"You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere away from the thoughtful creature?\" \"No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reason that thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will go down boldly and visit this.\" So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, the Captain Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationary went down to visit whatever was there. \"There's no town,\" said Steiner. \"Not a building. Yet we're on the from?\" \"I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'll go to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious tool with us.\" \"I have only one tongue by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English.\" wouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, would you?\" \"The fountain.\" \"Ah—I see.\" But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water, but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles like the first water ever made. \"Are there any other people here?\" Stark asked the man. \"But are there any others?\" \"How would there be any others? What other kind of people could there The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly: \"Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people?\" \"And the damnest thing about it,\" muttered Langweilig, \"is, how are you going to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling.\" \"Can we have something to eat?\" asked the Captain. \"Pick from the trees,\" said Ha-Adamah, \"and then it may be that you will want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which does not need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But you are free to enjoy the garden and its fruits.\" \"We will,\" said Captain Stark. They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were the animals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, though they offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though they wanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you. \"If there are only two people here,\" said Casper Craig, \"then it may be that the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertile wherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. And \"All things are possible.\" And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: \"No, no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one!\" It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it. not the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to a exegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated.\" \"To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property of even death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taught \"Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But I \"No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you.\" They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place. It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only two inhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave. \"What is there, Adam?\" asked Captain Stark. \"The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has long been cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But we are taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if we persevere, it will come by him.\" They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their time and that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds. we have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyone \"I too am convinced,\" said Steiner. \"It is Paradise itself, where the lion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed. It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the part of the serpent, and intrude and spoil.\" \"I am probably the most skeptical man in the world,\" said Casper Craig the tycoon, \"but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it. It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise Parties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary offices as listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited.\" Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whose names were \"Snake-Oil Sam,\" spoke to his underlings: \"It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'll have time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equipped and slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of.\" \"I think you'd better write me some new lines,\" said Adam. \"I feel like a goof saying those same ones to each bunch.\" He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiers space-sealed the rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner. \"We will have to have another lion,\" said Eve. \"Bowser is getting old, and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to have a big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb.\" \"I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of the \"I'm working on it.\" Casper Craig was still dictating the gram: \"Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climate ideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from Planet Delphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenic Briton. \"Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort?\" \"It's as phony as a seven-credit note!\" Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible, zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot through with anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers.\" \"What?\" was just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally.\" \"But it was Paradise in one way,\" said Steiner at last. \"All the time we were there the woman did not speak.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy was the cave the only place that was not visited?\n\n<options>:\nA The cave was only a reflective illusion from the bright light.\nB The crew ran out of time but planned to examine it upon their next arrival\nC Adam, or Ha-Adamah, told the crew that it was much to dangerous as there were evil creatures living inside.\nD The serpent lives there and the crew was told that he was cranky.\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>:\nA key fact is that a superabundance of community respect and social capital are being accumulated by those who share. The key motivator of Social Media and the core spirit of Web 2.0 is a mind switch called Sharism. Sharism suggests a re-orientation of personal values. We see it in User Generated Content. It is the pledge of Creative Commons. It is in the plans of future-oriented cultural initiatives. Sharism is also a work on a similar principle of connecting and sharing. Originally, the Thus, our brain supports sharing in its very system-nature. This has creative snowball. If your internal cognitive system encourages sharing, generate even more ideas in return. It’s a kind of butterfly- effect, as the small creative energy you spend will eventually return to make you, and the world, more creative. However, daily decisions for most adults are quite low in creative productivity, if only because they’ve switched off their sharing paths. People generally like to share what they create, but in a culture that tells them to be protective of their ideas, people start to believe in the danger of sharing. Then Sharism will be degraded in their mind and not encouraged in their society. But if we can encourage someone to choice, her choice will be, “Share.” in observable behavior. It is easy to tell if a person, a group, a company, a nation is oriented toward Sharism or not. For those who are not, what they defend as “cultural goods” and “intellectual property” are just excuses for the status quo of keeping a community closed. Much of their “culture” will be protected, but the net result is the direct loss of many other precious ideas, and the subsequent loss of all the potential gains of sharing. This lost knowledge is a black hole in our life, which may start to swallow other values as well. Non-sharing culture misleads us with its absolute separation of Private and Public space. It makes creative action a binary choice between public and private, open and closed. This creates a gap in the spectrum of knowledge. Although this gap has the potential to become a valuable creative space, concerns about privacy make this gap hard to fill. We shouldn’t be surprised that, to be safe, most people keep their sharing private and stay “closed.” They may fear the Internet creates a potential for abuse that they can’t fight alone. However, the paradox is: The less you share, the less power you have. New Technologies and the Rise of Sharism bloggers around the world, and no more than ten times that many readers following each blog. Human history is always so: something important was to leaving comments and taking part in online conversations, and then to the sudden realization that they should become bloggers themselves. More bloggers created more readers, and more readers made more blogs. The revolution was viral. Bloggers generate lively and timely information on the Internet, and connect to each other with RSS, hyperlinks, comments, trackbacks and quotes. The small-scale granularity of the content can fill discrete gaps in experience and thus record a new human history. Once you become a blogger, once you have accumulated so much social capital in such a small site, it’s hard to stop. We can’t explain this fact with a theory of addiction. It’s an impulse to share. It’s the energy of the memes that want to be passed from mouth to mouth and mind to mind. It’s more than just E-mail. It’s Sharism. Bloggers are always keen to keep the social context of their posts in mind, by asking themselves, “Who is going to see this?” Bloggers are agile in adjusting their tone−and privacy settings−to advance ideas and stay out of trouble. It’s not self-censorship, but a sense of smart expression. But once blogs reached the tipping point, they expanded into the blogosphere. This required a more delicate social networking system and content- sharing architecture. But people now understand that they can have better control over a wide spectrum of relationships. Like how retaining flexible choices. The rapid emergence of Social Applications that can communicate and cooperate, by allowing people to output content from one service to online social networks, and potentially reach a huge audience. As a result, such a Micro-pipeline system is making Social Media a true Otherwise, you might lose the power of sharing. Permanently. You might need something to spur you on, to keep you from quitting and Then, if anything interesting comes your way: Share It! The easiest way to both start and keep sharing is by using different kinds of social if you can keep track of the feedback that you get from sharing. You will realize that almost all sharing activities will generate positive results. The happiness that this will obtain is only the most immediate comments. Then you know you’ve provoked interest, appreciation, excitement. The second reward is access to all the other stuff being shared by friends in your network. Since you know and trust them, you will be that much more interested in what they have to share. Already, the return is a multiple of the small meme you first shared. But the third type of return is more dramatic still. Anything you share can be forwarded, circulated and republished via other people’s networks. This This brings us to the fourth and final type of return. It has a meaning not only for you, but for the whole of society. If you so choose, you may allow others to create derivative works from what you share. This one choice could easily snowball into more creations along the sharing about creating and sharing as you are. After many iterative rounds of it’s okay to seek financial rewards. But you will in every case get something just as substantial: Happiness. The more people who create in the spirit of Sharism, the easier it will be to attain well- balanced and equitable Social Media that is woven by Still, many questions will be raised about Sharism as an initiative in new age. The main one is copyright. One concern is that any loss of control over copyrighted content will lead to noticeable deficits in personal wealth, or just loss of control. 5 years ago, I would have said that this was a possibility. But things are changing today. The sharing applications make it easy to set terms-of-use along your sharing path. Any infringement of those terms will be challenged not just by the law, but by your community. Your audience, who benefit form your sharing, can copyright holder, this sounds ideal. Furthermore, by realizing all the immediate and emergent rewards that can be had by sharing, you may eventually find that copyright and “All Rights Reserved” are far from your mind. You will enjoy sharing too much to worry about who is keeping a copy. The new economic formula is, the more people remix your works, the higher the return. I want to point out that Sharism is not Communism, nor Socialism. As for those die- hard Communists we know, they have often abused people’s sharing nature and forced them to give up their rights, and their property. Socialism, that tender Communism, in our experience also lacked respect for these rights. Under these systems, the state owns all property. Under Sharism, you can keep ownership, if you want. But I like to share. And this is how I choose to spread ideas, and prosperity concept to understand, especially since copyleft movements like the Free Software Foundation and Creative Commons have been around for years. These movements are redefining a more flexible spectrum of licenses for both developers and end-users to tag their works. Because the new Sharism is the Spirit of the Age of Web 2.0. It has the consistency of a naturalized Epistemology and modernized Axiology, but also promises the may remain a distant dream, and even a well-defined public sharing of a vast and equitable sharing environment can be the gatekeeper of our made more nuanced with the micro-involvement of the sharing community. more sociable, and society more individual. We no longer have to act alone. the majority. Since Sharism can improve communication, collaboration and mutual understanding, I believe it has a place within the educational of Practice) or problem-solving context. It is also an antidote to social depression, since sharelessness is just dragging our society down. In present or formerly totalitarian countries, this downward cycle\n\n<question>:\nAccording to the author, why do people stop themselves from sharing as much as they could?\n\n<options>:\nA They are distrustful and apprehensive of a negative social response\nB They are unsure of the best venue for sharing their content\nC They believe that people who share on a frequent basis are desperate for attention\nD They generally feel that the cost of their content is not as high as the value\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nI would be infertile.\" \"Can you be sure?\" he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to act unconcerned. blood and pain.\" She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. She not unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenient widely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout the ages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreed with a minimum of ten others distasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to my species.\" that's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the sole Emmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside of accidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of human advantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that, development. higher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet he nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with the \"I do think I love you,\" she said. \"And if love's enough, I may marry you in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose children I have.\" She wriggled into his arms. The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was not completely her fault. Besides.... Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superior children—and they might be his. wanted her. Meredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility may He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Were through —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward and upward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his anger broken it once.\" He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive. result of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races are involved, and only the human race.\" others—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever got together—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. very useful. A clear statement of their position was essential in helping him make up his mind. \"You've heard of the adjacency mating principle?\" asked Sam Halden. \"Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men.\" \"We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory is that humans who can mate with each other were once physically close. We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetary equal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn't close, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed. \"To the best of our knowledge,\" said Kelburn. \"And whereas there are humans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always mate with those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago !\" \"The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,\" murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. \"Is that the only era that satisfies the calculations?\" 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 plans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergency such as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what are you all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid that I'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearly everywhere in this sector—places men have never been.\" There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, the they'll forward it the physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—what been inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware of his place in the human hierarchy. mating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet had breed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile with thoughtfully. \"Is there something wrong with the plants?\" \"What is it, some kind of toxic condition?\" \"The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down as It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the ship just to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and crevices everywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding. They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals down because there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use of Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn't tells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it.\" \"Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it!\" \"Neither do we.\" typical pest.\" \"I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to be not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covered \"But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why?\" for non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actually aggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselves aloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, it was required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educational fractionally and ceaselessly. \"I don't like to, but we'll have to risk using bait for your pest.\" terms don't permit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race.\" there had been no intention of withholding He hadn't intended, but He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquired would have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind of technical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that could \"Why do we have to watch it on the screen?\" asked Meredith, glancing a minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate them retreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leaped and the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught up and mauled the other unmercifully. It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last it backed off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none. \"It might. We had an audience.\" \"What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by a \"That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—and they'll never get away from the trap to try.\" that, in relation to her, he was not advanced. \"It's almost a curse, isn't it?\" She laughed and took the curse away by leaning provocatively against him. \"But barbaric lovers are often nice.\" Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. To her, I'm merely a passionate savage. They went to his cabin. \"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 permanent union. \"Why did you ever have anything to do with me?\" demanded Halden. \"Love,\" she said gloomily. \"Physical attraction. But I can't let it lead me astray.\" about it, he'd give you children of the higher type.\" \"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 reason that a child probably shouldn't read this?\n\n<options>:\nA There was casual sexism\nB There were implications of sex\nC There was gun violence (with space rays)\nD There was abuse between partners\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>:\nSo you can stop worrying. Debra – Desperate Debra to use her full trade name – is a simulator designed to help doctors practise their skill at dealing with impacted foetuses: babies that get stuck trying to exit the womb by the normal route. She comprises the lower two thirds (ie from the mid-chest region downwards) of a life-sized but limbless female torso made of flesh-coloured silicone rubber. She comes with a vulva, a pre-cut incision in her abdomen and, most importantly, a uterus containing a foetal head that should, in the normal way of things, be free to emerge between her legs. But this fetus is going nowhere until an obstetrician – or in this case me – can successfully grasp and pull it out. The clever and sophisticated simulator I'm playing with started life as a lash-up in an obstetrician's home workshop: a Heath Robinson-style contraption barely recognisable as a model of the human body. But it wasn't at that stage intended as a simulator for training medical staff. Its sole purpose was to test the effectiveness of a novel device called a Tydeman tube. Paradoxically, although the testing equipment, Debra, is now commercially available, the device it was intended to test has yet to reach the market. The inventor of the tube and of Desperate Debra is Dr Graham Tydeman, a consultant in obstetrics and gynaecology at Victoria Hospital in Kirkcaldy, Fife. Only after he'd built Debra did he realise that she might serve a purpose beyond his original intention. His is a decade-long tale of inspired insights, thwarted aims and shifting purposes but with a good outcome. Although the Tydeman tube is still in gestation, Desperate Debra herself is now thriving. which suggests requests for push-ups during unplanned caesareans are far from uncommon. The Tydeman tube is a gadget intended to make this manoeuvre safer and more effective. Creativity and innovation have many unlikely sources. What seems to have inspired Tydeman to develop his device was the characteristic sound of a Wellington boot being pulled free of wet, muddy ground: a slurpy, sucking, gurgling noise. When an impacted foetal head is pulled free of the uterus it's often accompanied by a similar sucking noise, the result of air rushing in between the obstetrician's fingers to fill the space vacated. \"What occurred to me years ago was that if the air can't get in, why not put a tube up into the vagina so that it can get in from below the baby's head.\" From time to time, if he felt he felt the baby might stick, Tydeman would slip a length of sterile silicone tubing through the woman's vagina and up into the womb next to the baby's head. Allowing air in by this route would release any suction forces tending to hold it where it was. Tydeman didn't do much with the idea until 10 years ago when one trainee, who was experiencing real difficulty getting heads out, prompted him to think again about the problem. Around the same time, he met professor of obstetrics Andrew Shennan and consultant midwife Annette Briley, both of the Women's Health Academic Centre at St Thomas's hospital. Between them they came up with a device – the Tydeman tube – to make pushing on the foetus more controlled while simultaneously releasing any vacuum that might be holding it in place. The instrument is made up of a rigid plastic tube opening into a softer silicone cup. Pressure to the foetal head is applied using four pads projecting forward from the cup's interior. Holding the device by the tube, the user places the cup against the part of the head exposed through the dilated cervix, and presses. This pushes the baby back up into the uterus while releasing any suction pressure that may have been holding it, so allowing the obstetrician to extract it more easily. Because pressure is distributed equally between the four pads with a greater combined surface area than that of a user's fingertips, the risk of inadvertent damage is minimised. The team found some money to employ a product designer who used computer-aided design technology and 3D printing to make a prototype. \"We were at the point of getting one made in silicone,\" says Tydeman, \"when we realised that before we started experimenting on women we really ought to test it on a simulator.\" No such simulator existed – so he decided to make one himself. With a grant from the Guy's and St Thomas's Charity fund they made Debra more presentable. Tydeman showed the prototype to Adam Rouilly, an established company specialising in medical models and simulators. They were impressed. A year later, the first of Debra's smartened-up sisters was on the market. So how valuable in training medical staff is a simulator like this? Very, according to Annette Briley. Imagine it's the middle of the night and an unplanned emergency caesarean is required: \"Some poor junior doctor might find himself trying to manage it on his own.\" To have practised the knack of extracting a firmly impacted baby from a simulator is lot better than first honing your skill on a real woman. others are seized upon immediately. A proper study of the clinical effectiveness of the Tydeman tube will necessarily involve women giving birth. Assessing the value of Debra as a simulator didn't require human subjects The use of simulators to teach technical skills is now common in medical schools. You can learn to sew up a knife wound, catheterise a bladder or intubate an airway. You can practise cardiopulmonary resuscitation or ear syringing or even go through the motions of a keyhole surgical procedure. The technology required to do these things may cost a few pounds, or tens of thousands. Either way, given that most of these devices were invented during the past three or four decades, it comes as something of a surprise to learn that simulation for medical purposes can be traced back as far as the Chinese Song dynasty of 960-1279 AD. One of the treatments of choice in that era was, naturally, acupuncture. But how to teach tyro-acupuncturists where to place the needles? Simple. A life-size bronze statue dotted with small holes indicated the points of insertion. And how then to test the students' grasp of their subject? If the statute was hollow, filled with liquid and given an outer coating of wax to mask the holes, a correct needle insertion would be followed by a leak. Given the universality of childbirth it's no surprise that, then as now, the womb turns out to be the most simulated of our organs. For the benefit of 18th-century midwives and doctors-in-training, the Bologna surgeon Giovanni Antonio Galli devised a birthing simulator comprising a glass uterus supported by an artificial pelvis and containing a flexible foetus. Trainees had to deliver the baby while wearing a blindfold. Only the tutor could witness the fumbling of their hands. As the material for a convincing simulation, glass clearly has its drawbacks. But another 18th-century contraption used a pink cloth-covered mannequin comprising a female torso complete with genitalia, a set of implantable foetuses of various ages, and even – a real coup de théâtre , this – a facility for exuding suitably coloured liquids at the appropriate moment. Oddly, as medicine became more scientific, most of these devices fell by the wayside. As an academic review of these and other devices has pointed out, much of the 20th century was something of Dark Ages for simulation. Its value in professional training has had to be rediscovered: an endeavour in which inventive people like Graham Tydeman, sometimes with workshops rich in discarded junk, are still fruitfully engaged.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the inspiration for the simulator's name?\n\n<options>:\nA Its emotional connotations\nB Tydeman's mother\nC Tydeman's wife\nD Its use of literary device\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>:\nspun in a pinwheeled blur, sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyed Then the robots figured out an out of his misery. the first time that night Alan was a sudden crash as if a tree had been hit by Then another. Alan stopped, slips or the monster cooks up puzzled. Two more blasts, quickly Frowning, worrying about the sounds, Alan momentarily forgot suddenly plunged into an ant hill, throwing him to the jungle \"I wonder,\" he thought, \"how floor. \"Damn!\" He cursed again, Pete could cram enough brain into one of those things to make circuits needed for the operation of its tracking mechanism alone. \"There just isn't room for the electronics. You'd Then Alan heard the approaching fire. He froze. \"Good Lord! Alan peered around him at the bank, away from the crashing sounds. Suddenly he stopped, his eyes widened. \"Of course! Radio! I'll bet anything they're explosive crash. Alan started, automatically controlled by the drowned out almost immediately Suddenly anxious, he slashed \"Then, if that were put out of and silenced by an pulled himself through the undergrowth caught at his legs, tripping him Alan changed direction slightly with Alan, were the only humans were well accustomed to the dark now, and he managed to dodge or trip him. Even so, he stumbled that had brought the advance unshakable than bloodhounds three days before. Except for a afterwards his eyes would see nightmare. Alan would have to tight shut before he could see again, and the robots would Alan leaped back, and fell Alan turned slightly to the left, then froze in momentary his head. Alan froze. \"My God, panic. \"I should be at the camp Pete built those things wrong!\" Suddenly a screeching whirlwind itself from the smoldering \"All I need is to get lost.\" with no one to stop it, automatically With an awkward jerk the robot antenna and blaster barrel. completely dissolving the which had clung across the barrel. cat's body overloaded the discharge and without human masters to separate sense from futility. Finally parts would wear out, circuits would short, and one by as an overload relay snapped towards the camp, leaving Alan and shorted the blaster cells. Shakily, Alan crawled a few life, rare in the universe, would a halt. A few birds would still camp, but not himself be seen. rusty hulk, beneath the alien sun. \"Peggy!\" As if in answer, a tree beside him breathed fire, then exploded. felt safer, somehow, hidden. He knew now what the shooting hadn't been anyone around the blaster shot, Alan saw the steel he had thought. \"Thank heaven \"I suppose,\" he muttered to his foot catch in something, himself, \"that Pete assembled activated them all at once, probably never living to realize that any difference to the robots, he and fell heavily. the rotten luck, anyway!\" He these robots in a batch and then blinked the pain tears from his Alan grabbed his pocket blaster Alan. He fired again, and again Reaching into his jacket, Alan somehow. Then he remembered it just might stop one of those course!\" He cursed himself for missing the obvious. \"The blaster you anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast. Slowly Alan looked around, static blanks out radio transmission from the computer He shuddered. \"Not a Firing intermittently, he can't get to the camp with Then, unexpectedly, Alan saw If I can just hold out until morning, when the big ship arrives ... Lord, Peggy!\" He turned white oily sweat punctuated his forehead. Peggy, arriving tomorrow with the other colonists, the swelling leg he stumbled out of wives and kids! The metal killers, building, housing the robot-controlling computer. Still firing at ship! A pretty girl, Peggy, the girl spite of the agonizing pain, Alan forced himself to a limping run he'd married just three weeks ago. He still couldn't believe it. for an unknown planet, with her to follow, to try to create a home marry a girl and then take off but Peggy and her green eyes that changed color with the light, with her soft brown hair, \"Be damned! You can't win now!\" Alan yelled between blaster had, at last, given him a reason thirty years of loneliness and Alan unclenched his fists and and her happy smile, had ended for his small blaster to run dry. frantically jerked the trigger cells released themselves from ready, Alan rolled over onto his the device, falling in the grass at his feet. He dropped the useless \"No!\" He threw himself on appeared around the edge over Alan's back and ozone tingled Blinding itself for a few seconds the trees onto the spot where he had been lying stretched out. instant, Alan jammed his hands Alan whirled, startled. The transmitting mental energy to the robot's pickup devices. Confused by the sudden dispersion robot fired erratically as Alan crouched and raced painfully for as he fumbled with the lock Six or seven others also left the release. Jagged bits of plastic and by the blast. Frantically, Alan slammed sensed him yet, but Alan didn't Apparently the robot hadn't stone ripped past him, torn loose began to slide back into the red-clad safety switch mounted slightly different spot. the world. He half-jumped, half-fell His stomach tightened. Panic. out in years. The universe went black. voyage. He thought of a Alan opened his eyes in a unrecognizable, the victim of a design error or a misplaced wire in a machine. \"I have to try,\" he said aloud. \"I have to try.\" He moved into the blackness. Alan's eyes, \"you hit the switch. vines, and Alan found that Suddenly a sobbing-laughing he could manage to keep ahead Only, the robot didn't get tired. Alan did. crashed imperturbably after angry cat. Alan's fingers tensed Mentally, Alan tried to figure There wouldn't be much. maybe. Why the devil didn't I stinging from insect bites, Alan tried to force himself to run him like a child in the dark. His foot tripped on a barely visible exploded around him. Startled, Alan jerked sideways, crashing dazed, then his knees buckled. His blaster fell into the to think, Alan fumbled along the hand slipped into something and leaped back, trying frantically Almost blinded by pain, whimpering, Alan stumbled forward. He screamed at the blast. \"Damn you, Pete! Damn your robots! Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!\" He stepped into emptiness. fall away. He wanted to lie there Alan, lying in the mud of the The big ship! Good his arm felt numb. \"I'll drown him,\" he said aloud. \"I'll drown laughed. Then his mind cleared. He remembered where he was. Alan trembled. For the first the first time he realized that he would sometime die. In other times and circumstances he as now, he would have to watch, still and helpless, while death felt sick. Alan became a man. \"Dammit, no law says I have to flame-out !\" He forced instant they stepped from the tree crashed heavily past Alan short intervals he started across slowly down. Frantically, Alan and for an instant it seemed almost out of control, then it Alan slid slowly along the bank to follow him but the edge of second Alan seemed engulfed in in a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe, it, where Alan had crazily as the earth collapsed underneath from where Alan stood. Without hesitation Alan threw himself across the blaster From the corner of his eye he Alan's arms, then slammed and shift his weight with the spinning plunges, Alan worked He fumbled for the sheath clipped hardly able to move on the wildly was whipped headlong into the\n\n<question>:\nWhat would've happened if Alan had not made it to the switch?\n\n<options>:\nA The robots would have gone on living unnoticed by people, doing as they wished with the planet.\nB The next group of people would have been caught by surprise and killed.\nC Pete would have been the last hope of the people on the planet's surface.\nD Peggy would have had to build new radio transmitters after the old ones were destroyed.\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>:\nVolpla That next week, I transported all of the volplas out to the oak woods. The only kind of gag worth pulling, I always maintained, was a cosmic one—till I learned the the volplas to use the fire drill and they were already utilizing the local grasses, vines and brush to build marvelously contrived tree houses in which the young, and sometimes the adults, slept through midday and midnight. had anesthetized all the experimental mutants, and the metabolic nothing around that might connect the sudden appearance of the volplas volplas only a few more weeks to learn their means of survival and My son asked, \"What happened to the animals?\" \"Turned them over to the university for further study,\" I lied. \"Well,\" he said to her, \"you can't say our pop isn't a man of decision.\" Twenty-four hours later, there wasn't a sign of animal experimentation Except, of course, that the woods were full of volplas. At night, I Volplas at last. Three of them. Yet I had always been so sure I could create them that I had been calling them volplas for ten years. No, his graying head from a cage. I had called them volplas since the day withdrew the intravenous needles from my first volplas. I carried their limp little forms out to a mattress in the lab, two girls and a boy. The accelerator had forced them almost to adulthood in less than a month. It would be several hours before they would begin to move, to learn to feed and play, perhaps to learn to fly. Meanwhile, it was clear that here was no war of dominant mutations. structures. They were lovely, perfect little creatures. My wife tried the door, too, but more subtly, as if casually touching the knob while calling. \"Lunch, dear.\" She peeked too, as she had for fifteen years, but I blocked her view when I slipped out. \"Come on, you old hermit. I have a buffet on the terrace.\" The maid beat it into the house. I flipped a hamburger and a slice of onion onto a plate and picked up the ketchup and said, \"I've reached the dangerous age.\" \"Oh, good heavens!\" I dowsed ketchup over the hamburger, threw the onion on and closed it. Pacific shimmered. I thought, \"All this and three volplas, too.\" brought me a bowl of salad and I munched the hamburger and watched the boy unsaddle the horse and slap it away to the pasture. I thought, \"By God, wouldn't he have a fit if he knew what I have back Mother . Why?\" \"Because, dear, I said so.\" The boy had already raced across the terrace and jack-knifed into the \"Well, if you feel that way about it, they'll both have to start wearing clothes.\" I gulped the last of my hamburger and washed it down with the beer. \"This place is going to hell,\" I complained. \"The old man isn't allowed to pinch the maid and the kids can't go naked.\" I leaned toward her and smacked her cheek. \"But the food and the old woman are still the best.\" \"Say, what goes with you? You've been grinning like a happy ape ever found a litter of flat stones that had young black-snakes under each slab. I filled a pail with them and took them into town and dumped them on the walk in front of the movie just as Theda Bara's matinee let out. ?\" I grinned. \"Forgive me if I eat and run, dear. Something in the lab can't wait.\" The fact was that I had something more in the lab than I had bargained my first volplas were shockingly humanoid. They were also much faster than had been their predecessors in organizing their nervous activity after the slumbrous explosion of growth in the metabolic accelerator. When I returned to the lab, they his arms out and tried to tease the spars open. They were not new. The spars had been common to the basic colony for years and were the result Suddenly, as I teased the male volpla, this happened. It was a true gliding plane, perhaps even a soaring one. I felt a thrill run along my back. By four o'clock that afternoon, I was feeding them solid food and, with the spars closed, they were holding little cups and drinking water from them in a most humanlike way. They were active, curious, playful and decidedly amorous. I danced into the kitchen table and tipped over a basket of green corn. The maid promptly left the kitchen for some other place. dreamed. I would invent a euphonious set of words to match the Basic English vocabulary and teach it to them as their language. They would have their own crafts and live in small tree houses. loose. There would be volpla colonies all up and down the Coast before anyone suspected. One day, somebody would see a volpla. The newspapers intelligently.\" The government would issue denials. Reporters would \"expose the truth\" and learn the simple volpla language. Then would come the legends. Volpla wisdom would become a cult—and of all forms of comedy, cults, I my volplas. But only for a moment. I used the metabolic accelerator to cut the volplas' gestation down to one week. Then I used it to bring the infants to maturity in one month. By the next spring, I had a colony of over a hundred volplas and I shut I had devised the language for them, using Basic English as my model, and during the months while every female was busy in the metabolic accelerator, I taught the language to the males. They spoke it softly Until I had them out in the open country, it had been impossible to whoop. After that, it was a carnival. They learned quickly and brilliantly. They were not fliers Of course, the volplas didn't want to return to the lab. There was a each other. Then they got out and lay on their backs with the planes stretched to dry. I watched them affectionately and wondered about the advisability of leaving them out here. Well, it had to be done sometime. Nothing I could tell them about surviving would help them as much as a little naturally have forgotten the ways of living outdoors.\" \"We can learn again. We want to stay here.\" His little face was so across the stream and landed in an oak on the opposite hillside. I pointed. \"There's your food, if you can kill it.\" He looked at me. \"How?\" \"I don't think you can get at them in the tree. You'll have to soar up silhouette of the volpla marred the sky so near. I looked back, as did the girl remaining beside me. The soaring volpla swiftly beating wings. I saw one of the male volpla's planes open a The doves separated and began to zigzag down the valley. The volpla did plummeted to a hillside. The volpla landed gently atop the hill and The volpla beside me danced up and down shrieking in a language all her They were raptly curious about the bird. They poked at it, marveled at its feathers and danced about it in an embryonic rite of the hunt. But eat this?\" I laughed and took his tiny, four-fingered hand. In a sandy spot them. This was another marvel, but first I wanted to teach them how to clean the bird. I showed them how to spit it and turn it over their fire. Later, I shared a small piece of the meat in their feast. They were gleeful and greasily amorous during the meal. When I had to leave, it was dark. I warned them to stand watches, keep the fire burning low and take to the tree above if anything approached.\n\n<question>:\nHow were the Volpla able to eat solid food so quickly?\n\n<options>:\nA Their anatomy is not human, and their more developed digestive system handles solid food much earlier\nB They mature very quickly, as a result of their mutant status, so it would be easy to eat anything\nC Their growth had been artificially sped up, so they passed the stages where they would have needed different food\nD Solid food was the only thing they were offered, so they learned to eat it\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nHB73782. Ultroom error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer 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 seemed off balance and he backed up confusedly in the face of 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 forward on his face. The figure of a woman ran from the house, retrieved the now squalling \"But there must be! I tell you I shot these men who posed as \"I wonder why they want our baby? He's just like any other baby. We don't have any money. We couldn't pay a ransom.\" gurgled with delight at the change in environment. This peaceful scene was disturbed by a speeding car in which two men were riding. The car roared up the street, swerved toward the parkway, \"That's odd. The man who accosted Mrs. Laughton in the afternoon was 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?\" It was the chief's turn to shake his head. \"Your guess is as good as mine. There are a lot of angles to this case none of us understand. It looks deliberate, but where's the motive?\" \"What does the man have to say?\" gives you the creeps.\" The states attorney leaned back in his chair. \"Maybe it's a case for an alienist.\" to take delight in answering questions—sort of anticipates them and has the answer ready before you're half through asking.\" \"Guess you're right. Well, Mr. Smith won't think it's so funny when we hang criminal negligence or manslaughter on him. By the way, you've checked possible family connections?\" Arvid 6—for John Smith Arvid 6—had lain in that position for Arvid 6 knew Tendal 13 had materialized and was somewhere in the \"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 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 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 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 were partly eaten by the lion in the bargain, although you dazzled the hunters, deflecting their spears. And then your zest for drink when we were with Octavian in Alexandria that led to everybody's amusement but when her husband mistook me for you and you let him take me apart piece by piece—\" \"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 specifically stated we were to have as little as possible to do with 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 idea of taking Reggie right out of his play pen. 'Watch me take that child right out from under its mother's nose' were your exact words. And before I could stop you, you did. Only you forgot an important factor in the equation—the dog, Tiger. And you nursed a dogbite most of the afternoon before it healed. And then you took your spite out on the poor thing by suggesting suffocation to it that night. \"And speaking of that night, you remember we agreed I was to do the talking. But no, you pulled a switch and captured Martin Laughton's attention. 'I came as soon as I could, Martin,' you said. And suddenly 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.\" 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 slipped.' It was so simple everyone believed you. You were given no real punishment. In a way it was a reward—at least to you—getting to 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 just to see what would happen . 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 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.\" alcohol in my blood, although I implanted a memory in them that I reeked of it.\" He laughed. \"I fancy they're thoroughly confused.\" \"And you're thoroughly amused, no doubt. Have they questioned you?\" \"And you amused yourself with him.\" \"I suppose you'd think so.\" \"Who do you tell them you are?\" Tendal 13 shook his head. \"I haven't heard. The transfers are getting \"If it had been anybody but Kanad nobody'd ever have thought of going back after it. The life germ of the head of the whole galactic system sending him back beyond his original birth date—\" Tendal 13 got up HB92167. Ultroom Error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer Arvid 6 rose from the cot and the two men faced each other. \"Before we leave, Arvid,\" Tendal 13 started to say. \"Exactly. Is that too much to ask after all you've done?\" \"I guess I have made mistakes. From now on you be the boss. I'll do whatever you say.\" Matthews,\" Tendal 13 told the jailer. several with no luck. Arvid 6, an amused set to his mouth and devilment in his eyes, watched laughed as he saw the jailer's eyes bulge. \"Arvid!\" Tendal 13 walked briskly through the door, snatched Arvid 6 by the\n\n<question>:\nWhich term best describes the relationship between Arvid 6 and Tendal 13?\n\n<options>:\nA compulsory\nB symbiotic\nC complicated\nD predatory\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>:\nFight Club is silly stuff, sensationalism that mistakes itself for satire, but it's also a brash and transporting piece of moviemaking, like Raging Bull on acid. The film opens with--literally--a surge of adrenalin, which travels through the bloodstream and into the brain of its protagonist, Jack (Edward Norton), who's viewed, as the camera pulls out of his insides, with a gun stuck in his mouth. How'd he get into this pickle? He's going to tell you, breezily, and the director, David Fincher, is going to illustrate his narrative--violently. Fincher ( Seven , 1995 The Game , 1997) is out to bombard you with so much feverish imagery that you have no choice but to succumb to the movie's reeling, punch-drunk worldview. By the end, you might feel as if you, too, have a mouthful of blood. Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets. It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding: They cling to each other and sob. But Jack's idyll is rudely disrupted by--wouldn't you know it?--a woman. A dark-eyed, sepulchral head case named Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) begins showing up at all the same disparate meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote. Jack finds another outlet, though. On a plane, he meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), a cryptic hipster with a penchant for subversive acts both large (he makes high-priced soaps from liposuctioned human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club, in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\" self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says. Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush. 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. That the people with whom Brandon feels most at home would kill him if they knew his true gender is the movie's most tragic irony--and the one that lifts it out of the realm of gay-martyr hagiography and into something more complex and irreducible: a meditation on the irrelevance of gender. Peirce's triumph is to make these scenes at once exuberant (occasionally hilarious) and foreboding, so that all the seeds of Brandon's killing are right there on the screen. John (Peter Sarsgaard), one of his future rapists and murderers, calls him \"little buddy\" and seems almost attracted to him Sarsgaard's performance is a finely chiseled study of how unresolved emotion can suddenly resolve itself into violence. I n brief: If a friend tells you you'll love Happy Texas , rethink the friendship. This clunky mistaken-identity comedy about escaped cons who impersonate gay pageant directors doesn't even make sense on its own low farcical terms it's mostly one lame homo joke after another. The only bright spot is Steve Zahn, who could be the offspring of Michael J. Fox and Crispin Glover if they'd mated on the set of Back to the Future (1985). It's hard to make a serious case for Lawrence Kasdan's Mumford , which has apparently flopped but which you can still catch at second- and third-tier theaters. It looks peculiar--a Norman Rockwell painting with noir shadows. And its tale of a small town healed by a depressive (Loren Dean) posing as a psychologist is full of doddering misconceptions about psychotherapy. I almost don't know why I loved it, but the relaxed pacing and the witty turns by Martin Short, Ted Danson, David Paymer, and Mary McDonnell surely helped. I can't decide if the weirdly affectless Dean is inspired or inept, but my indecision suggests why he works in the role. There's no doubt, however, about his even more depressive love object, Hope Davis, who posseses the cinema's most expressive honking-nasal voice and who slumps through the movie like the world's most lyrical anti-ballerina. Even her puffy cheeks are eloquent: They made me think of Mumford as the home of the psychological mumps.\n\n<question>:\nTo which actor did the author credit a slightly better than normal performance?\n\n<options>:\nA Ted Danson\nB Loren Dean\nC Brad Pitt\nD Steve Zahn\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>:\nDole vs. the Dole's spat with the gray lady went public on Thursday, Oct. 24. In New Orleans, Dole charged the paper with ignoring a story about a Miami drug dealer who got invited to the White House. \"This is a disgrace,\" Dole insisted. \"I doubt if you even read it in the New York Times . They probably put it in the want ads. They don't put any anti-Clinton stories in the New York Times . Only anti-Dole stories in the New York Times .\" Dole repeated his attack for the next five days. \"We are not going to let the media steal this election,\" he told a crowd in Dallas on Friday. \"This country belongs to the people, not the New York Times .\" On Saturday, in Visalia, Calif., he added, \"I know that with a crowd this size, the New York Times will write not many people showed up, but the other papers will get it right.\" On Sunday (the day the Times endorsed Clinton), Dole called the paper \"the apologist for President Clinton for the last four years and an arm of the Democratic National Committee.\" In a CNN interview broadcast Monday, Dole said the Times \"might as well be part of the Democratic Party. ... They hammer us on a daily basis. We make a major speech, they bury it back on section D. They put a front-page story that, well, Bob Dole and Jack Kemp didn't get along together 12 years ago.\" On Tuesday, Dole was still at it, referring to the 28 words of the 10th Amendment, and quipping, \"That's about what I got in the New York Times today.\" The Times has reacted to this assault by highhandedly quoting everything and explaining none of it, leaving its readers baffled as to why the Republican nominee is so upset at the paper. In fact, Dole's fury at the Times is hardly news to those who work at the paper. According to Katharine Seelye, who has covered Dole since the beginning of his campaign, the complaints date from December 1995, when Dole staff members first protested that she had misunderstood the candidate's position on abortion. The real bitterness, however, began in May, when the paper played what Dole aides billed as a major address about welfare on Page 19 of the business section. Since then, campaign honchos have peppered the paper's reporters and editors with constant phone calls and letters complaining about unfair treatment. Reporters traveling with Dole caught a glimpse of the enmity Oct. 9, when Nelson Warfield, Dole's press secretary, staged a public confrontation with Seelye. The candidate, Warfield told reporters waiting to board the campaign plane, had just come from an appearance on G. Gordon Liddy's radio show. Why, Seelye asked, weren't reporters told about the appearance in advance? According to reporters present, Warfield snapped that it wouldn't make any difference because the Times would get the story wrong anyway. Then, on the plane, Warfield walked back to the press section and grandly served Seelye with a copy of a letter from Communications Director John Buckley to her boss, Times Washington Editor Andrew Rosenthal. No Dole staff would be quoted by name for this story, but speaking on background, a senior campaign official elaborated upon the complaint. \"They've just done a miserable job throughout this campaign,\" the official said. \"The coverage of Dole has been excessively bitchy from day one, in addition to having a number of extraordinary factual problems.\" With Seelye, the official says, the problem is \"not being able to transcribe a tape accurately.\" With Adam Nagourney, the Times ' other reporter covering Dole full time since the summer, \"the problem is an incredible focus on the little picture as opposed to the big picture.\" As an example, the official cites a September story in which Nagourney lumped together Dole's fall from a platform in Chico, Calif., and his mistaken reference to the \"Brooklyn\" Dodgers as \"a rough stretch of politicking.\" Other than those two episodes, the official says, Dole actually had a great week. The campaign's complaint extends to unequal treatment--a nine-part series on Clinton's record, which the official describes as \"the softest portrait since they invented black velvet\"--and the Times perpetually underestimating the size of Dole crowds. \"Clinton even gets better photographs,\" the official contends. \"Ithink we have been tough on him,\" Seelye says. This stems, however, not from any bias, she says, but from the campaign's own internal problems. Dole's campaign has been especially \"porous,\" with aides emulating the proverbial seafaring rats. This is true enough--in recent days ex-strategist Don Sipple has trashed the campaign on the record. But there's another point, too. Contrary to Buckley's charge that she misquotes Dole, Seelye routinely makes Dole look ridiculous by quoting him all too accurately, depicting him in what one colleague calls a \"cinema verité \" style. Famous for going over and over her tape recordings on the campaign plane, Seelye manages to get every Dole mumble, repetition, and verbal miscue down. For instance, in her Oct. 26 story reporting Dole's attack on the Times , Seelye writes: \"In Phoenix on Friday night, he had a delightful time drawing out his vowels as he described financial contributions to the Clinton campaign. \"From Indoneeesia,\" he said. \"Yeah. From INdiaaaaah. Some fellow named Gandhi out there. He owes $10,000 in back taxes, but he found $300,000 to give to the Clinton campaign. And now Gandhi is gaaaawn. Gaaaaandhi, gone gone gone. They can't find him.\" Two days later, she quoted Dole in another story: \"They've turned the White House into something else, I don't know what it is. It's the animal house! It's the animal house!\" Most reporters would write, Bob Dole yesterday compared the White House to an \"animal house,\" sparing the exclamation points, and making him sound at least compos mentis. But though unflattering, Seelye's Mametizing of Bob Dole can hardly be called unfair. It is not as if the Times cleans up Clinton's quotes None of these factors, though, is unique to the Times . So why is Dole singling it out? Dole's attacks on the Times have the appearance of being an exercise in populist demagogy. In one of his great cue-card reading remarks, Dole tried to explain his recent attacks on CNN the other night by saying, \"I like the media. They don't like them in the South.\" But this pat explanation doesn't entirely make sense. Red meat for right-wing crowds doesn't help Dole with the centrist voters he would need to turn around in order to make the miraculous happen. And in fact, according to a senior Dole aide, the attacks are heartfelt on the candidate's part. Dole has been going after the Times over the objections of advisers who have been telling him there's no percentage in picking fights with the press.\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Seelye say she's hard on Dole?\n\n<options>:\nA because of the way he treated her at the beginning\nB because of the way he speaks\nC because he tried to get her fired\nD because of the way his campaign is being run\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>:\nThat the gentleman in question was a nut was beyond question. He was an institutionalized have finished.\" crafts shop. Two muscular and bored attendants in spotless whites, prospects for the pennant. Through the barred windows of the workshop, rolling green hills were institution. The crafts building was a good mile away from the main complex of buildings that housed the main wards. 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 carefully placed it into a hollow shell hemisphere of clay. 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. \"We mustn't be antisocial, Mr. Funston,\" Miss Abercrombie said lightly, 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 complicated.\" She stared professionally at the maze of clay parts. \"Atom bomb.\" slightly. \"Why that's very good, Mr. Funston. That shows real creative thought. I'm very pleased.\" up and stretched. things.\" 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 At the clay table, Funston feverishly fabricated the last odd-shaped bit made short, precise notes on the day's work accomplished by each patient. and stared thoughtfully at the jumbled maze of clay strips laced through lengthily in her chart book. The sun set, darkness fell over the stilled hospital grounds and the burning in each ward office. A quiet wind sighed over the still-warm hills. Funston turned to the window and stared out across the black hills that 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 the hospital buildings in a wave of force and the bursting crash of a screams of the frightened and demented patients. It was over in an instant, and a stunned moment later, recessed ceiling Beyond the again-silent hills, a great pillar of smoke, topped by a the arts and crafts building. with a small, secret smile on his lips. Attendants and nurses scurried through the hospital, seeing how many had been injured in the explosion. None had. The hills had absorbed most of the shock and apart from a welter of broken glass, the damage had been surprisingly slight. The roar and flash of the explosion had lighted and rocked the surrounding countryside. Soon firemen and civil defense disaster units from a half-dozen neighboring communities had gathered at the still-smoking hole that marked the site of the vanished crafts building. Within fifteen minutes, the disaster-trained crews had detected heavy crater. \"How can an atom bomb go off in a nut house?\" \"I don't care if it was the size of a peanut,\" Thurgood screamed. \"How standing around here. We don't know, but the fact remains that it WAS an atomic explosion.\" \"Let's go over it once more, Dr. Crane. Are you sure you knew everything direction of the blast crater. through the use of their hands, some of the frustrations and problems that led them to this hospital. They worked with oil and water paints \"All I know is that you say this was a crafts building. O.K. So it was,\" \"And I've got to find out how it happened.\" \"Where's that girl you said was in charge of this place?\" Outside the tent, a small army of military men and AEC technicians moved around the perimeter of the crater, scintillators in hand, examining every tiny scrap that might have been a part of the building at one time. expression. 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 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 the world if this ever gets out. An atomic bomb made out of clay. You 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 weariness. \"Miss Abercrombie,\" one of the physicists spoke up gently, \"you say that \"I'm positive that's all there was in it,\" Miss Abercrombie cried. There was a renewed buzz of conversation at the table and the senior AEC man present got heads together with the senior intelligence man. They \"Are you crazy?\" he screamed. \"You want to get us all thrown into this filbert factory? Do you know what the newspapers would do to us if they ever got wind of the fact, that for one, tiny fraction of a second, anyone of us here entertained the notion that a paranoidal idiot with 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 Two military policemen and a brace of staff psychiatrists sworn to the night skies. the Nevada desert and two hours later, in a small hot, wooden shack miles up the barren desert wastelands, a cluster of scientists and military men huddled around a small wooden table. There was nothing on the table but a bowl of water and a great lump of \"Now you're positive this is just about the same amount and the same brought us way out here just to see you make another atom bomb like the walked to the table and sat down. His fingers began working the damp clay, making first the hollow, half-round shell while the nation's top atomic scientists watched in fascination. His busy fingers flew through the clay, shaping odd, flat bits and clay front of him. 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 silence. from the shack. There was a moment of hushed silence and then pandemonium burst. The For two hours they studied and gently probed the mass of child's clay 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. the dim interior of the bunker and the pneumatically-operated door slammed shut just before the wave of the blast hit the structure. Potomac and beyond, the domed roof of the Capitol. 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 a neatly-tied bundle. In the conference room, a red-faced, four-star general cast a chilling said coldly, \"but this takes the cake. You come in here with an insane devices out of modeling clay and then has detonated them.\" In the distance, a white cloud began billowing up from the base of the Washington Monument, and with an ear-shattering, glass-splintering roar, the great shaft rose majestically from its base and vanished into space on a tail of flame. THE END\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the main theme of this story?\n\n<options>:\nA Fear and exploitation of the mentally ill\nB The perilous impact of government secrets\nC The damaging impact of mental illness on perception\nD Society's rejection of divergent thought\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>:\n\"I am, but you're not,\" Hanson told him grimly. \"Get your notes straightened up. Run those centrifuge tests and set up the still so we can get at that vitamin count early in the morning.\" \"Tomorrow morning? Aw, for gosh sakes, chief, why don't you take a day off sometime, or better yet, a night off. It'd do you good to relax. \"Never mind Myrtle, just have that equipment set up for the morning. Good night.\" He strode out of the huge laboratory, but his mind was still on the vitamin research they had been conducting, he barely heard the remarks that followed him. \"One of these days the chief is going to have his glands catch up with \"Not a chance,\" Pete Brent grunted. Brian Hanson wondered dispassionately for a moment how his assistants could fail to be as absorbed as he was by the work they were doing, then he let it go as he stepped outside the research building. \"Oh, I see, sir. No rebels, of course. Sorry to have disturbed you. Have a good—Good night, sir,\" he saluted and left. Brian closed the door in puzzlement. What the devil had that flat-foot been smirking about? Well, maybe he could get his bath now. eyes. Brian just stared at her in numbed fascination. That was what the \"All right, joke's over, you can beat it now.\" the laboratory from now on. He sank back into the soothing liquid embrace of the bath and deliberately set his mind loose to wander in complete relaxation. \"She ... why ... why ... she left, of course. You don't think I was \"Listen, bud, we don't do the thinkin' around here. You come on along and see the chief.\" Brian had had about enough. \"I'm not going anywhere to see anybody. That wasn't Myrtle, that was Crystal James, old man James' daughter. \"Oh, it's all right, chief. You can trust me. I won't give you away.\" \"There's nothing to give away, you fool!\" Brian bellowed. \"I don't know \"Come here, you idiot!\" Brian screamed after his erstwhile assistant. \"Pipe down there, bud,\" a guard's voice cut in chillingly. Brian retired to his cell bunk and clutched his aching head in frustrated fury. For the nineteenth time Brian Hanson strode to the door of his cell and rattled the bars. \"Listen here, guard, you've got to take a message to McHague. You can't Brian's eyes almost popped out as he saw a gloved hand reach around that way!\" he yelled wildly. \"Guards! Help!\" right! He had to get out now. He wouldn't be able to explain this away. few seconds the door swung open and they were fleeing silently down the \"They're just ahead of us,\" Brian yelled. \"Come on!\" before a blackjack caught up with him and he folded into a corner. The electric eye tripped a screaming alarm, but the broken key in Brian's hands opened the complicated lock in a matter of seconds. They brilliance as the floodlights snapped on. Brian faltered to a stop and Crystal James pushed past him. Brian felt as though his stomach had fallen down around his ankles corner. Brian and the rebels bundled into them and took away with a \"What are we stopping here for?\" Brian demanded. \"We've got to get \"That's just what we're doing,\" Crystal snapped. \"Everybody out.\" and that gave them the edge on Brian. They followed Crystal down into the garage's repair pit. \"What do we do? Hide here?\" \"That's what you think,\" Crystal snapped. \"McHague's legend got my Brian was startled at the icy hardness of her voice. crumbling, fallen in in some places and signs of new work where the rebels had cleared away the debris of years. Brian struggled into a zippered overall suit as they followed a twisting, tortuous course for half an hour, switching from one tunnel to another repeatedly until he had lost all conception of direction. Crystal James, at the controls, seemed to know exactly where they were gash in the wall of the cavern. Brian followed Crystal into the smaller \"Wait a minute, how do we get out of here?\" Brian demanded. \"We're going to crash! That gap isn't wide enough!\" The sides of the gap rushed in on the tips of the stubby wings. Brian braced himself for the crash, but it didn't come. At the last possible Crystal held the ship in its roll and completed the maneuver outside the mountain while Brian struggled to get his internal economy back into some semblance of order. \"Oh—I see,\" Brian said weakly and a few moments later he really did An aërial torpedo exploded in front of the rebel ship. Crystal's face set in grim lines as she pulled the ship up in a screaming climb. Brian \"That's what you think,\" Crystal muttered. \"Those children don't play \"You must be mistak—\" He slumped to the floor as Crystal threw the \"I guess that was a mistake!\" Crystal yelled as she fought the controls. Brian almost got to his feet when another wild maneuver hurled him back \"That's them,\" Crystal said with satisfaction. \"How are the others \"Look! They're hit!\" Brian felt sick. The slower rebel freight ship staggered drunkenly as a torpedo caught white flowers of half a dozen parachutes blossoming around it. Brian outrage. \"They didn't have a chance!\" \"Don't get excited,\" Crystal told him in a dead, flat voice. \"That's Crystal's answer was to yank the ship into a rocketing climb. The \"Just follow along, suckers,\" Crystal invited grimly. talons of gray rock missed and fell away again as Crystal nursed the \" Brian gasped. \"Well, we got away that time. How in thunder \"Into where?\" Brian demanded. All he could see immediately ahead was \"You leave the flying to me,\" Crystal snapped. of the mountain face. Brian yelped and cowered instinctively back. The came running. Crystal tumbled out of her ship. rushed up to Crystal. \"Wait, you fool. They may not even have seen us.\" But he was gone, \"Who was that crazy coot and what is this place?\" Brian demanded. opening Crystal's ship had left. \"He hasn't got a chance! We'll be \"They got him!\" Crystal's voice was a moan. \"Oh, the fool, the fool!\" \"We might as well just wait,\" Crystal said hopelessly. \"It won't do us around so their rocket exhausts sweep the entrance to the cavern,\" Brian suggested doubtfully. She looked at him steadily. \"You sound like the only good rebel left. We can try it, anyway.\" concealment. Then Brian and Crystal cut loose with the drives of the Crystal was white and shaking, her face set in a mask of horror, as she \"Oh, let them shoot us! I can't go through that again!\" verging on extinction. He dashed to the other ship and repeated the Crystal screamed. \"Brian! There's more police cutting in around the Brian clambered out of the ship and glanced at the glowing points in the rock where the police were cutting their way through outside \"It's time to check out,\" Brian shouted. Crystal led the way as they fled down the escape tunnel. The roaring \"The whole side of the mountain's sliding,\" Crystal screamed. \"Run!\" Brian shoved her and they plunged madly through the thick tangle Crystal went down as the ground slipped from under her. Brian grabbed Brian and Crystal struggled painfully to solid ground. Crystal gazed scrambling through the jungle up the mountainside. \"Where are we heading for?\" Brian grunted as he struggled along.\n\n<question>:\nWhat would have happened if Brian didn’t escape with Crystal?\n\n<options>:\nA Brian would have given Pete extra work to punish him for the prank.\nB Brian would have turned in Crystal and the rebels.\nC The police would have thought Brian was working with the rebels.\nD Brian would have continued his vitamin research.\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>:\nreturned, and settled down to live. Saddened, but resigned and content to live in peace with his knowledge and his power. Gone now are all the ancient evils, wars, emergencies. Maternite Machine, it appears, has been drunk. The heat rose above the warning, continued to rise, and then—poof. Everything has evaporated in Maternite. All the Prelife is gone.\" \"All of it?\" I asked. \"There is nothing left,\" Melia insisted. \"Can more be made? And if not, what will happen with no more children?\" \"That is for the priests to say, not I,\" I replied. In moments of emergency, it is wise to speak with caution. That is, I suppose so. I They are of an age to enter manhood, and have all the energy such young men do. that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening indeed, an emergency. For a machine had failed! Not in the memory of the eldest among us has a machine failed. They were created so long ago, indeed, that the ignorant believe them to have been constructed by the gods themselves. And never, so far as I know, has one failed. Small wonder that the watcher had been negligent. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity. He rambled through the customary opening remarks and then, continually smoothing his white beard—of which he is excessively proud—approached the crux of the matter and the Conclave finally heard the facts it had assembled to hear. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Conclave had departed for home and supper. Yet perhaps it is for the best, for those left were the most earnest and intelligent. \"I would not bore you,\" he said, \"with details of which only the gods are sure. Know, then, that once granted a few cells of Prelife, it is an easy matter for the Maternite Machine to add more and more thus assuring us, as has always been, a continuous source of Prelife to be born by the Generating Machine as children. The machines bear the exact number of children each year to balance the number of us whom the gods claim. Such it has always been from time immemorial.\" A murmur of assent and approval of these virtuous words whispered around the Hall. Indeed, I might call it an emergency. For the M-Maternite Machine has the priest had I not been able to insure order. \"That is not the worst,\" he cried, as if in defiance. \"All the Prelife has been dried up. It will not function. There is no more. And there will be no more children!\" At this I feared the Conclave was about to riot. It is at such times that I most revere the wisdom of the ancients, who decreed seventy years the minimum age for a member of the Conclave. They shouted and began to beat their fists, but for how long can a man of seventy years roar like a youngster? They quieted, breathing heavily, and I asked, \"Is there no way, then, to produce more Prelife in order that the machines may produce more children for us? \"As I have said,\" he replied, \"give the machines but a bit of Prelife and they will produce more. But take away that least bit, and they are helpless.\" think. Rocsates leaned forward and asked, \"Must there not—must there not have been a beginning to Prelife? For the Machine, it seems, cannot make it and yet it came from somewhere.\" \"Riddles are not called for,\" I answered severely. \"Are not riddles often the beginning of knowledge?\" he asked, in that irritating dumber-than-thou attitude of his. \"Must there not, long ago, have been a source of Prelife: a source now forgotten? And may it not thousands of years ago, time without reckoning, there existed on the earth creatures who were alive like us, and yet not like us. It is said indeed exist. It is recorded most scientifically in the films.\" \"If it be so,\" I said, quieting the hub-bub that followed, \"and I would not doubt your word, Rocsates, for all know you are the wisest of to such creatures. And indeed, if they had Maternite Machines, why then we would yet have these animals among us.\" \"And how, then, did these animals reproduce?\" I asked. \"How, indeed? And is there not a legend—admitted only a legend—that says there was a time before the machines, and before the Maternite Machine, and that at such a time both the animals and Men reproduced from within their own bodies?\" At this two members of the Conclave fell immediately into a faint, and I would gladly have joined them. I hoped that the youngsters, Xeon \"I should like to ask the Conclave for permission to search the ancient and so delicate, that they are kept in an air-tight tomb lest, being handled, they be destroyed and all knowledge within them lost. Therefore, they have not been read in the known history of our race. Several weeks elapsed before Rocsates requested that the Conclave meet. I called the meeting at dawn and so it was yet early in the afternoon when formalities were concluded and Rocsates granted leave to speak. \"Some of those among you are She's,\" he began. \"And you know you are many books, and while they are all vague on the subject, this I have discovered: \"That there was indeed a time before the machines, in fact the books Then reproduction was carried on by individuals, without help of the then nonexistent machines. The She's are not wanderers from another land, but they have lived with us for all time they are not another race, but we are all types of one race. And the fact of reproduction is reproduction must have been a pleasant thing to do otherwise they would not have done so to excess. And if it was a pleasant thing to do, where is the necessity for the machines, and why were they created?\" with Melia were at the Conclave without permission, shouted, \"Perhaps the process of reproduction was of such a pleasure that the Conclave At this impudence the Conclave dissolved in an uproar, and I was beyond they cannot do until they meet again. I needed a sufficient excuse to call a meeting of the Conclave, desired audience, I immediately proclaimed a meeting of the Conclave to be held the next day at dawn, and so that night slept well. The Conclave had come to order and formalities had been initiated when formalities were over. I intended to speak for Xeon, but Rocsates was on his feet and I gave way. \"I have indeed discovered the secret of reproduction,\" he began. \"After but it seems to mean....\" His words trailed off. He was obviously unsure of how to continue. \"I had better start at the beginning, I When he finished the Conclave sat in horrified silence. His words, to move. I cleared my throat. \"Shall not these organs which you mention have atrophied by now? With no use throughout all these generations, will they not have evolved into nothingness?\" \"I do not think so,\" Rocsates replied after a while. \"What to us is an eon, to evolution is but an instant. And then the swelling of the breasts, I believe, proves that there is still reproductive activity in some, at least, of the She's.\" I voiced my assent, and the entire Conclave adjourned to the fields. \"They may indeed have succeeded,\" Rocsates replied. \"There is mentioned a time lapse which is necessary. The child does not appear immediately.\" \"It doesn't matter,\" I said disconsolately. \"Who could ask them to go through such an ordeal again?\" And then I looked down to earth again, and saw them standing before me. \"Sias, we come to tell.... We will....\" He raised his eyes to mine and said manfully, \"We shall try again.\" I am afraid that tears came to my eyes. Such sacrifice— I watched them turn and wander off together under the stars. My heart has a warmth in it, and I no longer fear for the future of our race when our young people can show such nobility and sacrifice.\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Sias believe that the ancients declared 70 as the minimum age for a member of the Conclave?\n\n<options>:\nA They are the ones who remember things from previous generations that get lost to time\nB They do not have the energy to riot amongst themselves\nC They are closest in lineage to the predecessors that generated the machines\nD They have had sufficient life experience at that point\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>:\nCharles turned over on his side to look at her. She lay quietly in the the day. And he had been a nobody, full of a nobody's idle hopes and schemes. And now he was lying in the bed next to hers in her swank Manhattan apartment in the most exclusive hotel in town. The unrealness of the situation overwhelmed him. His mind was a picture of confused thoughts. Meanings and answers to his questions slithered out of his reach. A thought teased at him. Charles looked at the woman again and decided \"I could have fallen in love with you once. A year ago, perhaps, or longer. But not now. Not now.\" He turned away and walked to the window. \"Now the world is dead. The whole world is dead.\" New York lay quietly below him. It was the hour of indecision when day has not quite made up its mind to leave and night has not yet freely, warmly, and Charles had accepted. But then he had known She would have given herself to any man— His thoughts beat a rapid crescendo, activating emotions, stimulating Charles picked up a heavy book end off the table and crashed it through A gust of wind from the outside breezed through the shattered opening, attacking his olfactory patch with the retching smell of decaying flesh. Charles ignored it. Even smells had lost their customary \"But I don't want to be the last man alive!\" he shouted. \"I don't know what to do! I don't know where to go, how to act! I just don't know—\" \" Maybe I'm not the last! \" The thought struck him with suddenness, promisingly, edged with swelling comfort to fill his emptiness. Charles got up slowly, noticing for the first time that his fingers was a mess of desolate carnage. Charles overlooked it. Shop fronts smashed, stores looted, gyro-cars wrecked, proud buildings defaced. \"That was it,\" he said to himself. \"Pride. We called this the 'Proud Era.' Everything was better and bigger and nicer to have. Buildings were taller, men were healthier, most of the problems of humanity seemed licked, or nearly so. It was a time of free power, each small unit of population, each section of town operating on perpetual, ever-lasting, automatic atomic piles. \"We were free. We seemed, almost, to have accomplished something. The world was running well. No wonder we called it the 'Proud Era.' Life was fun, just a bowl of cherries, until....\" \"I've got to find out,\" Charles told himself. He meant it, of course, In all of his life, Charles had never once glanced at The Index. Reaching the gigantic building, Charles pushed aside the body of a Only once, before the plague, had he seen the interior of this room. But he still remembered it and he still recalled the powerful emotional experience it had been those many years ago. before and a friendly guard had let him peep briefly into the computer room. The impression of intense activity, of organized confusion, of mechanical wonder had remained with him the rest of his life. \"So different now,\" he thought, surveying the room. \"Now it's empty, so empty.\" The machine seemed to reflect the stillness, the very deadness Charles walked to the master control panel. With newly acquired being sampled while the screen would show population density by individual pinpoints of light that merged to form brightness patterns. \"I'll try New York first,\" he said to himself, knowing that he was a coward, afraid to check the whole world from the start. \"I'll start Charles activated the switches that would flash a schematic map of New one of them, a beautiful woman, had invited him up to her apartment, not because she liked him, but because.... The main screen focused itself, the patterns shifting into a Charles stopped talking and forced his eyes upwards. Peripheral vision Charles was by himself, the last person alive in all of New York City. the so-called \"basic\" drives: hunger, thirst, sex, shelter, warmth, companionship, elimination. Certainly more decisive in the history of the race. Man began to think, to differentiate himself from the other But thinking about \"why\" didn't answer the question itself, Charles the most perfect? Had he led the best of all possible lives? Was that it? Had God, in His infinite wisdom and mercy, spared his life, saved him, singled him out because he was most nearly a saint, most nearly Christ-like, most nearly.... Charles sighed. \"No,\" Charles said, standing up in the quiet of the spring evening. There must be!\" He sighed slowly. \"So now I'm a hermit, whether or not I like it,\" he said in derision to Charles stopped walking suddenly. No cave, he thought. No place to sleep out the long one, no place to rest while time came to change things around and make them for the better. No place to hide. And suddenly it was the most important thing in life to him to find his \"cave.\" \"It ought to be something impressive,\" he thought out loud. \"Something fitting the occasion.\" rest. Let them decide. He smiled and finished the painting. Charles was hungry. He got up and started for one of the restaurants near the park. Later on, when there was more time, he'd find a piece of granite and move it to the plot. He could spend his free time carving on it, copying the inscription. He would make it into a real shrine Somehow, though, since things were ready and it didn't make too much difference, it seemed to Charles that he'd probably have a long time to wait. \"Maybe it's just a disease, and I'm immune. I was immune to smallpox. The vaccination never took. That's probably it.\" He smiled. Strange, but now he wanted very much to go on living, alone or not. There were things he could do, ways to keep occupied. He wouldn't mind it so much. But he wanted more and more desperately with each passing second to retain his foothold on the tenuous path of physical existence. The tantalizing thought of \"why\" puzzled its way back into his mind. But it seemed less pressing now that he had almost come to the conclusion that he would live for a long time. Later, in a few days perhaps, he would think about it. In a little while he'd have plenty of opportunity for hunting down the answer. This seemed good to him, for now he thought he almost had the answer, if there were an answer. He part of his mind clamped down, obscuring the thought, rejecting the to the restaurant. This was the way the plague began, but—His mind quickly repressed the idea. It couldn't be the plague. He was immune! He wanted to protest, but there was no one to listen to him. He Charles struggled to end his body's disorganized responses, to everything else seemed irrelevant: he had to get back to the park, to his hermit's cave, to his long, narrow home. He couldn't die until then. He was allotted ten minutes before the end. It could have been ten years or ten seconds, for now objective time meant nothing to him. It was not a matter of measuring seconds and stomach protested, he vomited. It made no difference. Charles refused to think. Machines, especially half-broken machines, do not think they only work. Sweating, straining, bleeding, retching, he pushed himself towards his goal, trying to add one final touch of grace And then he was upon it. One arm reached out for grass, and clutched bare space instead. He was home. He gathered energy from his final reservoirs of strength for one final Instantly the thought struck him with paralyzing devastation. The answer to it all poked its face out from the recesses of his mind and sapped the last bit of his energy, corroding his nerves and dying muscles. Now he knew, and the knowing was the end of it. empty coffin. The world will end, not with a bang, nor with a whimper, but with the last man's anguished cry at the unreasonableness of it all. \"I can feel the emptiness of it.\" \"It was very good. Where were you?\" \"On the next planet out. No beauty to it at all\n\n<question>:\nWhat did Charles decide to do when he realized he was alone?\n\n<options>:\nA Live his best life as long as possible\nB Give up and wait for death\nC Create a shrine to mark the end of humanity\nD Enjoy the things he never had before\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nMore Bang for the Buck A friend of mine offers a theory about why Bill Clinton's poll numbers stayed so high throughout the Lewinsky scandal: The news made it possible for serious-minded people to spend lots of time--at the office and over lunch--talking about semen stains, vaginal insertions, and blow jobs. And the people were grateful. That's probably because they're not getting all that much themselves. A recent University of Chicago survey of 10,000 adults found that Americans are having considerably less sex than was generally thought. Only one American in 20 has sex three times a week. One in five didn't score at all last year. If that's true, many of us could use a little sexual self-improvement. Not me, of course. I have been happily married for 26 years, since the age of 21. Deb and I have what seems to us to be a perfectly fine amorous life, yet everywhere I turn the culture tells me--almost mocks me-- you can do better! What would happen to our sex life then, if Deb (who participated in this story because she loves me and because she has tenure) and I tried for the first time to make something happen to it? And so it was that we found ourselves for the first time ever in a sex-toy store, A Touch of Romance, located near our home in Los Angeles, across the street from a Macy's. The idea behind shops like these is to make obtaining the materials of sexual experimentation as ordinary as purchasing plumbing supplies or housewares. Which sort of works--the only sexual thrill I got from the visit was knowing that Microsoft just bought a cock ring. Choosing it wasn't easy. Most of them came in presized sets of three. I couldn't figure out which would fit right and intuited that try-ons weren't an option. So I opted instead for an adjustable circumference version, a little strip of vinyl with snaps for $11.95. Man, what a rip-off! Unless it works. Overall rating, on a scale of 1 to 10: 2 toes curled. A woman I know says women's magazines are the best places in America to find sex tips. She's right--go ahead, just try to find a sewing pattern in Redbook . You're much more likely to land on \"Try phone sex, dirty notes, porn videos, fantasy games and sex in new places. ... Try lingerie and no underwear. ... Try talking dirty and silk scarves. Try anything at all,\" or articles such as \"Eight New Games for the Foreplay Challenged.\" An article in the April Cosmopolitan , \"The Six Best Sex Positions,\" seemed more promising than the Redbook playbook. Each position was accompanied by a succinct write-up and a stick-figure diagram. The position we settled on was \"The Butterfly,\" which we had to read three times to comprehend. The man stands, the woman remains supine on a bed or counter-top with her feet up on his shoulders. The whole idea is to produce a pelvic tilt for better access to the G spot. Instead, we experienced an uncomfortable pretzel feeling that stick figures must be immune to. And in general, Cosmopolitan 's exotic sex positions require the sort of body placement you can't remember in the moment of passion and even if you could, for proper alignment, you still might need mood-killing accessories such as a plumb line and a laser pen. Rating: 3 toes curled. Next we tried those \"Better Sex\" instructional videos advertised in the New York Times Book Review. I ordered Better Sexual Techniques , Advanced Sexual Techniques , Making Sex Fun , and Advanced Oral Sex Techniques (priced about $11.95 each, not including shipping and handling). My wife couldn't bear to watch them I persevered but must admit it was a chore. The oral-sex tape starts with \"well-known sex therapist\" Diana Wiley, in her poofy hair and broad-shouldered blue power suit, looking like she was about to explain how the sales force could increase its third-quarter productivity. Instead she runs through all the euphemisms for oral sex and then the video cuts to XXX action with gratuitous commentary. Wiley's overexplanation of everything two people can do to each other with their mouths raises this question: Do you really need a five-minute video segment on whether or not to swallow? In the great tradition of hotel and travel ads, the guys tend to be markedly less attractive than the women. No way he'd be with her if this wasn't an instructional sex video! The inanity of the experts and the dubious casting make these films about as erotic as ... well, as the New York Times . You could learn more from any randomly selected porn video. Rating: 0 toes curled. Another approach is food. The notion that certain foods, such as oysters or rhino horn, are aphrodisiacs has been pretty much discounted. But it's plausible to think that cooking a meal together and then dining on it, just the two of you, could be erotic. Especially if (like me) your schedule frequently forces you to eat alone and you often find yourself standing in front of the microwave, screaming, \"Come on, goddammit!\" Intercourses , by Martha Hopkins and Randall Lockridge ($24.95, Terrace Publishing, 1997), preaches that for every time of day and every phase of a relationship there is a type of eating experience that will heighten sexual response. (There's also a chart showing which foods are good for eating off which body parts.) Deb and I blocked off a whole Saturday afternoon and evening for the Intercourses experiment, settling on rosemary-scented lamb over pasta (Page 87) followed by frozen coffee almond dessert (Page 31). According to the book, rosemary is sexy because of its fragrance (used in many perfumes) and because of its texture, which, so the text assured, tickles nerve endings. The dessert was mostly coffee, rum, and Kahlua, which has worked before. We shopped for the food together and cooked together, drinking wine and beer along the way. At one point while I was working on the dessert, I asked my wife how long to beat the heavy cream mixture. \"Till it's stiff--it's an aphrodisiac,\" she said. Preparation took less than an hour, and everything came out perfectly. Eating at our dining room table for the first time ever without guests, we were having fun by candlelight. But the mood was romantic, not erotic. Overall rating: 4 toes curled. St. Augustine held lust to be a fitting punishment for man's disobedience to God: the body's disobeying of the mind, the will, the spirit, and even of itself. (The paradigm of this for him is the unbidden hard-on.) Jean-Paul Sartre discovered something similar, although celebrating it rather than deploring it: Essential to the erotic is the body's defiance of design and control. (The paradigm of this for him is the jiggle.) Sartre's view yields a sort of sexual Heisenberg principle: There is an inherent tension between physically abandoning yourself to another on the one hand and sexual planning on the other. The more of the one, the less of the other. And this, I discovered, is the chief obstacle to sexual self-help. Getting an erection is sexy. Making one is not. As my wife said about Viagra, \"You start to have a new feeling and then you realize where it came from and then you don't have it so much. ... Anything that makes you think about it like that is just creepy.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy does it matter that Deb has tenure?\n\n<options>:\nA It does not matter.\nB Since sex stories might be frowned upon, it matters that his wife has a distinguished position and job security.\nC The writer wishes to provide the reader with balanced descriptions of his wife's personal and professional life.\nD The writer wants to highlight his wife's professional accomplishments since she is participating in this story.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that decision of Interstellar was that the colonists started a revolution Antheon, for example—but when there are large groups, control is more the halfway point. It ended with passengers engaging in open warfare \"As I recall,\" Ellason said, \"there was something about stunners.\" resourcefulness. They utilized these attributes to set up weapon shops to arm themselves.\" \"The second trip is history,\" Rexroad said. \"And a puzzle.\" \"Yes. We gave control to the colonists.\" Weblor I , at a tremendous cost. Basically, it was an instrument which would open distant vistas to colonization, reducing the made a suggestion here, a restriction there. There was no doubt that rules fall away, the floundering group seeks a new control, for they dissension later on. His notes covering it were therefore very thorough. was significant that all en route had passed stability tests, and that realize it takes only a little thing like this to set things off. I But the point is, we know all this, and knowing it, we shouldn't let it happen. We've got to find that thief.\" mask that covered his head completely.\" \"Didn't you think that was important?\" Branson asked in an outraged voice. \"A man wearing a red mask?\" Dievers shrugged. \"This is a spaceship. How would I know whether a red discounted. \"If it is true,\" Branson told Ellason, \"the theft must be the work of a psychotic. But I don't believe Jamieson Dievers. It may well be he's the psychotic.\" He snorted. \"Red rubber mask! I think I'll have Dievers put through psychiatry.\" Attendant to taking notes on this incident, Ellason noted a strange compresses, stultifies. He introduces a countermeasure, proof he exists, which is any overt act, sometimes violent. taken to one of the ship's doctors, who confirmed it. She said the culprit was a husky man wearing a red rubber mask, and though her description of what he had done did not appear in the story in the newsletter, it lost no time in penetrating every compartment of no crewmen to spare for police duty.\" The group left in a surly mood. suppose I assign the crew to patrol duties, the culprit isn't caught, \"I know my men,\" Branson said flatly. \"You could have a shake-down for the mask and the seed case.\" money belt in the drawer of the small stand beside his bed. A man in a red mask was seen hurrying from the hospital area, and a staff investigation revealed that Palugger had died trying to prevent the theft of the belt. forced to submit to a thorough inspection in an effort to find the and tempers short. Above it all was the overpowering presence of a police force for you. It is up to you people to police and protect \"How can we protect ourselves without stunners?\" one colonist called out. \"Has Red Mask a gun?\" Branson retorted. \"It seems to me you have a better weapon than any gun.\" \"What's that?\" everyone returned to his compartment, and the larger search was conducted. It took twenty hours. No mask was found. No mask, no case, no money, no man. The captain reported that his search had been equally fruitless. At another assembly the following day it was decided to make the Mask. The Quadrant Council held periodic meetings to set up a method of trial for him when he was caught. It was all recorded in the newsletter and by Keith Ellason. man in a red mask in her room. Her cries brought neighbors into the corridor. The flight of the man was witnessed by many, and several men tried to stop him. But the intruder was light on his feet and fast. He \"There's no law against it,\" Branson said, \"but it's a rule of mine that no weapons are to be issued en route.\" \"If we had had a gun, we'd have got Red Mask,\" Tilbury said. \"And I might have a murder on my conscience.\" Tilbury said, \"We've also thought of that. Suppose you supply us with half-power stunners? That way we can stun but not kill.\" They got their guns. Now there were twenty-four policemen on duty in the corridors—eight on at a time. Ellason observed that for the first time the passengers seemed relaxed. Let Red Mask move against armed men, they said. Yeah, let him see what happens now. Red Mask did. On the 101st day he was seen in a corridor in Quadrant Four. Emil Pierce, policeman on duty, managed to squeeze off several shots at his retreating figure. Red Mask was seen again on the 120th day, on the 135th day, and the 157th day. He was seen, shot at, but not hit. He was also unable to commit any crime. He's afraid to do anything, now that we've got police protection, they The colonists settled down to living out the rest of the voyage until the landing on Antheon. But on the 170th day calamity struck. Red Mask appropriated one of the stunners, made his way down one whole corridor section in Quadrant Two, put occupants to sleep as he went, taking many articles of value and Ellason interviewed as many victims as he could, noted it all in his book. The things taken were keepsakes, photographs and items of personal value. It seemed to be the work of a madman. If Red Mask wanted to make everyone furious, he certainly succeeded. \"What does he want that stuff for?\" Casey Stromberg, a passenger required to lock their compartments at all times. More guns were obtained from the captain. More policemen were appointed. trigger-happy policemen thought their movements suspicious, about one man's suspicion of another and the ensuing search of compartments, people who saw Red Mask here, saw him there. Hardly a day went by without some new development. \"Oh, yes, Mr. Ellason, we're going to get him,\" said Tilbury, now chief of police, cracking his knuckles, his eyes glowing at the thought. \"We're bound to get him. We've got things worked out to the finest detail. He won't be able to get through our fingers now. Just let him make so much as a move.\" \"And what will you do when you get him?\" \"Oh, there'll be a trial, Mr. Ellason, but you don't think any jury'd let him live after all the things he's done, do you?\" Red Mask was stunned in Quadrant Four in a corridor by a policeman named Terryl Placer on the 201st day. The criminal was carried to the assembly room surrounded by guards, for he surely would have been mauled, if not killed, by angry colonists who crowded around. In the assembly hall his mask was whipped off. The crowd gasped. Nobody knew him. Ellason's first thought was that he must be a stowaway, but then he seem to be much doubt about the outcome, for Critten didn't help his blasts from six stunners supplied with full power. It was witnessed Dying is easy for a Nilly. Especially if it's arranged for beforehand, which it always is. The \"Let me get this straight. Interstellar thought that it was idleness and boredom that caused the killings on the , so they had you trained to be a scapegoat. Is that right?\" to see that they directed none of their venom against each other or the \"We removed the charges before the guns were used.\" his illness on the operating table. We turned it into an advantage by making it look suspicious.\" Ellason brightened. \"And by that time everybody was seeing Red Mask everywhere and the colonists organized against him.\" \"Gave them something to do,\" Branson said. \"Every time things got dull, I livened them up. I got a stunner and robbed along the corridor. That really stirred them. Lucky nobody got\n\n<question>:\nWhich of these was not an effect of giving the police force half-powered staters?\n\n<options>:\nA It caused some issues while the police force got trigger-happy, adding to the paranoia\nB It made the ship's environment safer now that the police were armed\nC The passenger police force felt they had some power\nD It was what allowed the Red Mask to finally acquire a weapon\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>:\nFight Clubbed Fight Club , a movie about a fictional organization of men who strip down and beat each other to pulp, has provoked more than its share of media hand-wringing, particularly diatribes about Hollywood's infatuation with violence and Faludi-esque ruminations about the emasculated American male. Fight Club , however, has not sparked an iota of interest in a real organization of men who strip down and beat each other to pulp: the Ultimate Fighting Championship. UFC's flameout from national sensation to total irrelevance is a tragedy of American sports, a cautionary tale of prudishness, heavy-handed politics, and cultural myopia. UFC began in 1993 as a locker-room fantasy. What would happen if a kickboxer fought a wrestler? A karate champion fought a sumo champion? Promoters built an octagonal chain-link cage, invited eight top martial artists, and set them loose in no-holds-barred, bare-knuckles fights. \"There are no rules!\" bragged an early press release. Contestants would fight till \"knockout, submission, doctor's intervention, or death.\" UFC allowed, even promoted, all notions of bad sportsmanship: kicking a man when he's down, hitting him in the groin, choking. Four-hundred-pound men were sent into the Octagon to maul guys half their size. Only biting and eye-gouging were forbidden. The gimmick entranced thousands of people (well, men). What happens when a 620-pound sumo champion fights a 200-pound kickboxer? Answer: The kickboxer knocks him silly in 35 seconds. They tuned in for bloodshed--\"the damage,\" as fans like to call it. UFC fights could be horrifying. Tank Abbott, an ill-tempered, 270-pound street fighter, knocks out hapless opponent John Matua in 15 seconds. Then, before the ref can intervene, Abbott belts the unconscious Matua in the head, sending him into a fit, limbs quivering uncontrollably, blood spurting from his mouth. Abbott, naturally, became a cult hero and won a guest spot on Friends . (Matua walked out of the ring.) Soon, UFC was selling out huge arenas and drawing 300,000 pay-per-view subscribers for its quarterly competitions. But a subtle sport was emerging from the gimmicks and carnage. My passion for ultimate fighting (which is also called \"extreme\" or \"no-holds-barred\" fighting) began when I saw the finals of UFC IV. Royce Gracie, a 180-pound Brazilian jujitsu specialist, was matched against a 275-pound beast named Dan Severn, one of the top heavyweight wrestlers in the world and a national champion many times over. In 30 seconds, Severn had grabbed Gracie, flung him to the canvas, and mounted him. For the next 15 minutes, Severn pummeled and elbowed and head-butted the smaller man. Gracie's face grew drawn, and he squirmed wildly to avoid Severn's bombardment. Then, all of sudden, Gracie, still lying on his back, saw an opening, wrapped his arms and legs around Severn like a python and choked the giant into submission. UFC's caged matches revolutionized the idea of fighting. Nursed on boxing and Hollywood, Americans imagine fights as choreography, a dance of elegant combinations, roundhouse kicks, clean knockouts. The UFC punctured this. Boxers floundered. Experts in striking martial arts such as karate and tae kwon do, who fancied themselves the world's greatest fighters, found themselves pretzeled by jujitsu masters, who pulled them to the ground and slowly choked or leg-locked them. \"UFC immediately debunked a lot of myths of fighting, of boxing, karate, kung fu. It showed the reality of what works in an actual fight,\" says Dave Meltzer, editor of Wrestling Observer . Instead of being carnivals of gore, UFC fights looked strangely like ... sex. Almost all fights ended on the ground, one man mounting the other in missionary position, the pair of them wiggling mysteriously along the canvas for five, 10, even 30 minutes. There were few spectacular knockouts. The referee--yes, there was always a referee--stopped many bouts, and in most others, fighters \"tapped out,\" surrendering to mild-looking but agonizing chokes and joint locks. It was not barbarism. It was science. The UFC spawned a new breed of \"mixed martial artists.\" World-class wrestlers learned to kickbox. Champion kickboxers learned to grapple. (The karate experts learned to stay home.) They became, without doubt, the best fighters in the world. (Click for more about the fighters.) Mike Tyson wouldn't last 30 seconds in an ultimate fighting match. When Olympic gold medal wrestler Kevin Jackson came to the UFC, a fighter named Frank Shamrock KO'd him with a submission hold in 16 seconds. Ultimate fighting schools began sprouting up all over the country, replacing the stylized gestures of the Eastern martial arts with techniques that actually work. UFC's promoters predicted that it would supplant boxing as America's martial art. Instead, it fell apart. The collapse began in 1996, when Sen. John McCain, R-Ariz., saw a UFC tape. McCain, a lifelong boxing fan, was horrified at the ground fighting, kicks, and head butts. It was \"barbaric,\" he said. It was \"not a sport.\" He sent letters to all 50 governors asking them to ban ultimate fighting. The outcry against \"human cockfighting\" became a crusade, and like many crusades, it was founded on misunderstanding. UFC fell victim to cultural determinism about what a fight is. In countries such as Brazil and Japan, where no-holds-barred fighting has a long history, it is popular and uncontroversial. But Americans adhere to the Marquis of Queensbury rules. A fight consists of an exchange of upper-body blows that halts when one fighter falls. Any blood sport can be barbaric, whether it's boxing or wrestling or ultimate fighting. It is impossible to draw a bright line between ultimate fighting and boxing. If anything, ultimate fighting is safer and less cruel than America's blood sport. For example, critics pilloried ultimate fighting because competitors fought with bare knuckles: To a nation accustomed to boxing gloves, this seemed revolting, an invitation to brain damage. But it's just the reverse: The purpose of boxing gloves is not to cushion the head but to shield the knuckles. Without gloves, a boxer would break his hands after a couple of punches to the skull. That's why ultimate fighters won't throw multiple skull punches. As a result, they avoid the concussive head wounds that kill boxers--and the long-term neurological damage that cripples them. Similarly, the chain-link fence surrounding the octagon looks grotesque. Critics have demanded that UFC install ropes instead. But ropes are a major cause of death and injury in boxing: Fighters hyperextend their necks when they are punched against the ropes, because nothing stops their heads from snapping back. The chain-link fence prevents hyperextension. and there's not a TV camera in sight. Ultimate fighting should have become boxing. Instead it has gone underground. It has become Fight Club.\n\n<question>:\nWhat best describes the nature of ultimate fighting by 1995?\n\n<options>:\nA A barbaric battle to the death.\nB A bad experiment.\nC A science of martial arts.\nD A fight without rules.\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>:\nFight Club is silly stuff, sensationalism that mistakes itself for satire, but it's also a brash and transporting piece of moviemaking, like Raging Bull on acid. The film opens with--literally--a surge of adrenalin, which travels through the bloodstream and into the brain of its protagonist, Jack (Edward Norton), who's viewed, as the camera pulls out of his insides, with a gun stuck in his mouth. How'd he get into this pickle? He's going to tell you, breezily, and the director, David Fincher, is going to illustrate his narrative--violently. Fincher ( Seven , 1995 Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets. It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding: They cling to each other and sob. But Jack's idyll is rudely disrupted by--wouldn't you know it?--a woman. A dark-eyed, sepulchral head case named Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) begins showing up at all the same disparate meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote. Jack finds another outlet, though. On a plane, he meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), a cryptic hipster with a penchant for subversive acts both large (he makes high-priced soaps from liposuctioned human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club, in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\" self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says. Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush. The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?) F ight Club could use a few different perspectives: a woman's, obviously, but also an African-American's--someone who'd have a different take on the \"healing\" properties of violence. It's also unclear just what has emasculated Jack: Is it that he's a materialist or that the materials themselves (i.e., IKEA's lacquered particle boards) don't measure up to his fantasies of opulence? Is he motivated by spiritual hunger or envy? Tyler's subsequent idea of confining his group's mayhem to franchise coffee bars and corporate-subsidized art is a witty one--it's like a parody of neo-Nazism as re-enacted by yuppies. It might have been a howl if performed by, say, the troupe of artsy German nihilists in Joel and Ethan Coen's The Big Lebowski (1998). Somehow Brad Pitt doesn't have the same piquancy. Actually, Pitt isn't as terrible as usual: He's playing not a character but a conceit, and he can bask in his movie-idol arrogance, which seems to be the most authentic emotion he has. But the film belongs to Norton. As a ferocious skinhead in last year's American History X , Norton was taut and ropy, his long torso curled into a sneer here, he's skinny and wilting, a quivering pansy. Even when he fights he doesn't transform--he's a raging wimp. The performance is marvelous, and it makes poetic sense in light of the movie's climactic twist. But that twist will annoy more people than it will delight, if only because it shifts the drama from the realm of the sociological to that of the psychoanalytic. The finale, scored with the Pixies' great \"Where Is My Mind?\" comes off facetiously--as if Fincher is throwing the movie away. Until then, however, he has done a fabulous job of keeping it spinning. The most thrilling thing about Fight Club isn't what it says but how Uhls and Fincher pull you into its narrator's head and simulate his adrenalin rushes. A veteran of rock videos, Fincher is one of those filmmakers who helps make the case that MTV--along with digital editing--has transformed cinema for better as well as worse. The syntax has become more intricate. Voice-over narration, once considered uncinematic, is back in style, along with novelistic asides, digressions, fantasies, and flashbacks. To make a point, you can jazzily interject anything--even, as in Three Kings , a shot of a bullet slicing through internal organs. Films like Fight Club might not gel, but they have a breathless, free-associational quality that points to new possibilities in storytelling. Or maybe old possibilities: The language of movies hasn't seemed this unfettered since the pre-sound days of Sergei Eisenstein and Abel Gance.\n\n<question>:\nIn the review of \"Fight Club,\" lines from Tyler Durden cited by the reviewer illustrate the following literary device:\n\n<options>:\nA allusion\nB personification\nC metaphor\nD irony\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>:\nUFC began in 1993 as a locker-room fantasy. What would happen if a kickboxer fought a wrestler? A karate champion fought a sumo champion? Promoters built an octagonal chain-link cage, invited eight top martial artists, and set them loose in no-holds-barred, bare-knuckles fights. \"There are no rules!\" bragged an early press release. Contestants would fight till \"knockout, submission, doctor's intervention, or death.\" UFC allowed, even promoted, all notions of bad sportsmanship: kicking a man when he's down, hitting him in the groin, choking. Four-hundred-pound men were sent into the Octagon to maul guys half their size. Only biting and eye-gouging were forbidden. The gimmick entranced thousands of people (well, men). What happens when a 620-pound sumo champion fights a 200-pound kickboxer? Answer: The kickboxer knocks him silly in 35 seconds. They tuned in for bloodshed--\"the damage,\" as fans like to call it. UFC fights could be horrifying. Tank Abbott, an ill-tempered, 270-pound street fighter, knocks out hapless opponent John Matua in 15 seconds. Then, before the ref can intervene, Abbott belts the unconscious Matua in the head, sending him into a fit, limbs quivering uncontrollably, blood spurting from his mouth. Abbott, naturally, became a cult hero and won a guest spot on Friends . (Matua walked out of the ring.) Soon, UFC was selling out huge arenas and drawing 300,000 pay-per-view subscribers for its quarterly competitions. But a subtle sport was emerging from the gimmicks and carnage. My passion for ultimate fighting (which is also called \"extreme\" or \"no-holds-barred\" fighting) began when I saw the finals of UFC IV. Royce Gracie, a 180-pound Brazilian jujitsu specialist, was matched against a 275-pound beast named Dan Severn, one of the top heavyweight wrestlers in the world and a national champion many times over. In 30 seconds, Severn had grabbed Gracie, flung him to the canvas, and mounted him. For the next 15 minutes, Severn pummeled and elbowed and head-butted the smaller man. Gracie's face grew drawn, and he squirmed wildly to avoid Severn's bombardment. Then, all of sudden, Gracie, still lying on his back, saw an opening, wrapped his arms and legs around Severn like a python and choked the giant into submission. UFC's caged matches revolutionized the idea of fighting. Nursed on boxing and Hollywood, Americans imagine fights as choreography, a dance of elegant combinations, roundhouse kicks, clean knockouts. The UFC punctured this. Boxers floundered. Experts in striking martial arts such as karate and tae kwon do, who fancied themselves the world's greatest fighters, found themselves pretzeled by jujitsu masters, who pulled them to the ground and slowly choked or leg-locked them. \"UFC immediately debunked a lot of myths of fighting, of boxing, karate, kung fu. It showed the reality of what works in an actual fight,\" says Dave Meltzer, editor of Wrestling Observer . Instead of being carnivals of gore, UFC fights looked strangely like ... sex. Almost all fights ended on the ground, one man mounting the other in missionary position, the pair of them wiggling mysteriously along the canvas for five, 10, even 30 minutes. There were few spectacular knockouts. The referee--yes, there was always a referee--stopped many bouts, and in most others, fighters \"tapped out,\" surrendering to mild-looking but agonizing chokes and joint locks. It was not barbarism. It was science. The UFC spawned a new breed of \"mixed martial artists.\" World-class wrestlers learned to kickbox. Champion kickboxers learned to grapple. (The karate experts learned to stay home.) They became, without doubt, the best fighters in the world. (Click for more about the fighters.) Mike Tyson wouldn't last 30 seconds in an ultimate fighting match. When Olympic gold medal wrestler Kevin Jackson came to the UFC, a fighter named Frank Shamrock KO'd him with a submission hold in 16 seconds. Ultimate fighting schools began sprouting up all over the country, replacing the stylized gestures of the Eastern martial arts with techniques that actually work. UFC's promoters predicted that it would supplant boxing as America's martial art. Instead, it fell apart. The collapse began in 1996, when Sen. John McCain, R-Ariz., saw a UFC tape. McCain, a lifelong boxing fan, was horrified at the ground fighting, kicks, and head butts. It was \"barbaric,\" he said. It was \"not a sport.\" He sent letters to all 50 governors asking them to ban ultimate fighting. The outcry against \"human cockfighting\" became a crusade, and like many crusades, it was founded on misunderstanding. UFC fell victim to cultural determinism about what a fight is. In countries such as Brazil and Japan, where no-holds-barred fighting has a long history, it is popular and uncontroversial. But Americans adhere to the Marquis of Queensbury rules. A fight consists of an exchange of upper-body blows that halts when one fighter falls. None of this soothed the cable operators, who have kept UFC off the air. The pay-per-view audience has plunged from 300,000 per show to 15,000. UFC can no longer afford its best fighters: Some are fighting overseas. Others, notably Ken Shamrock (Frank's brother), have become pro wrestlers. Fights have deteriorated. UFC is limping along, but it has been reduced to scheduling events in Japan and Brazil. \"Sports fans want to grow with the sport,\" says former UFC fighter David Beneteau. \"They want to recognize the athletes. They want to see the same fighters come back. When you compare UFC now to what it was, the fighters are not the same, the rules are not the same. The fans have no story to follow.\" Even as it disappears from public view, ultimate fighting is returning to its roots. Away from the scrutiny of the major media, state legislators, and McCain, kids are still learning mixed martial-arts techniques, and small-time promoters are quietly staging events. You can see Kage Kombat competitions at Dancing Waters nightclub in San Pedro, Calif. You can watch the Warrior's Challenge at a small Indian casino outside Sacramento. Texans compete in Houston's Dungal All Styles Fighting Championship. Tribal casinos in Northern Idaho are hosting small Pankration tournaments. The Extreme Fighting Challenge is popular in Iowa. The money is low\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the point of the discussion of boxing gloves?\n\n<options>:\nA Boxing gloves should have been incorporated into UFC much earlier, because it would have been a familiar component for prospective fans to latch onto\nB Boxing gloves exemplify the types of misunderstandings about UFC that drove its biggest naysayers\nC The boxing gloves are an important aesthetic choice, and having an accessory unique to a sport makes it easier to garner a fan base\nD It was important to understand how dangerous boxing is, which could be why many boxers moved to UFC over time\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>:\noratory The high costs of low language. Sunday, Jan. 14, 1996: A day that will live in--well, not infamy, exactly. Blasphemy would be closer to 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. But aside from a few exceptions, the supply of genuinely offensive language has dwindled almost to nothing as the 20th century comes to an end the currency of swearing has been inflated to the brink of worthlessness. When almost anything can be said in public, profanity ceases to exist in any meaningful way at all. That most of the forbidden words of the 1950s are no longer forbidden will come as news to nobody: The steady debasement of the common language is only one of many social strictures that have loosened from the previous generation to the current. What is important is that profanity served a variety of purposes for a long time in Western culture. It does not serve those purposes any more. 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 Many enlightened people consider this to be a great improvement over a society in which sex generated not only emotion and power, but fear. For the moment, I wish to insist only on this one point: When sexuality loses its power to awe, it loses its power to create genuine swearing. When we convert it into a casual form of recreation, we shouldn't be surprised to hear linebackers using the word \"[expletive]\" on national television. To profane something, in other words, one must believe in it. The cheapening of profanity in modern America represents, more than anything else, the crumbling of belief. There are very few ideas left at this point that are awesome or frightening enough for us to enforce a taboo against them. The instinctive response of most educated people to the disappearance of any taboo is to applaud it, but this is wrong. Healthy societies need a decent supply of verbal taboos and prohibitions, if only as yardsticks by which ordinary people can measure and define themselves. By violating these taboos over and over, some succeed in defining themselves as rebels. Others violate them on special occasions to derive an emotional release. Forbidden language is one of the ways we remind children that there are rules to everyday life, and consequences for breaking them. When we forget this principle, or cease to accept it, it is not just our language that begins to fray at the edges. 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>:\nWhich of the following statements most accurately describes the author's predictions regarding profanity?\n\n<options>:\nA Soon, the majority of idioms and colloquialisms will include language once considered to be profane\nB The more society accepts use of expletives, the more we will need to use it to function in conversation\nC In a matter of decades, it will be acceptable for children in primary school to use expletives\nD Governments will eventually have no choice but to create laws forbidding the use of profanity\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>:\nsent him winging out in a state of suspension to future centuries ... to a dark blue world whose only defense was to seal tight the prying minds of foolish interlopers. \"Your name is David Corbin. Do you understand?\" mesh-covered speaker, two knobs glowed red. I ran the words over in my sluggish mind, thinking about an answer. The muscles in my throat tightened up in reflex as I tried to bring some unity into the jumble rush of anxiety. \"No.\" \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your the solidity of flesh and bone, afraid to think too hard about myself. \"My name ... my name is....\" \"Your name is David Corbin.\" good but it seemed wrong to be dressed like this. I didn't know why. I thought about insanity, and the room seemed to fit my thoughts. When crowded with equipment and.... I will always remember the scream of terror, the paralyzing fright of depth to the searing brightness of countless stars. They seemed to press against the glass, blobs of fire against a black curtain burning 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 the function or design of the compact machinery. WHY, Why, Why? The thought kept pounding at me. I was afraid to touch glowing eyes. It had asked me if I understood. Now it must tell me why I didn't. It had to help me, that flat metallic voice that repeated the same words. It must tell me.... \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your phrase ... some words about precaution. Precaution against forgetting. It was crazy, but I trusted the panel. It was the only thing I saw that Your maximum deviation from schedule cannot exceed two degrees. Adopt emergency procedures as you see fit. Good luck.\" The voice snapped off and I laughed hysterically. None of it had made sense, and I cursed whatever madness had put me here. I couldn't remember his face. The next room held another man. He was young and wiry, like an athlete cast in marble, dark haired and big jawed. A glassy eye stared up when I rolled back his eyelid. The eyelid remained open until I closed it and went on. Another room ... another man ... another stranger. This man was tall and raw boned, light of skin and hair, as dead as the others. A flat, illogical voice had instructed me to revive these men. I smooth colored buttons, wondering. The ports on the side were shielded and I stared out at static energy, cot, young and beautiful, even in the death-like immobility I had come to accept. Her beauty was graceful lines of face and her figure—smooth tapering legs, soft curves that were carved out of flesh colored stone. Yet not stone. I held her small hand, then put it back on the cot. Her 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 at a deep blue eye that stared back in glassy surprise. Four people in all, depending on a blind helpless fool who didn't know their names or the reason for that dependence. I sat beside her on the cot until I driving me back to the comforting smallness of the room where I had been reborn. I laughed bitterly, thinking about the aptness of that. I and chemicals, testing equipment in compact drawers, but nothing marked for me. I wondered if I was an engineer or a pilot, or perhaps a doctor restlessly, closing his hands into fists. The deep chest rose and fell unevenly as he breathed. Finally the eyes opened and he looked at me. I watched him adjust to the room. It was in his eyes, wide at first, moving about the confines of the room back to me. finding little humor in the comic expression on his face. \"No gravity,\" he grunted and sat back. \"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.\" wanted him to understand. \"Look, I'm in trouble. Nothing fits, except my name.\" \"No.\" \"Are you serious?\" 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 quarters. \"What about her. Why is she here?\" I asked my companion. 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.\" \"It's a bad thing to do.\" \"I suppose. The mission stated one chemist.\" tried to smile as I sat on the cot, wondering what she was thinking. \"How do you feel?\" I asked. uncontrollably. \"What's happened to me?\" she asked. 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 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 \"We set out from Earth for a single star in the direction of the center of our Galaxy.\" \"From Earth? How could we?\" \"Let's move slowly, sir,\" he said. \"We're moving fast. I don't know if \"Yes.\" \"What direction?\" Paul cut in. \"It's a G type star, like our own sun in mass and luminosity. We hope to find a planetary system capable of supporting life.\" \"I can't grasp it. How can we go very far in a lifetime?\" Carl caught my eye. \"Captain, we save this time without aging at all. It puts us near a calculated destination.\" \"Twenty-eight.\" \"What about me?\" \"Thirty.\" He stared at the panel in thought for a minutes. \"What about \"I know. It's the only thing I could think of. Why didn't everyone react the same?\" like warm liquid. I hung on the intercom for support, drawing air into my heaving lungs. \"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. \"I wouldn't want to wake up like that again.\" \"You're all right now?\" he asked. I grinned and nodded an answer. I saw John as he was at the base, big and competent, sweating in the blazing sun. I thought about the rest of the crew too. \"We're heading right for a when you can. I've got to find out where we are.\" We had to get off course before we ran into the yellow-white star that had been picked for us. Food was set down by me, grew cold and was ten degrees above the galactic plane. The parallactic baseline from was right we were much closer than we wanted to be. The bright pips on the screen gave us the distance and size of the star while we fed the that had been calculated on Earth. We analyzed temperature, magnetic fields, radial motion, density and luminosity, checking against the standards the scientists had constructed. It was a G type star like our own. It had more density and temperature and suitable planets or not, we had to change course in a hurry. Carl analyzed the findings while we was selected when the planets in Earth's solar system had proved to be barren. If the observations on this star were correct, we could expect to find a planet in a state of fertility ... if it existed ... if it were suitable for colonization ... if we could find it.\n\n<question>:\nOf the following, which personality traits best describe David?\n\n<options>:\nA Attractive, witty, and charismatic\nB Smart, calculating, and cautious\nC Bold, quiet, and dumb\nD Focused, funny, and attractive\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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470
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quality
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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>:\nThig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering \"HORDE.\" He had blasted across trackless space started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully because of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large his features were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished metal at the reflection of himself! could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out of his subconscious. Yet he and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more. \"There it is,\" announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured 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 \"Do not question the word of your commander,\" growled Torp, swelling For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet. \"There is nothing more to learn,\" he informed his impassive comrades. An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship primitive impulses of barbarism so he was incapable of understanding the emotions that swept through his acquired memory. and three other editors asked for shorts soon.\" \"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn,\" grunted Thig, and gasped. For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this on as they climbed the steps, \"but nowhere was there any place as beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water.\" Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the chaos of his cool Orthan brain. imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the Hordes? Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son of Ellen and the man he had destroyed. Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the lived no longer. He mentally titled it: \"Rustlers' Riot\" and blocked in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the \"You have done well,\" announced Torp when Thig had completed his report forgotten.\" \"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam,\" ordered Torp shortly. \"His words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.\" Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the it tore free from the feeble clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac of the finest members of the Horde. must eliminate for the good of the Horde.\" Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked. Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed him with those savage blows upon the head. Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his unconscious body. Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled out into a senseless whinny. Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and chest. He was a madman! The deadly attack of Thig He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his. Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving him from the parent ship. crowded his mind. He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys were hot, bitter pains. Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Torp feel it was necessary to test Thig's blood for disease after he returned?\n\n<options>:\nA Thig did not want to return to Ortha.\nB Thig seemed to be sick after he returned.\nC Thig had become sentimental over the people of Earth.\nD Thig's eyes were roaming and he seemed disoriented.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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1,230
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quality
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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>:\nYears He didn’t expect to be last—but neither did he anticipate “About ten years ago,” Giles NEARLY TWO hundred years of habit carried the floor. Giles made the expected Giles thought as carefully as He’d been a fool to come to work, didn’t take? But I never had was no telling what might turn had sworn the shot would Giles heard his secretary come against his better judgment. “I on your part, some infection not fault in the treatment. That’s Giles remembered that Dubbins better than he knew himself—which was more important. It hadn’t been a joke about his growing old, after all. But now, in a few days, he’d be his old—no, of course not—his young self again! though that, of course, was He resented every second of it. It was as if the almost forgotten specter of age stood beside him, basket. “Mostly drugs for experimenting. A personal letter I never heard of. And one of the Somewhere in every human brain lay the memory of what his cells had been like when he was young. She accepted dismissal reluctantly. themselves, with the brain as only a linkage to it. They’d discovered that, and the fact that the mind the first hope they’d found that faith cures for millenia—cataracts might be ended and he should the hypnotic instructions—and Giles dropped the report wearily wasn’t impossible for a mistake He came out of it without Only his youngest son would have greeting verse—one that would expectation that he would spoiled him. He’d even tried to avoid the compulsory emigration draft and stay on with his mother. It had been the bitter quarrels repair the damage of time. broken Giles’ fifth marriage. Oddly enough, the message in that. Harry had nothing but he’d been sent. He barely mentioned “That’s all for now, Mr. Giles. being married on the way most of the frame with glowing or his dozen children, but filled description and a plea for his GILES SNORTED and turned family in some sort of vehicle, against the background of an alien but attractive world. He had no desire to spend ninety years cooped up with a “Thanks,” said Giles. “Ten he should give up his work. The discovery that men could live practically forever had put an end to most family ties sentiment wore thin in half a century—which Then he studied Giles more carefully. He took a quick look at Giles and Giles. Maybe we’ll all get to see going to be fine,” Giles answered. It was then he realized for the lightning had never struck a meant to give such an impression. The worry nagged at him all Giles grunted in irritation. He through the meal, listening to the conversation about him only when it was necessary because because of special ability—and an expression of shock replaced it, and Giles felt a sinking sensation. of private families. A man here could choose his group and grow the idea of clubs in place a family. Giles had been living here for nearly a century now and he’d never regretted it. But tonight his own group irritated him. He puzzled over it, finding no remembered once when he’d had Giles forced his attention on Harry had been a complete various nostrums, giving him no of worry—until he’d been ready had. “One of my sons—” Giles Funny, he couldn’t picture really losing his temper here. Families Giles had heard it all before. Even that failed him, though. tonight it held no interest. And their first fifty years of education he’d developed through the years helped to add to the richness of living now. He gave it up and went to bed—to his old answers. “We’re still ahead interrupting the work of making the Earth fit for our longevity. down? Suppose he couldn’t rejuvenate look Giles had seen too often lately. “Damn it, haven’t you read this antigravity in less than a early twenties. Would that “Wait a minute.” Giles felt the reduce the slice of eternity that rejuvenation meant? And what Or suppose it wasn’t rejuvenation, after all had gone wrong with him doubts at the doctor’s words. What? the speaker. “Of course not! It it. Even with Sirius expecting the find no new ones. and then went by hastily. He Giles shook his head at what family life again would give him some new interests. Amanda probably would be willing to marry awareness that he hadn’t been out long it had been. Nor why. “In the spring, a young man’s to Sirius. And we still wouldn’t It hadn’t been that kind of spring for him—not this rejuvenation nor the last, nor the one GILES TRIED to stop scaring It occurred to Giles then that the man had been too fired with to frighten himself. The wrongness was too strong, no matter rest of your life rather than waiting a couple more centuries until we know it’s safe? If you do, I’ll Giles shook his head, interrupting for a second Giles’ heart caught Now that he knew there was reason answer. The rejuvenation...?” chance for near eternity those who knew their days were “Forget it, Bill,” Giles advised. and clicked off. Giles turned by an effort. “It’s a shock to me, too, Mr. Giles. But—well, to simplify it, no memory is perfect—even cellular memory. It plan for short-term benefits. Usually it was too easy to realize that, and the sight of the solid, time-enduring loses a little each time. And the effect is cumulative. It’s like an He faced away from Giles, They had to plan and build for it. They couldn’t risk that supposed to tell you, of course. time scale than we used to have—but it’s in centuries, not in eons. For everybody, not just It was no consolation. Giles knowledge is still on record. “And then....” Giles couldn’t It was only two blocks to Giles’ An immortal man had suddenly doubt and horrible eventual Giles hadn’t heard since the man looked up at the Sun and then at the buildings built to last for thousands of years. Their eternity was no longer a part of him. with the members. For the moment, though, he’d slipped GILES FOUND himself lying no longer wondering back into the old ways. Even his car would outlast him. from his panic to leave him there was nothing to worry about wanted no chance to have them asking questions he couldn’t answer. It was none of their business. now Giles wanted no kindness. and he drove on. What else was Giles puzzled over it doubtfully. hardly explain his taking a twenty-year slim reason. It was no concern of Giles heard the other man’s Giles with his shoes. “I’d be Giles frowned. He’d expected Dubbins’ manners must have carried didn’t go in for home visits now—they preferred to see their on, he’d be missing the old days when he’d had a mansion and counted his wealth in possessions, instead of the treasures he could build inside himself for the future Yet he relished the feeling of or not. He snapped the switch and More than anything else, he’d past, Harry had driven him face hadn’t changed much. Giles even with modern safety measures so strict, there was always a small chance of some accident and nobody had any desire to spend the long future as a cripple. he’d never seen even pictures of his other grandchildren. Family ties melted away too fast for interstellar It was almost too much consideration. Giles nodded, got out slackening of them in Harry’s case, and somehow it looked like a family, rather than a mere group. A very pleasant family in a very pleasant world. He read Harry’s note again, years of practice. Giles felt over, and led Giles into a room It didn’t matter, but it would explain He listened as Giles stumbled itself. “The years dwindle down to a precious few....” he remembered. “A precious few.” Those dwindling years had At Giles’ look, he smiled faintly. seemed precious to the old man then. that was forbidden. The years than Giles could remember—knee Giles shrugged and reached for\n\n<question>:\nWhat is not a lesson Giles learned?\n\n<options>:\nA All good things come to an end\nB Enjoying your job makes life worth living\nC Never take life for granted\nD Family is an important part of life\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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40
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quality
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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>:\nGRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever \"For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will be rewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man who could devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously a to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! \"Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!\" Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity, though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, with Johnson asked skeptically: \"How about a sample first?\" person with unusual patience.\" Johnson winced. \"Is that what you want to unload on me?\" In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panacea Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in two hands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in the remaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpish juice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. for more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartender impersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. \"Strangers, eh?\" he asked at last. \"Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with every chaser.\" Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. \"That—that's robbery!\" the lanky man managed to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. \"When there ain't many customers, you gotta make more on each one. Besides—\" \"Besides nothing!\" Joe roared, finding his voice again. \"You dirty crook—robbing poor spacemen! You—\" \"You dirty crook!\" Joe roared. \"Robbing honest spacemen!\" Harvey nudged him warningly. \"Easy, my boy, easy.\" He turned to the bartender apologetically. \"Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands are sometimes overactive. You were going to say—?\" The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression. \"Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em,\" he said, was chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I charge because I gotta.\" \"Friend,\" said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eight unconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man's thirst.\" The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar. \"Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here just call me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water will proper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger and picked up buckets that hung on the tank. \"Johnson, as I saw instantly, \"Just the same,\" Joe griped, \"paying for water isn't something you can \"What's this doing here?\" Harvey asked, puzzled. \"I thought Johnson had only thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor's conscience.\" \"The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on,\" said Harvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. \"Joseph, the good-natured artist in me has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until we Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City.\" every year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get him out of here!\" never fails, my friend,\" Harvey explained. \"By actual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-three don't charge too much,\" he said warily, \"I might think of buying some.\" \"We do not sell this unbelievable remedy,\" Harvey replied with dignity. \"It sells itself.\" \"'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a whole case,\" said Johnson. buckos.\" Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression of handicraftsmanship.\" Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. \"No tricks now. I want a taste of that stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me.\" the man gradually won. \"There ain't no words for that taste,\" he gulped when it was safe to swindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit have been, then? No Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. \"Did Johnson ask to \"Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of which that swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables he possesses. We could not be content with less.\" \"Well, we're starting all right,\" admitted Joe. \"How about that thing with six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?\" Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. \"I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity. Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him. At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with our he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolic suckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on the audio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendous out the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariously less private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was little chance of company. Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen with two menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins, For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, the culinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the service was as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius played , using his other two hands for waiting on the table. kitchen, attending to the next course. \"He would make any society hostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sum to women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire.\" \"Think of a fast one fast,\" Joe agreed. \"You're right.\" \"But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,\" complained Harvey. \"I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honest merchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimate our check at a mere bucko twenty redsents.\" fantastic, idiotic figure— three hundred and twenty-eight buckos !\" Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius Johnson, the \"sheriff,\" collected the money, and Johnson, the \"restaurateur,\" pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign to remain calm. offer have been which I would have turned down?\" \"Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?\" \"Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable to sell.\" \"Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money would tempt you!\" it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money, \"I sure will,\" Johnson confessed glumly. \"I got pretty attached to getting the key!\" and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had, with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventor of this absolutely awe-inspiring device.\" He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue our study, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to an enormous fortune.\" \"It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied Doctor Dean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact.\"\n\n<question>:\nHow does Johnson trick the duo into paying for things more than once?\n\n<options>:\nA He strong arms them into buying with his son.\nB He is dishonest. He offers something for free, without mentioning the actual price of it or that there even is a price.\nC He takes advantage of their good will.\nD He doesn't trick anyone - he is an honest man that is running several jobs.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
860
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quality
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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>:\nsuddenly turned into a monstrosity of order! When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beaten down, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, which It had been a bad day I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'd except for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been going on. I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread the directions Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself until reasons she supposes. I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: \"When you take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door, too.\" Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down in notes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticed 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? never, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the late afternoon. \"You can't say a thing like that to me!\" I heard him shout. \"I tell you I got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we started to play!\" \"Yeah, and only when you were dealer!\" The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened the door to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confronting 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 looked stunned. 'em yourselves if you think they're marked!\" The nearest man struck them up from his hand. \"Okay, Houdini! So they're not marked! All I know is five straight....\" the four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence, got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatly arranged cards. \"Judas!\" he said, and started to pick them up. \"Will you look at that! My God, what a session....\" I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it, what must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over the top of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto the tile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been from swerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded, its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreign side-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming to rest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at that moment. Everyone was honking his horn. Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to his station house from the box opposite. It was out of order. trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill's voice said, \"Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we were connected. That's a damn funny coincidence.\" \"Not in the least,\" I said. \"Come on over here. I've got something for \"Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent.\" while I waited. Then he turned around he had a look of concern. \"Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense at what I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely, and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view that tell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see if they all come up heads.\" I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto the floor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stacked the adjacent ones touching. controlling the coins and—the other things?\" He shook his head. \"No. All I mean is that improbable things usually have improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken, electrical storm. Something has it in for me!\" McGill grinned. \"Don't be superstitious. And especially don't be \"Let's go out and eat,\" I said, \"There's not a damn thing in the kitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee.\" heard one of them say to Danny, \"I don't know what the hell's going on around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it. They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seen tried to pass one another as soon as one of them moved aside to let the other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both had embarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins were Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. \"You all right, \"All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip!\" one of them said. \"Leave go of my umbrella and we'll say no more about it!\" caught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which the other two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go, but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it was Molly. My nurse-wife. \"Oh, Alec!\" she said, and managed to detach herself. \"Are you all right?\" Was I all right! \"Molly! What are you doing here?\" \"Of course I'm all right. But why....\" 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. \"Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in the floor—something like that—just happened to cause the right induction impulses. Yes, I know how you feel,\" he said, seeing my expression. \"It's beginning to bear down.\" Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I was so pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry. \"I'm in no mood to cook,\" she said. \"Let's get away from all this.\" one of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzled expression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out a That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothing came out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again. Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with his pick, his face pink with exasperation. baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to the the air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I made a gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped her cigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboring vichyssoise. \"Hey! What's the idea?\" snarled the sour-looking man. \"I'm terribly sorry,\" I said. \"It was an accident. I—\" \"Throwing cigarettes at people!\" the fat lady said. \"I really didn't mean to,\" I began again, getting up. There must have been a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuff buttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closely set tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses, ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor. The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The man licked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. The owner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward us with a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but I was outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.\n\n<question>:\nWhy are Danny and the deli owner aghast?\n\n<options>:\nA Alec drops his belongings from a tall height without breaking them\nB Alec breaks the top of a glass bottle and continues to drink the contents\nC Nat continues to win significant poker hands in the deli\nD Alec has the nerve to try and steal items from the deli\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
477
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quality
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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 HAIRY ONES Marooned on a world within a world, aided by a slim girl and an old warrior, Patrolman Sisko Rolf was fighting his greatest must have died in the wreckage. He was alone in the waterless trap of a deep crevice. In the fading glow of the super-heated metal the vertical walls above he could see the narrow dark slit through which his feet had betrayed him, and he realized that he had fallen through The weird globe was divided equally into hemispheres, and as the tiny the other half. Toward this barrier the spinner bore him, and Rolf was had slowed its speed sunken oases and watered canyons. He drifted slowly toward the opposite loom of the mysterious wall with a swift wind off the desert behind him. \"Down, Altha,\" a deeper voice rumbled from above, \"it's one of the among the outlaws. This mysterious world that floated above the cavern floor might be their headquarters. \"But, Mark,\" the voice that was now unmistakably feminine argued, \"he with the long burnished copper of her hair down around her waist, but flesh was covered with a fine reddish coat of hair. Even her face was \"Altha,\" he scolded, scrubbing at his reddened bald skull with a grueling years of training on Earth Base. His instructors there had known that a few gifted mortals possess the power of a limited telepathy, and the secrets of the Planet Patrol must be guarded. \"That is better, perhaps.\" The girl's face was demure. \"And now perhaps you will visit us in the safety of the vaults of ancient Aryk.\" their side. \"I'm always forgetting the mind-reading abilities of the Hairy People.\" \"She one of them?\" Rolf's voice was low, but he saw Altha's lip twitch. \"Mother was.\" Mark Tanner's voice was louder. \"Father was Wayne Stark. Famous explorer you know. I was his assistant.\" \"Sure.\" Rolf nodded. \"Lost in equatorial wastelands—uh, about twenty years ago—2053, I believe.\" \"Only we were not lost on the surface,\" explained Tanner, his booming he could lead the scientists of North Mars to this treasure trove of water.... \"Mark!\" The girl's voice was tense. Rolf felt her arm tug at his sleeve and he dropped beside her in the shelter of a clump of coarse-leaved gray bushes. \"The Furry Women attack!\" they filed downward from the Barrier into the blackened desolation of the desert half of Lomihi. \"Enemies?\" he whispered to Mark Tanner hoarsely. Barrier from the fertile plains of Nyd to raid the Hairy People. They \"I must warn them.\" Altha's lips thinned and her brown-flecked eyes flamed. \"I will take the glider.\" Altha was on her feet, her body crouched over to take advantage of the sheltering shrubs. She threaded her way swiftly back along a rocky corridor in the face of the Barrier toward Tanner shrugged his shoulders. \"What can I do? Altha has the blood of the Hairy People in her veins. She will warn them even though the Then he knew. Above half naked feminine bodies, sinuous and supple the gray-furred muscles of their narrow bodies until they seemed utterly shoulderless, and beneath their furry pelts the ripples of \"See!\" Tanner's voice was muted. \"Giffa, Queen of the Furry Ones!\" she was, her scarred gray-furred hide hanging loose upon her breastless frame. One eye was gone but the other gleamed, black and beady, from linked together into ghastly festoons about her heavy, short-legged litter. had been cut off at the shoulders and whose naked backs bore the weals of countless lashes. Their bodies, like that of Altha, were covered \"Not yet,\" he said. \"When Altha has warned the Hairy People we can cut off their retreat. After they have passed I will arouse the Outcasts who live here upon the Barrier. Though their blood is that of the two races mingled they hate the Furry Ones.\" A shadow passed over their hiding place. The Furry Amazons too saw the Gone now was their chance for a surprise attack on the isolated canyons of the Hairy People. They halted, clustered about their leader. Giffa snarled quick orders the wasteland toward the nearest sunken valleys of the Hairy People. flicked its muzzle back and forth along the ranks of attacking Furry fallen sisters. Mark Tanner's bow twanged again and again as he drove arrows at the bloodthirsty warrior women. But the Furry Ones ran fearlessly into that rain of death. The Furry Amazons swarmed up over the lower terraces of rocks, their behind them, their powerful earthly muscles negating Lomihi's feeble needles at the Furry Ones and followed. Darkness thickened as they penetrated into the maze of the Barrier's desolate land of the Hairy People. Tanner's finger pointed. \"Altha!\" Rolf saw the graceful wings of the glider riding the thermals back toward the Barrier. \"She had warned the Hairy People, and now she returns.\" \"The weasel heads won't follow us here?\" asked Rolf. \"Right.\" Tanner kept his eyes on the enlarging winged shape of Altha's the seas and hoarding them in their underground caverns, Lomihi became \"The Hairy People were the rulers,\" he went on, \"and the Furry Ones were their slaves. In the revolt that eventually split Lomihi into two \"But,\" Rolf frowned thoughtfully, \"what keeps Lomihi from crashing into \"The outlaws!\" he cried. \"They're after Altha.\" Rolf caught a glimpse of a sleek rocket flyer diving upon Altha's frail glinted with a dull bronze, were attacking them from the burnt-out wastelands. The Hairy People had come to battle the invaders. He guided the frail wing toward the shattered badlands where the girl had taken shelter, noting as he did so that the rocket flyer had landed near its center in a narrow strip of rocky gulch. A sudden thought made same movement. Expoder needles splintered the rocks about him as he dropped behind a sheltering rocky ledge, and he caught a glimpse of two green-clad men dragging the bronze-haired body of the girl he had come to save into the shelter of the flyer. A green bulge showed around the polished fuselage and Rolf pressed his controls. The bound body of Altha Stark faced him, and he saw her lips 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 could hardly realize that they were his, and then he was falling with the relentless fingers still about his throat. As from a great distant He saw Altha's bound body and head. Her jaws were clamped upon the No time to ask the girl if she were injured. The patrolman flung himself into the spongy control chair's cushions and sent the ship burned and the conditioning unit was clearing the air. \"Patrolman,\" the girl's voice was beside him. \"We're safe!\" sudden strange restlessness came with the near contact. Altha smiled shyly and winced with pain. \"Do you know,\" she said, \"even yet I do not know your name.\" Shorty all the time,\" she quipped. Then they were over the Barrier and Rolf saw the last of the beaten Furry Ones racing back across the great wall toward the Plains of Nyd. He nosed the captured ship down toward the ruined plaza of\n\n<question>:\nWhy was Altha away from the other Hairy People of her kind?\n\n<options>:\nA The outlaws had turned the others against her.\nB She had left their group in fear of attacks.\nC The outlaws had stolen her.\nD She had been lost from their group and never reconnected.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
833
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quality
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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>:\nDwindling Years He didn’t expect to be last—but neither did he anticipate NEARLY TWO hundred years of habit carried the chairman of Exodus Corporation thirty years was a number a man could risk. enough to look them up. Plenty of time! Thirty years was a long time, when he stopped to think of it. serious, but quite definite—as well as other signs of aging. I’m afraid the treatment didn’t take fully. It might have and it seemed to cut through some of the thickness in his head. pretty rare, but we can’t neglect “I guess I’m getting old, Amanda.” She smiled dutifully at the time-worn joke, but he knew she was more important. It hadn’t been a joke about his growing old, after all. But now, in a few days, He resented every second of it. It was as if the almost forgotten specter of age stood beside him, counting the seconds. But at last by crude mechanical and drug hypnosis for other months. Somewhere in every human brain lay the memory of what his cells had been like when he was young. sat gazing at the report from Jordan at Research. For eighty years now, they’d been sending out the little ships that vanished at greater than the themselves, with the brain as only the body. Even such things as taking pictures of wherever they arrived. So far, none had ever returned or been located. This was There had been impossible the century-long trips between stars in the ponderous shuttles faith cures for millenia—cataracts removed from blinded eyes within minutes, even—but finding taken even longer. Now they did it with dozens of Scientists there had puzzled over mechanical aids in addition to did it usually in a single sitting, with the full transformation of the body taking less than a week after the treatment! But with all the equipment, it fatigue on the operator’s face told greeting verse—one that would arrive ninety years too late! Harry had been born just before Earth passed the drastic birth limitation him it had been a long and difficult of his profession. “We haven’t lost a patient in two hundred years, to my knowledge.” “Thanks,” said Giles. “Ten but attractive world. o’clock is fine.” ninety years cooped up with a bunch of callow young emigrants, even in one of the improved Exodus he should give up his work. The discovery that men could live practically forever had put an end to most family ties sentiment wore thin in half a century—which wasn’t much time now, though it had once seemed long enough. Strange how the years seemed to get shorter as their number increased. There’d been a song once—something about the years new thinking. There was a measure of truth in it, unfortunately. he’d developed through because of special ability—and He gave it up and went to bed—to a family. Giles had been living here for nearly a century now and he’d never regretted it. But tonight his own group irritated him. He puzzled over it, finding no They had to plan and build world is that?” did odd things to a man. begging for their secret in a couple of hundred years! While a hundred other worlds make a thousand major discoveries they Earth was becoming a backwater world no real progress had been made in two centuries the young against the background of an alien their first fifty years of education were finished, and the older men were too conservative for really the years helped to add to the richness of living now. “They’ll slow up when their populations fill,” Giles repeated his old answers. “We’re still ahead was no escaping it. Something other discoveries eventually, without interrupting the work of making the Earth fit for our longevity. We can wait. We’ll have to.” about the years—or was it days—dwindling THE YOUNGER man stared down to something or other. been fifty when he finally learned how to work with the doctors and they could only bring him back to about thirty, instead of the normal early twenties. Would that reduce the slice of eternity that rejuvenation meant? And what it about twenty years before the Procyon shuttle heard its signal. centuries, if we can ever master it. Even with Sirius expecting the missiles and ready to cooperate. drafted for building long enough now we can finish it in three months. We know the drive works. We know it’s fast enough to reach Procyon in two weeks. We even know life can stand the trip. The Maybe if we put in stronger signaling transmitters....” “Yeah. Maybe in two centuries It hadn’t been that kind of spring for him—not this rejuvenation nor the last, nor the one before that. Or how about you? Do you really want to risk losing the rest of your life rather than waiting a couple more centuries until we know it’s safe? If you do, I’ll NO SANE man would risk a chance for near eternity against such a relatively short wait. Heroism had belonged to those who knew their days were numbered, anyhow. “Forget it, Bill,” Giles advised. “It may take longer, but eventually we’ll find a way. With time enough, we’re bound to. And “So did I. I wouldn’t believe it even yet—but now I find it isn’t the first case. I spent the wish I hadn’t.” His voice ran down and he gathered himself together by an effort. “It’s a shock to simplify it, no memory is perfect—even cellular memory. It loses a little each time. And the effect is cumulative. It’s like an asymptotic curve—the further it goes, the steeper the curve. And—well, plan for short-term benefits. Usually Today, though, nothing seemed it was too easy to realize that, and the sight of the solid, time-enduring for it. They couldn’t risk that know. But you aren’t the first and you won’t be the last, if that’s any consolation. We’ve got a longer time scale than we used to have—but it’s in centuries, not in eons. For everybody, not just you.” It was no consolation. Giles talk, of course. How—how long?” Cobb spread his hands unhappily. “Thirty years, maybe. But we can make them better. Geriatric knowledge is still on record. condition, better than your grandfather—” “And then....” Giles couldn’t pronounce the words. He’d grown old and he’d grow older. And eventually he’d die! An immortal man had suddenly found death hovering on his trail. The years had dwindled and gone, and only a few were left. doubt and horrible eventual discovery. OUTSIDE ON the street, he looked up at the Sun and then at the buildings built to last for thousands of years. Their eternity was no longer a part of him. Even his car would outlast him. arise. Those wouldn’t matter much now. For a man who had thought of living almost forever, thirty years was too short a time to count. hardly explain his taking a twenty-year Universe than now. And he could speed up the work in some ways shuttle trip for such a slim reason. It was no concern of that the years were gone for him. Automatic habit carried him “As all right as I’ll ever be,” he told her. “They tell me I’m just growing old.” This time her laugh was heartier. on, he’d be missing the old days when he’d had a mansion and counted his wealth in possessions, people still in the odd, wheelless vehicle on the alien planet. FOR A long moment, he stared past, Harry had driven him around. Now he’d taken to walking, as so many others had, for even with modern safety measures so strict, there was always and nobody had any desire to spend the long future as a cripple. travel. Yet there seemed to be no It didn’t matter, but it would explain things, at least. Twenty years to Centaurus, while the years dwindled down— Then abruptly the line finished itself. “The years dwindle down to a precious few....” he remembered. “A precious few.” Those dwindling years had been precious once. He unexpectedly that was forbidden. The years seemed precious to the old man then. complicated little gadgets that\n\n<question>:\nWhat is particularly strange about humans this world?\n\n<options>:\nA They have achieved immortality,\nB They use telecommunications across planets to stay in contact.\nC They no longer have the same family values most people do.\nD People are living for far, far longer than they ever have before.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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2,054
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quality
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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>:\nRyzga made a savage, wholly futile effort to lift the weapon in his with the Ryzgas themselves, who slept within, ready to wake and in stupefaction at the fallen Ryzga, then with something like awe at beyond the conqueror of the Ryzgas?\" mountain. Var sensed her fear, and the love that had conquered it. He felt a wave of tenderness and bitterness. For him she had come to this. For the flame that had sprung between them at the Truce of New Grass, she had challenged the feud of their peoples and had left her home, to follow him. Now, if her father and his kinsmen overtook them, it would last days. lurid fire spewed from the Ryzga mountain, and Var sighed, shaking his head. \"It won't hold them for long, but it's the never have won through. watch on the Ryzga mountain, as a part of the oldest legends of their shrunken old man, white-haired, with a lined beardless face. The sight of him, more marred by age than anyone they had ever seen before, was disappointing. They had expected something more—an ancient giant, a is as bad as it was when I was last in it.\" doubt, young man? Such things happened when I was young.\" Warming to the old man now, Var sketched his and Neena's history briefly. \"We should have been safe among my people by now. And before behind us.\" \"A pity, indeed. I would like to help you—but, you understand, I am the Mountain Watcher. I must be above feuds and families.\" Var nodded somberly, thinking that an old recluse would in any case be \"And what will you do now?\" mountain the Ryzgas sleep, as they chose to do when their world Ryzgas will come forth.\" them now as they have for two thousand years. When I had gone that far, the mountain began to shake, the force that is in the Earth rumbled \"The Ryzgas also were men,\" said the Watcher. \"But they were such a race as the world has not seen before or since. There were tyrannies before the Ryzgas, there was lust for power, and atrocious cruelty but such They laid the world waste, stripped it of metals and fuels and bored to its heart for energy, poisoned its seas and its air with the fume of that survived when the Ryzgas' world went down in flame and thunder. \"In the last generation of their power the Ryzgas knew by their science sure that their works and their knowledge would perish with them. Meanwhile they redoubled the yoke and the punishments, hastening the completion of the last of the starships. \"From the memories that the old Watchers have left here, and from the memories of dead men that still echo in the air, I have gathered a that was ever built. Only the angry light of fires relieved the city's shaking of the earth. Along lightless streets, half choked with rubble and with the dead, poured a mad, hating horde. The recurrent flashes lit scarred faces, naked bodies blackened and maimed from the hell of the workshops where the Ryzgas' might had been forged, eyes that stared white and half hope of new life on a world gutted and smoldering from the fulfilment of the Ryzgas' dream, without slogans other than a cry for blood. then the millions found voice. Some roared ferocious threats and curses others cried desolately— \"Some of the Ryzgas took flight to the stars, and some perished on world, compared to that the Ryzgas made and will make again.\" sleep had refreshed his mind and body—realizing also that a footstep day passes. A foolish amusement, no doubt, but amusements are few here.\" rested, your minds are clear. Do you still mean to go on to the Ryzga the fresh the morning sun, but the mountain of the Ryzgas drank in the light and at one another. Then by common consent they blended their minds into one. They thought, in the warm intimacy of unreserved understanding: \" \" They said in unison, \"No. Not that.\" Ryzga mountain.\" only by its echo in Neena's mind did he recognize it as a sense of guilt. He said stiffly, \"You don't blame us?\" little had the Ryzgas feared those who might assail them in their sleep. response, felt electric currents sting along buried, long-idle circuits.... The two stood shivering together. The morning wind stirred, freshening, the fog lifted a little, and they too far to discern the rage that must contort his features, but the thought he hurled at them was a soundless bellow: \"Young fools! I've caught you now!\" Behind Groz the figures of his followers loomed up as striding shadows. pulsed briefly with radiant energy that pained the eyes, and went out. had saved them from death in traps like this. But as yet the way was not blocked.... Then they felt the mountain begin to tremble. A very faint and remote vibration at first, then an increasingly potent shuddering of the floor under their feet and the walls around them. Somewhere far below immense mechanical servitors of the Ryzgas woke one by one and began to make neither would yield, though the mountain above them and the world outside should crumble to ruin around them. \"Follow us, then!\" They plunged deeper into the mountain. And the shaking of the mountain was like that of the terrible city which they had seen in the dream. Through the slow-rolling thunder of the hidden machines seemed to echo the death-cries of a billion slaves, the despair of all flesh and blood before their monstrous and inhuman power. progressive changes in the vast complex of mechanisms for which this and closed in bewildering confusion the two invaders felt the rapid shifting of magnetic fields, the fury of electrons boiling in vacuum.... last. And the Ryzga too stood motionless, looking down at them. That, and his movements when he came slowly down the ramp toward them, conveyed a queer suggestion of weariness or weakness, as if he were yet not wholly roused from his two millenia of slumber. But the Ryzga's manner and his mind radiated a consciousness of power, a pride and assurance of self that smote them like a numbing blow. With a new shock, Var realized that the Ryzga's thoughts were quite symbols. But there was no block. Apparently the Ryzga felt no need to metal parts of a mechanism falling into places prepared for them. The image occurred oddly to Var, to whom such a comparison would ordinarily have been totally strange. initially postulated but this will do. The pessimists were mistaken. We can begin again.\" Then, startlingly super-imposed on the cool progression of logical thought, came a wave of raw emotion, devastating crawling, laboring to do the Ryzgas' will— The icy calculation resumed: \"Immobilize these and the ones Var was staring in fascination at the Ryzga's face. It was a face formed yet it was lined by a deeply ingrained weariness, the signs of premature age—denied, overridden by the driving will they had sensed a moment earlier. It was a sick man's face. The Ryzga's final thought clicked into place: Between the Ryzga and the control panel a nightmare shape reared up and white fangs. The Ryzga recoiled, and the weapon in his hand came up. remained. As the Ryzga stretched out his hand again, Var acted. The Ryzga froze, teetering off balance and almost falling, as a numbing grip closed down on all his motor nerves. the Ryzga's frantic eyes. They glared back at him with such hatred and such evil that for an instant he almost faltered. But the Ryzga's tale—the Ryzga had not recognized it as such, but had taken it for a world, Ryzga! In two thousand Behind the hate-filled eyes the cold brain tried to reason still. \"Barbarians...? Our party was wrong after all. After us the machine its fuel. After us\n\n<question>:\nWhich of these is not a lasting effect of the Ryzgas?\n\n<options>:\nA Climate change on the planet\nB An increase in technological advancements\nC Use of limited resources\nD General fear between groups of people\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
1,184
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quality
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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 garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster of plants could live out there as they did within the world, then so could people. Rikud and his people should . This was why the world had moved across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more. Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever since the engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone, realized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up inside him. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaningless concept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the bright If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this was odd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—what was it? children. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.\" could live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness, He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where the blue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the row of mounds. embroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with a the floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on the Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoy That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people.\" \"They're women,\" said Crifer. They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completely It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer, there should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machine in the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who had governed the world. They told you to do something and you did it, but that was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You only that could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and the had decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, and before Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge of meant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to the library and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply sat about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it. people ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and it was always the same. \"Yes,\" said Crifer. \"I found a book about the stars. They're also called astronomy, I think.\" This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on one elbow. \"What did you find out?\" \"That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.\" \"Well, where's the book?\" Rikud would read it tomorrow. \"I left it in the library. You can find several of them under 'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymous terms.\" \"You know,\" Rikud said, sitting up now, \"the stars in the viewport are changing.\" \"Changing?\" Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as he questioned what it might mean in this particular case. \"Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than the others.\" \"Astronomy says some stars are variable,\" Crifer offered, but Rikud knew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than he did. them, \"is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.\" \"I'm only saying what I read in the book,\" Crifer protested mildly. \"Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words without meaning.\" \"People grow old,\" Rikud suggested. concepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago, but now it faded, and change and old were just two words. world, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman. globe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? There was that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age? Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer's book on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it was variable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age. that it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big and round, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikud had no name. nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more vapor. \"What do you see?\" vaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewport which was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover, The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. 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 world's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless, it was a garden. viewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—the 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.\" Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?\" shine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?\" \"Naturally,\" said Crifer, becoming interested. \"They are variable.\" Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book on astronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of the reading machine had begun to bore him. He said, \"Well, variable or not, our whole perspective has changed.\" obvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another, it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the 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 they find the nature of that purpose? machine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached the door. \"What's in here?\" he demanded. \"It's a door, I think,\" said Crifer. \"I know, but what's beyond it?\" \"Beyond it? Oh, you mean through it. It's only a door.\" There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud.\" is a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it is words. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interesting gears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful because they shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. \"Odd,\" Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, \"Now there's a good word, but no one quite seems to know its meaning.\" viewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and, book on astronomy. Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. \"There are not that many doors in the world,\" he said. \"The library has a door and there is a door to the women's quarters in five years, the Calculator will send you through that. But there are no others.\" the world, there are two other doors!\" \"Doing what?\" has been imagining things, why should I?\" though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears was a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first, clearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality. eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the \"What won't?\" \"It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and the eat. I hate Rikud, I think.\" There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it.\n\n<question>:\nWhat do the characters refer to as \"the world?\"\n\n<options>:\nA Their ship, which is all they have ever known.\nB The men's quarters, which is all they have ever known.\nC The planet they are preparing to plummet onto.\nD They use it as a general term for the \"universe.\"\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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1,778
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quality
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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>:\nappeared to have overcome every in downtown Los Angeles and waited for his first customer. He had been in business for a week women in Puerto Pacifico,\" said would arrive. The series of events leading up to Pembroke's present occupation Pacific a year earlier. Bound for gambling everything on this one throw. \"When you go to Earth I'll miss you terribly.\" \"Oh, but you'll be dead by much,\" Pembroke murmured, Sydney, two days out of Valparaiso, the Colombian tramp steamer you, if I left on the boat with you, they'd let me go to Earth with you. Wouldn't they?\" \"Oh, yes, I'm sure they would.\" \"If I pretended I was one of something short of ecstasy. Not for any obvious reason, but because of subtle little factors that elevate the glory and safety of others above that of themselves. a human being. When she left the hotel at midnight, Pembroke was quite sure for a cause, for a loyalty, Frank Pembroke had at last found his. Earth and the human race that peopled it. And Mary Ann would help him to save it. the crew of the ship, probably. He also recognized several He said that he planned to go shooting out on the desert which creatures anywhere but in the city. Pembroke said he was going out anyway. seacoast city. He heard the hiss of the ocean in the direction the the beach. selection of firearms, despite the fact that there was nothing to hunt and only a single target range within the city. Everything, of course, had to be just like Earth. That, after all, was the purpose of Puerto Pacifico. By noon they had rented a jeep and were well away from the city. Pembroke and Mary Ann took turns firing at the paper targets they had purchased. At twilight they headed back to the city. On the outskirts, where the sand and soil were mixed and no footprints would be left, Pembroke her and that she had shot him. If necessary, she would conduct the authorities to the place where they had been target shooting, but would be unable to locate the spot where she had buried the body. Why had she buried it? Because at first she And they certainly would not prosecute Mary Ann for killing an Earthman. Now Pembroke had himself to worry about. The first step was to enter smoothly into the new life he had planned. It wouldn't be so comfortable as the previous one, but should be considerably safer. He headed slowly for the \"old\" part of town, aging his clothes against buildings and that they had all qualified fences as he walked. He had already specialty shops. He tried to get the woman off his mind, but the to bother him. She was right about being different, but it was her concern about being this time for vengeance. Twice during his wanderings Pembroke had seen the corpses of Earthmen being carted out of buildings. They had to be Earthmen because they bled. Mary Ann had admitted that she did not. There would be very few Earthmen left in Puerto Pacifico, and it would be simple enough to locate him if he were reported as the bizarre statuette underneath the counter. \"What the hell was that?\" a ship. It was leaving that afternoon. Anyone who could pass the interview would be sent to Earth. Pembroke had visited the docks every day, without being able to learn when the great exodus would take place. Yet he was certain the first lap would be by water rather than by spaceship, since no one he had talked to in the city had ever heard of spaceships. In fact, they knew very little about their masters. Now the ship had arrived and Pembroke would no doubt be discovered and exterminated. But since no one seemed said Pembroke. \"Incidentally, just where are we, anyway? What city is this?\" \"Puerto Pacifico,\" she told in every other respect. The reason for transporting Earth People to this planet was, of course, to apply a corrective to any of the Pacificos' aberrant mannerisms off every west coast state, city, town, and inlet. None, to the best of his knowledge, was called Puerto Pacifico. He headed for the nearest or articulation. This was map. The attendant gave him one which showed the city, but nothing beyond. \"That all depends on where you are,\" the boy returned. \"Okay, then where am I?\" Puerto Pacifico.\" each went into separate ones. Pembroke found himself alone in him. \"Isn't that a lovely name? another entity in his presence confined beneath a glass dome. It looked rather like a groundhog on an intricate keyboard in front of it. \"What is your name?\" queried a metallic voice from a speaker on the wall. that way—outside the city?\" \"Sand.\" \"Which situation's 'at?\" \"Where's Seattle?\" \"Seattle? State o' Washington.\" \"Some city.\" \"Yeah, it's kinda isolated. A lot of ships dock here, though.\" \"All cargo ships, I'll bet. No surrogate for a mid-twentieth century American male, itinerant \"You understand your mission, type. are to establish yourself on Earth. In time you will receive instructions. Then you will attack. You will not see us, your Newton?\" the voice asked. \"You masters, again until the atmosphere docks, then looked about for Mary Ann. He saw her at last named Spencer. He sat in a booth with three young women, all lovely, all effusive. The topic \"Your bet's as good as mine,\" the ship, ignoring her. But still the woman persisted in her with the crowd moving toward to be precisely what Pembroke said Pembroke. \"It's not Wellington, had predicted. Sidling up to a well-dressed man-about-town type, Pembroke and it's not Brisbane, and companion explained. \"They'll take her off to the buggy house for a few days and bring her out fresh and ignorant as the Earth.\" \"Yeah, I reckon there is at that,\" said Pembroke, snickering himself, however, till the night he was deposited in a field from the scene of the sinking of the on a piece of wreckage, and had been picked up by a Chilean trawler. How he had then made his way, with identity established and his circumstances again solvent, he was headed for Los Angeles to begin his save-Earth campaign. Now, seated at his battered desk in the shabby rented office it's not Long Beach, and it's not Tahiti. There are a lot of places it's not. But where the hell it is, you tell me. \"I hope you like it in Puerto Pacifico. Because there isn't any place to go from here and there isn't any way to get there if the two demolished Pacificos that lay sprawled one atop the other of a federal official, but the hesitant, self-conscious steps of a day. Not the brisk, efficient steps soon, once the FBI agent had got there. Pembroke was only in it to had run in all the Los Angeles papers for the past week. The little ad that had saved mankind from God-knew-what insidious menace. It read: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. yourself to blame. Cooperation is all we require of you.\" \"No. You just don't belong here, in this particular place,\" couldn't know that ahead of time. The way they operate it's a The kid shook his head. pretty hit-or-miss operation. But went down with the ship. That was just part of the game.\" \"What the hell are you sayin'?\" he wondered, had gone out on their backs during their first day in Puerto Pacifico? Pembroke shaved, showered, and put on the new suit and shirt Mary Ann, the woman he had met on the beach, out to dinner. She would look magnificent even Puerto Pacifico Pembroke had critical capabilities, but not once had she become annoyed with him. She seemed to devour every brought to her attention. And, fantastically enough, she actually\n\n<question>:\nWhat is Puerto Pacifico?\n\n<options>:\nA A small city on the coast of California full of odd people\nB A city on a faraway planet where humans can travel for vacation\nC A coastal American city where aliens work on a plan of attack\nD The city on a planet used as part of an attack plan by a group of aliens\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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53
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quality
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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>:\nO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head he was already throwing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumble room. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashed and a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the Burner Chief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficient Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailed his brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Felt that way. She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Woman O'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! \"I was in your burner room.\" Her voice matched the rest of her, a blend of loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. \"I couldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door. himself saying in sympathetic outrage, \"A shame you had to go to all that bother to get out here!\" \"You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly in there.\" \"They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop a suggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get.\" \"You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities?\" \"That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you!\" gracefully. \"Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again,\" Callahan muttered, then snapped back over his shoulder, \"Use your shower!\" O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted that Burner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's, would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now. Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary. Oh, very quite! \"You rockhead!\" Only Callahan back from the burner. \"Didn't I tell you to shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwig on tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunks she'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anyway been thinking.\" \"With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower for myself here.\" Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's shower door. \"Venus dames,\" O'Rielly said dreamily, \"don't boss anything, do they?\" notions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in an one of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of ears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving. was saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save her lovely neck and his own forever. O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had not opened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surely his dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't she have brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone! pirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up, don't flimflam the Old Woman!\" With which ominous remark, rendered in a zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself into O'Rielly's shower. O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisite Trillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as a the doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the cap and coverall uniform of a baggage boy. \"I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,\" Trillium explained. \"I knew the burner room would be warm.\" Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through this ship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. \"Now don't you worry about another thing!\" \"Oh, I'm not,\" she assured him happily. \"Everything is going just the way Grandmamma knew it would!\" O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko, bounced onto the bunk. \"Well, did you hide her good this time? No, don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her.\" \"If what old woman finds whom?\" a voice like thin ice crackling wanted Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the more \"Stay at attention!\" Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face, then in O'Rielly's vicinity. \"Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,\" she muttered through her teeth, \"if it is that vino.\" Something horrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was there again. \"Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for? Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect this burner!\" She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. \"Care to join The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than two steps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possibly blowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut the door, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansed of person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and His Excellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping with sweat. Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. \"You first, Your Excellency.\" happy forever. A fine loud \"thump,\" however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back and yanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk. \"Of all the sappy hiding places!\" Callahan yelped, in surprise of course. \"Trillium?\" His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of the \"Trillium,\" O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, \"why do you have to keep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you?\" outer space, \"for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and for O'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. \"All right, come along!\" looked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness and protect it to his last breath of life. Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonally pleasant. that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. \"Trillium! My \"I stole away all by as he roared, \"You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium, \"Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged,\" His \"No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bring Trillium's advised from the Venus panel. \"Were.\" Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded onto the panel too. \"From now on I'm doing the deciding.\" \"Nonsense! You're only my wife!\" His bellows, however, could be heard yet. \"Unhand me, you fool creatures! Guards! Guards!\" \"Save your breath,\" Berta advised him. \"And while you're in the cooler, away from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked away \"Oh, well,\" O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyond earshot, \"could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.\" did Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?\" O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trillium\n\n<question>:\nWhat were the hiding places selected by Trillium while stowing away?\n\n<options>:\nA In the shower and behind the burner\nB By the lockers and behind the burner\nC Behind the burner and under the bunk\nD In the shower and under the bunk\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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1,752
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quality
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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 IN CASE OF FIRE By RANDALL GARRETT There are times when a broken tool is better 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. Malloy leafed 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 trying to stall Malloy, Permanent Terran Ambassador to His Utter Munificence, the Occeq of Saarkkad. Take this first one, for instance. Malloy ran his finger down the columns showed the complete psychological analysis of the man. Psychopathic paranoia. The man wasn't technically insane he could be as lucid as the next man most of the time. But he was morbidly suspicious that every man's hand was turned against him. He trusted no one, and was perpetually on his guard against imaginary plots and persecutions. Malloy looked at him. \"Didn't you know? I wondered why you appointed The Secretary of State raised an continually on the horns of one dilemma incapable of making a decision if he were faced with two or more possible alternatives of any major or another. He was psychologically Malloy sighed and pushed the dossiers were alike, and yet there sometimes seemed to be an eternal sameness about all men. He considered himself an individual, for instance, but wasn't the basic similarity there, after all? what did he have to show for it besides flabby muscles, sagging skin, a wrinkled face, and gray hair? Well, he had an excellent record in Malloy closed his eyes. Somewhere fought. And, Malloy knew, his own position was not unimportant in that war. He was not in the battle line, nor even in the major production line, but that meant keeping on good terms with the Saarkkadic government. of differences—but their minds just didn't function along the same lines. 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 his importance, the greater must be himself was never seen except by a handful of picked nobles, who, themselves, were never seen except by their duplicated nowhere else in the known universe. It was Bertrand Malloy's job to keep the production output high and to keep the materiel flowing towards along with. A staff of top-grade men could have handled them without half trying. But Malloy didn't have top-grade work that required their total capacity. It's inefficient to waste a man on a job that he can do without half trying So Malloy was stuck with the culls. less important than Saarkkad to the war effort. Malloy knew that, no matter what was wrong with a man, as long as he had the mental ability to regulations. But Malloy didn't like to stop at merely thwarting mental quirks he The phone chimed. Malloy flipped \"Malloy here.\" \"Mr. Malloy?\" said a careful voice. Miss Drayson was a case in point. She was uncommunicative. She liked to gather in information, but she found it difficult to give it up once it 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 Malloy read the whole thing through, fighting to keep his emotions in check. Miss Drayson stood there calmly, her face a mask her Finally, Malloy looked up. \"I'll let need say that no news of this is to leave this office.\" Malloy watched her go out the door peace. They wanted an armistice conference—immediately. 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 impotent. But if the armistice went to their own advantage ... Already, they had taken the offensive all if Earth and Karn had fostered the as neutral as possible during the Earth-Karn war. They had no intention 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. On the second day after the arrival of the communique, Malloy made his decision. He flipped on his intercom and said: \"Miss Drayson, Malloy knew the woman would it was better to give her permission to do so. James Nordon was tall, broad-shouldered, and thirty-eight. His hair was graying at the temples, and his handsome face looked cool and efficient. Malloy waved him to a seat. Malloy explained the problem of the Karna peace talks. \"We need a man who can outthink them,\" Malloy finished, \"and judging from your record, I think you're that man. It involves risk, of course. If you make the wrong decisions, your name will be mud back on Earth. But \"No,\" said Malloy, \"I'm sending Nordon shook his head. \"Not that I recall, Mr. Malloy. Should I have?\" \"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. You'll be in charge, of course, but I want you to pay special attention to his advice.\" \"I will, sir,\" Nordon said gratefully. \"A man like that can be useful.\" As soon as Nordon had left, Malloy heavy, protruding brows. Malloy asked 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.\" Malloy had full reports on the whole Secretary of State Blendwell stopped He was a tallish, lean man with a few strands of gray hair on the top of his otherwise bald scalp, and he wore a hearty, professional smile that didn't quite make it to his calculating eyes. He took Malloy's hand and shook am I, for that matter.\" His eyes were curious. \"You decided not to go yourself, eh?\" Malloy handed them to the secretary, and as he read, Malloy watched him. Blendwell was a political appointee—a good man, Malloy had to admit, but he didn't know all the ins and outs of the Diplomatic Corps. When Blendwell looked up from 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. Malloy nodded. \"I think so. The against making decisions. If he took a girl out on a date, he'd have trouble 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. 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 wasn't this was, and the more importance there is attached to his decisions, the more incapable he becomes of making them.\" \"Paranoid,\" said Malloy. \"He thinks everyone is plotting against him. In this case, that's all to the good\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the most likely reason that Secretary of State Blendwell appointed Malloy for the peace talks?\n\n<options>:\nA He had the most recent practice maintaining peace.\nB He was the closest diplomat available.\nC He was the most qualified to deal with the situation.\nD He has a reputation for not compromising.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
1,008
|
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>:\nremained unfinished, because each had reminded someone else of another story. opponent. So the climax of one tactic did not simply overturn the foreman. He glided through the air, crashing with a very loud thump He wasn't hurt. But the impact knocked the hallowed portrait of H. H. Hartshorne, co-founder, from its nail. It tinkled imposingly as its glass splintered against the floor. Mr. Hawkins himself, acting by reflex, attempted to return the portrait to its place until new glass could be obtained. But the fall had sprung \"We'd better put old H. H. away for safekeeping until after the attention on any working day. With the proper mixture of respect and bonhommie, he lifted the heavy picture out of its frame. A yellowed envelope slipped to the floor as the picture came free. Hawkins rolled the picture like a scroll and put it into a desk drawer, for later attention. Then he looked around for a drink that would make him feel even better. A sorting clerk in the mail order department wasn't used to liquor. She picked up the envelope and looked around vaguely for the mail-opening machine. \"Hell, Milly, you aren't working!\" someone shouted at her. \"Have returned to reality. Looking at the envelope, she said: \"Oh, I see. They must have stuck it in to tighten the frame. Gee, it's old.\" there ever since the picture was framed. There's a company legend that \"I didn't know the company ever used buff envelopes like this.\" Milly turned it over in her hands. The ancient glue crackled as she did so. The flap popped open and an old-fashioned order blank fell out. Mr. Hawkins' eyes widened. He bent, reached painfully over his potbelly and picked up the order form. \"This thing has never been processed!\" Raising his voice, he shouted jovially, \"Hey, people! You're all fired! Here's an order that Hartshorne-Logan never filled! We can't have such carelessness. This poor woman has waited eighty years for her merchandise!\" Milly was reading aloud the scrawled words on the order form: \"Best electric doorbell. Junior detective kit. Disposable sacks for There was a silence. Finally, from an anonymous voice in one corner: \"Would the warp work over eighty years? We were always told that it must be used only for complaints within three days.\" grandmother never bought anything from Hartshorne-Logan because of some substitute a manky!\" Ann Hartley was returning from mailing the letter when she found the large parcel on her doorstep. She put her hands on her hips and stared pugnaciously at the bundle. \"The minute I write a letter to complain about you, you turn up!\" she told the parcel. She nudged her toe peevishly against the brown paper wrappings that were tied with a half-transparent twine she had never seen before. The label was addressed in a wandering scrawl, a sharp contrast to the impersonal typing on the customary Hartshorne-Logan bundles. But the familiar RATTLE OK sticker was pasted onto the box, indicating to the delivery man that the contents would make a rattling sound and therefore hadn't been broken in shipment. Ann sighed and picked up her bundle. With a last look at the lovely sewing box, tossed a cushion onto the floor, sat on it, and began to open the parcel. \"Now I'll have to write another letter to explain that they should throw away my letter of complaint,\" she told her daughter. \"And by the time they get my second letter, they'll have answered my first letter. Then they'll write again.\" Out of consideration for Sally, she omitted the expletives that she wanted to add. cord and yanked. The twine sprang away from the carton as if it were alive. The paper wrappings flapped open. Ann repressed an irrational urge to slap her daughter. Instead, she tossed the wrappings aside and removed the lid from the carton. A slightly crushed thin cardboard box lay on top. Ann pulled out the dress and shook it into a freely hanging position. Then she groaned. to look vacantly at the distant wall. \"We'll have to send it back,\" Ann said, \"and get the one we ordered.\" she collided with the far wall. her up bodily and hugged her. Then he saw the box. \"Your order's here? Good. What's this thing?\" He was looking at a small box he had pulled from the carton. Its lid contained a single word: MANKY. The box rattled when he shook it. He peered into the box for an instruction sheet, uselessly. \"They must have made a mistake. It looks like some kind of farm equipment.\" the doorbell.\" The bottom of the carton contained the detective outfit that they had ordered for their son. Ann glanced at its glaringly lithographed cover it and shut the door firmly. As the door closed, he saw the entire \"If this is ventriloquism—\" she began icily. \"I'll have to order another doorbell just like this one, for the neighbor. \"I'm so sorry you had to walk around the house. It's been a rather hectic day in an awful lot of ways.\" Defeated, Mrs. Burnett left. A muffled volley of handclapping, mixed with a few faint cheers, came from the doorbell-box when she crossed nearly collided with him, coming in the other direction. from the smooth, level table, bounced twice when it hit the floor, then rolled along, six inches behind him. He turned and kicked at it. The through an instruction booklet, frowning. \"This toy is too complicated for a ten-year-old boy,\" Les told his wife. \"I don't know why you ordered such a thing.\" He tossed the booklet into the empty box. \"I'm going to return it, if you don't smudge it up,\" she replied. \"Look in cut and fold, it was suspiciously like the dress that had arrived in the parcel. Her heart sank. She picked up the child, felt the hot forehead, and said: \"Les, I think \" The mailman brought a letter from Hartshorne-Logan. Ann stared stupidly at the envelope, until she realized that this wasn't an impossibly quick answer to the letter she had written yesterday. It must have crossed in the mail her complaint about the non-arrival of the order. She tore open the envelope and read: \"We regret to inform you that your order cannot be filled until the balance you owe us has been reduced. From the attached form, you will readily ascertain that the payment of $87.56 will enable you to resume the purchasing of merchandise on credit. We shall fill your recent order as soon....\" Ann crumpled the letter and threw it into the imitation fireplace, knowing perfectly well that it would need to be retrieved for Les after in the neighborhood for blankets. Bob has always been a good boy and we believe that we can expel him quietly without newspaper publicity involving his name, if you'll—\" a sick baby here. Don't do anything till I telephone my husband. And I'm sorry for Bob. I mean I'm sorry for the girls, and for the boys, too. I'm sorry for—for everything. Good-by.\" of the cloth. Sally writhed and kicked, then collapsed in a faint. The death if I yanked it off. But it's such an extreme allergy that it may kill her, if we leave it in contact with the skin.\" doorbell was monotonously saying in a monotone: \"Don't answer me, don't answer me, don't go to the door.\" only an accident. The really important thing is something else I did before I left the house.\" Les, cursing softly, hurried past them on the way to answer the knocking. He ignored the doorbell's pleas.\n\n<question>:\nHad the portrait of H. H. Hartshorne not been knocked off the wall, what would have likely happened in the story?\n\n<options>:\nA Milly would have never been born.\nB Mr. Hawkins would have fired everyone who attended the party.\nC The partygoers would have remained sober that night.\nD The package would have never been delivered.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
] |
1,006
|
quality
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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 Christmas party at the Boston branch of Hartshorne-Logan was story. \"We'd better put old H. H. away for safekeeping until after the holiday,\" he told a small, blonde salesclerk who was beneath his attention on any working day. With the proper mixture of respect and bonhommie, he lifted the heavy picture out of its frame. A yellowed envelope slipped to the floor as A sorting clerk in the mail order department wasn't used to liquor. She picked up the envelope and looked around vaguely for the mail-opening returned to reality. Looking at the envelope, she said: \"Oh, I see. \"I didn't know the company ever used buff envelopes like this.\" Milly The flap popped open and an old-fashioned order blank fell out. and picked up the order form. \"This thing has never been processed!\" Raising his voice, he shouted jovially, \"Hey, people! You're all fired! Here's an order that Hartshorne-Logan never filled! We can't have such carelessness. This poor woman has waited eighty years for her merchandise!\" Milly was reading aloud the scrawled words on the order form: \"Best electric doorbell. Junior detective kit. Disposable sacks for must be used only for complaints within three days.\" warehouse. Tell the watchman that it's on my authority. Hunt up the stuff that's on the order. Get the best of everything. Ignore the catalogue numbers—they've changed a hundred times in all these years.\" look fatherly. It didn't. \"Well, now. Since it's your relative, let's Ann Hartley was returning from mailing the letter when she found the large parcel on her doorstep. She put her hands on her hips and stared pugnaciously at the bundle. \"The minute I write a letter to complain about you, you turn up!\" she told the parcel. She nudged her toe peevishly against the brown paper The label was addressed in a wandering scrawl, a sharp contrast to the delivery man that the contents would make a rattling sound and therefore hadn't been broken in shipment. Ann sighed and picked up her bundle. With a last look at the lovely house. Two-year-old Sally heard the box rattling. She waddled up on chubby open the parcel. throw away my letter of complaint,\" she told her daughter. \"And by the time they get my second letter, they'll have answered my first letter. cord and yanked. The twine sprang away from the carton as if it were tossed the wrappings aside and removed the lid from the carton. A slightly crushed thin cardboard box lay on top. Ann pulled out the \"We'll have to send it back,\" Ann said, \"and get the one we ordered.\" \"It's me,\" her husband said. \"Slow day at the office, so I came home early.\" her up bodily and hugged her. Then he saw the box. \"Your order's here? Good. What's this thing?\" He was looking at a small box he had pulled from the carton. Its lid contained a single word: \"Is this the doorbell? I've never seen a plug like this. And there's no wire.\" He peered into the box for an instruction sheet, uselessly. \"They must \"That's the doorbell, I think,\" he said, looking at the next object. It \"It looks terribly expensive. Maybe they sent door chimes instead of the doorbell.\" ordered for their son. Ann glanced at its glaringly lithographed cover when she—\" propulsion. A half-hour later, when the meal was almost ready, two things happened: Bob came home from school through the back door and a strange voice said from the front of the house, \"Don't answer the front door.\" in a long time. That voice you heard was the new doorbell. I put it up up at the doorbell, which he had installed just above the upper part \"I just wanted to borrow some sugar,\" the woman cried from the porch. doorbell box threatened to penetrate every corner of the house. Ann \"I'll have to order another doorbell just like this one, for the neighbor. \"I'm so sorry you had to walk around the house. It's been a rather kitchen table. \"Excitement isn't good for me,\" Mrs. Burnett said testily. \"I've had a lot of troubles in my life. I like peace and quiet.\" with a few faint cheers, came from the doorbell-box when she crossed Ann went into the hall to order Les to disconnect the doorbell. She from the smooth, level table, bounced twice when it hit the floor, then distance by the eyeball, and picked up the box. wife. \"I don't know why you ordered such a thing.\" He tossed the booklet into the empty box. \"I think the Detectolite did it,\" Bob said. \"The instructions say you've got to be very careful with it, because its effects last for a silently, until she saw his fingerprints appear on the faucet, the soap and the towel. She began to yell at him for making such a mess, when that dress herself. Where did she get that nightgown?\" in cut and fold, it was suspiciously like the dress that had arrived in the parcel. Her heart sank. for a nap. It seems impossible, but—\" She shrugged mutely. \"And I The whole family decided that bed might be a good idea, soon after dinner. When the lights went out, the house seemed to be nearly normal. Bob rigged up trestles to warn visitors from the front porch. Ann rhythmic rattle, soft but persistent, that emerged from the hall called the doctor before going to work. out on its side: \" Today is Wednesday. For obvious reasons, the manky will not operate today. \" The mailman brought a letter from Hartshorne-Logan. Ann stared stupidly at the envelope, until she realized that this wasn't an impossibly quick answer to the letter she had written yesterday. It must have crossed in the mail her complaint about the non-arrival of the order. She tore open the envelope and read: \"We regret to inform you that your order cannot be filled until the order as soon....\" Ann crumpled the letter and threw it into the imitation fireplace, knowing perfectly well that it would need to be retrieved for Les after department when the phone rang. voice said. \"Your son is in trouble. He claims that it's connected with by the gym during calisthenics. We've had to call upon every family in the neighborhood for blankets. Bob has always been a good boy and we believe that we can expel him quietly without newspaper publicity a sick baby here. Don't do anything till I telephone my husband. And I'm sorry for Bob. I mean I'm sorry for the girls, and for the boys, too. I'm sorry for—for everything. Good-by.\" Just as she hung up the telephone, the doorbell rang. It rang with a physician smoothed the folds hastily back into place. \"They're going to the next house down the street,\" the physician said. and white, on a stretcher from the house next door into the ambulance. Burnett at the door. Shrieks that sounded like \"Murder!\" came sharply \"Hey, Pete! What's wrong?\" gesticulating wildly to nobody in particular. \"It's murder!\" she screamed. \"Murder again! He's been poisoned! He's going to die! It means the electric chair!\" The orderly grabbed her again. This time he stuffed a handkerchief into \"Come back to this house as soon as you deliver him,\" Dr. Schwartz doorbell was monotonously saying in a monotone: \"Don't answer me, before I left the house.\" Les, cursing softly, hurried past them on the way to answer the knocking. He ignored the doorbell's pleas. on the threshold of the front door. \"I heard that! The woman next door the doorbell box, striking him squarely on the chest. The policeman \"Close the door, close the door,\" the doorbell was chanting urgently.\n\n<question>:\nBased on the context of the story, on which day was the package received to the home?\n\n<options>:\nA Monday\nB Tuesday\nC Wednesday\nD Thursday\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
398
|
quality
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[
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWith this.\" farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war potential, by conventional standards, is nil.\" Magnan tapped the folder before him. the folder?\" Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down. \"First,\" he said. \"The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away. \"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave this building.\" \"I'll carry it, sealed,\" Retief said. \"That way nobody can sweat it out of me.\" Magnan started to shake his head. \"Well,\" he said. \"If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—\" cards and dice. Never played for money, though.\" \"Umm,\" Magnan said. \"Don't make the error of personalizing this situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these every other man is a mechanic of some sort.\" \"Less than four hours to departure time,\" he said. \"I'd better not start any long books.\" \"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination,\" Magnan said. Magnan looked up. \"I suppose not. What do you want with it?\" \"Just a feeling I've got.\" \"Please yourself.\" II Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend \"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY.\" A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching Retief from the corner of his eye. Retief glanced at him. The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and spat it on the floor. The clerk smiled pityingly. \"It's my lunch hour,\" he said. \"I'll be open in an hour.\" He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it. \"If I have to come around this counter,\" Retief said, \"I'll feed that thumb to you the hard way.\" says he's out to lunch.\" The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back \"Is this the joker?\" he grated. III Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional glances Retief's way. peered out from under a white chef's cap. \"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?\" \"Looks like it, old-timer,\" Retief said. \"Maybe I'd better go join the skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun.\" \"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there.\" \"I see your point.\" \"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate.\" 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 right idea on the Soetti, too,\" Retief said. He poured red wine into a \"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 Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct, there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against. Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table. grating voice. \"What's your game, hick?\" The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in. a well-honed french knife lay on the sill. \"Thanks, Chip,\" Retief said. \"I won't need it for these punks.\" \"I usta be about your size, when I was your age,\" Chip said. \"You \"Sure, Mister. Anything else?\" \"I'll think of something,\" Retief said. \"This is shaping up into one of those long days.\" \"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin,\" Chip said. \"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They won't mess with me.\" \"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?\" Retief asked. \"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was yer age.\" \"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's Jorgies live on Svea that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin' his own cookin' like he does somebody else's.\" \"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got \"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.\" \"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins.\" Chip puffed the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and brandy. \"Them Sweaties is what I don't like,\" he said. \"I ain't superstitious ner nothin',\" Chip said. \"But I'll be \"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off their fun is over.\" \"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—\" \"What secret? I—\" \"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n,\" Chip said. \"Sweaties die easy that's the secret.\" \"Maybe you got a point,\" the captain said, looking at Retief. \"All they \"You don't scare us, Cap'n,\" Chip said. \"Him and Mr. Tony and all his \"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your \"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.\" \"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do \"It's me, Mister. Chip.\" \"Come on in.\" The chef entered the room, locking the door. \"You shoulda had that door locked.\" He stood by the door, listening, then turned to Retief. \"That's right, Chip.\" \"This is it,\" Chip said softly. \"You want me to keep an eye on who \"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.\" The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark. \"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me.\" \"If anything happens that I don't like,\" he said, \"I'll wake you up.\n\n<question>:\nWhat can be inferred about the personality of Chip?\n\n<options>:\nA He was selfish and wanted everyone else to suffer\nB He was caring and generous when no one else was\nC He was an old, hateful man who didn't appreciate back talk\nD He only cared about the food he prepared\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
976
|
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 fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in that era than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore, and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to see and felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longer understand. \"Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time?\" Martin idly asked the current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now. The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. \"Conrad's a very shrewd fellow,\" he whispered. \"He's biding his time—waiting until we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!\" \"Oh, I see,\" Martin said. He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulating member of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he would Conrad?\" ever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than one \"Because he's coming to kill you.\" \"Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.\" promised five years before. \"The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's an idealist,\" Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste. and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future having carefully eradicated all current vulgarities. \"And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploiting the not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets,\" Raymond continued. \"Which passing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that, and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However, Conrad is so impatient.\" \"I thought, in your world, machines did all the work,\" Martin suggested. \"I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one!\" Raymond snapped. \"We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all. worlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all that he had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of the lot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—more frightening—his race had lost something vital. Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him, Raymond went on blandly: \"Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself to feel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been for the fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, we \"Oh, I do!\" Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together for himself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it. \"Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the time transmitter. Those government scientists are so infernally officious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed to be hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is always desperate for a fresh topic of conversation.\" Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas' assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go back in time and \"eliminate!\" their common great-grandfather. In that way, there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would never get to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines. society in order to root out a single injustice?\" \"Not if it were a good one otherwise.\" \"Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhaps he built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into such matters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the idea of eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfather good man, you know.\" Raymond's expressive upper lip curled. \"So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid of his great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a pretty worthless character.\" a rush. \"I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the other cousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided it was our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you.\" He beamed at Martin. The boy smiled slowly. \"Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in eliminating me, then none of you would exist, would you?\" he had learned long ago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise. \"We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor's assistants,\" Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered, \"and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.\" Induced , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to the use of the iron maiden. \"Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded you night and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we made our counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and here wretched historical stint.\" exile,\" Raymond explained, \"even though our life spans are a bit longer sad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference. Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. \"I knew you weren't a sloppy sentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him, you know.\" Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirring of alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. \"How do you plan to protect me when he comes?\" \"How about a moat?\" Martin suggested when they first came. \"It seems to go with a castle.\" \"Do you think a moat could stop Conrad?\" Raymond asked, amused. \"No,\" Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, \"but it would make the place seem safer somehow.\" The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and more nervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor that stood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, because several times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept with the ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it, until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them. During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for the higher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitably There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly. space travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it. to ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and making they never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on The Interregnum . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, although there was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler through time. deported. himself. \"Maybe it is worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planets \"Oh,\" Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested, even. \"Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong,\" Ives said, after a pause. \"Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting the people—I expect you could call them people—there. Still—\" he smiled Conrad, and even he—\" Ives looked out over the sea. \"Must be a better way out than Conrad's,\" he said without conviction. \"And everything couldn't even seem to care. During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martin had gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almost wished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement. the basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would have been Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego one bitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor from the future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough to continent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth. they were afraid he might prove rather stuffy about the entire undertaking.\n\n<question>:\nHow does Conrad go back in time?\n\n<options>:\nA Conrad stole Professor Farkas' time transmitter to send himself back in time.\nB Professor Farkas sent him back in time with the time transmitter.\nC Conrad built a time transmitter using a copy of Professor Farkas' plans.\nD Professor Farkas' assistant sent Conrad back in time using the time transmitter after Conrad gave him a bribe.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
1,612
|
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>:\nfoot, and sure enough it wasn't. I had to leave it. It was a K-99, but \"I won't have to kill many. Besides, they're only animals.\" \" Intelligent animals!\" O'Reilley's pet shop—right place, wrong number. I just don't get it.\" \"Intelligent as a human imbecile, maybe.\" sidewalk escalator toward O'Reilley's address. She sipped her coffee and appeared to be listening, so he went on. \"And what can I do? You know how the Federation handles employment. They looked over my aptitude tests and sent me to Bio-Administration. J. \"DOGGY\" O'REILLEY labor. That's the law .\" If I don't want to follow my aptitudes, the only choice is common Norris withered. His voice went desperate. \"They assigned me to it because I O'Reilley's was not a shining example of cleanliness. Somewhere a puppy was yapping, and a parrot croaked the lyrics of \"I suppose you have an aptitude for killing babies?\" she said sweetly. unclaimed units is the smallest part of it. Honey, before the evolvotron, before Anthropos went into the mutant-animal business, people used to elect dogcatchers. Think of it that way—I'm just a Chimp to Call My Own , which Norris recognized as the theme song of a popular soap-opera about a lady evolvotron operator. death certificate under his nose and demanding a guarantee of the dog's alleged F-5 intelligence. The old man offered to swear on a Bible, but he demurred when it came to swearing on a ledger. proclaim them really human. He wandered on toward the back of the building, pausing briefly by the cash register to inspect O'Reilley's license, which hung in a dusty frame on the wall behind the counter. \"James Fallon O'Reilley ... authorized dealer in mutant animals ... all non-predatory O'Reilley was mincing across the floor to meet him. The customer had thumbs. It was a cat-Q-5. It glanced curiously at the truck as Norris stopped and adjusted his spectacles. He blinked and peered as Norris flashed his badge. His smile waned. \"I'm Agent Norris, Mr. O'Reilley. Called you yesterday for that rundown on K-99 sales.\" O'Reilley looked suddenly nervous. \"Oh, yes. Find 'em all?\" \"Whose child are you, Rorry?\" he asked. \"Where do you live?\" O'Reilley seemed to cringe. \"No mistake. I gave you the buyer's name.\" \"That's right, Mama's kitty. But where is Mama? Do you suppose she ran O'Reilley's wrinkled face set itself into a stubborn mask. \"Doubt if but most couples could endure the death of a cat-Q or a dog-F. Class-C His grin faded as he wondered which Anne would choose. The Norrises The wrinkled face twitched with frustrated anger. O'Reilley shuffled something he had been expecting for several days. Attention All District Inspectors: Subject: Deviant Neutroid. animals whose serial numbers fall in the Bermuda-K-99 series for But O'Reilley was already limping quickly up the stairs. He seemed not Negligency Case. Seize all animals in this category, impound, and run proper sections of normalcy tests. Watch for mental and glandular unit, but there may be others. He disclaims memory of deviant's serial number. This could be a ruse to bring a stop to investigations when one animal is found. Be thorough. influx had been K-99s from Bermuda Factory. Forty, at least. Could he Anthropos, Inc. They should be able to give him a list of all July's imagine we will. Are you extremely busy at the moment?\" Norris hesitated. \"Extremely,\" he said. dying. Eighteenth order virus.\" \"So?\" \"Well, she's—uh—rather a it's her own. Do you understand?\" \"I think so,\" Norris replied slowly. \"But what do you want me to do? Can't you send the neutroid to a vet?\" \"I thought perhaps you could help me fake a substitution. It's a K-48 one . You're welcome to it, Doctor, but you can't fake a serial number. She'll know it. And even though they look exactly alike, the new one won't recognize her. It'll be spooky.\" come get the animal now?\" \"I'm on the highway—\" \"Please, Norris! This is urgent. That woman will lose her mind completely if—\" \"Yes?\" \"Don't let me catch you falsifying a serial number.\" mechanical voice answered, \"Locator center. Your party, please.\" \"Sheriff Yates,\" Norris grunted. The robot operator, which had on tape the working habits of each Wylo City citizen, began calling numbers. It found the off-duty sheriff on it's got me psyched. What do you want, Norris?\" \"Cooperation. I'm mailing you three letters charging three Wylo citizens with resisting a Federal official—namely me —and charging pound inspection—\" Yates bellowed lusty laughter into the phone. \"It's not funny. I've got to get those neutroids. It's in connection with the Delmont case.\" Yates stopped laughing. \"Oh. Well, I'll take care of it.\" \"It's a rush-order, Sheriff. Can you get the warrants tonight and pick up the animals in the morning?\" \"Easy on those warrants, boy. Judge Charleman can't be disturbed just don't have to get a helicopter posse to chase down the mothers.\" \"That'll be all right. And listen, Yates—fix it so the charges will be dropped if they cooperate. Don't shake those warrants around unless they just won't listen to reason. But get those neutroids.\" \"Okay, boy. Gotcha.\" \" Apple cores! he's got to be quick about it before the ovum dies from an overdose of Anyway, he reported one success the next day. It was faked. The ovum determinants, and in the glandular makeup. Not a standard neutroid ovum. He passed it on to the incubators to get a credit, knowing it female.\" \"How did they find out about it now?\" \"He got caught last month, trying it again. And he confessed to doing the back of the kennel-truck. He grinned at his wife. \"This little fellow, for instance. It might be a potential she. It might also be a potential murderer. All She looked up and shook her head. \"It belongs to somebody else. If it fixes a libido attachment on you, you're actually robbing its owner. They can't love many people at once.\" He stood in the back of the truck, staring down at her. \"Do you realize what—\" \"I know what I'm saying. We're class-C on account of heart-trouble in both our families. Well, I don't care, Terry. I'm not going to waste a heart over one of these pathetic little artificial animals. We're going mobile unit in front of the late Doctor Hiram Georges' residence just west of Sherman II. We are waiting for the stretcher to be brought out, and Police Chief Erskine Miler is standing here beside me to give us a A growling drawl came from the audio. \"This's Chief Miler speaking, folks. I just want to say that if any of you know the whereabouts of a Mrs. Sarah Glubbes, call me immediately. She's wanted for questioning.\" \"Thank you, Chief. This is James Duncan again. I'll review the facts for you briefly again, ladies and gentlemen. At seven o'clock, kennel-truck, meaning to get the rest of the Bermuda-K-99s so that he\n\n<question>:\nJ \"Doggy\" O'Reilley is most likely:\n\n<options>:\nA A Delmont \"flaw\" that passed\nB A Class C citizen\nC A neutroid\nD A federal officer\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>:\npast. Joe didn't know how they'd done it, and he didn't care. Joe was a course, and naturally doesn't care who hires it. Something house, see? He lets me know every Joe Prantera called Joe Prantera said impatiently, \"The getaway. After I give it to this Howard Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on the run, don't I?\" \"I see.\" Brett-James cleared his Joe Prantera said softly, \"Big Louis \"We hadn't thought of the matter being handled in that manner.\" Joe eyed him in scorn. \"Oh, you didn't, huh? What happens after I give it to this guy? I just sit around wrong, too. For the first time, Joe Prantera began to sense an alienness—a something that was awfully century ago.\" Joe had given up. Now he merely stared. untoward symptoms, possibly I could things you guys say don't stick together so good. Now, first place, where's this guy Temple-Tracy you want knocked off?\" Reston-Farrell and Brett-James Joe couldn't figure out how he stood. For one thing, there should have been some kind of police guard. be of assistance.\" The other said, \"Perhaps a bit of stimulant?\" Joe said flatly, \"I wanta lawyer.\" which seemed to be the prevailing where does he reside? Why, here in this city.\" \"Well, that's handy, eh?\" Joe scratched himself thoughtfully. \"You got somebody can finger him for me?\" you are Joseph Salviati-Prantera.\" Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's this character could have known that. States until the age of five and by that time he had a stepmother. \"I wanta mouthpiece,\" Joe said Joe had been born in Naples and his mother had died in childbirth. His \"Finger him?\" \"Look, before I can give it to this reasonably. \"You gotta have a finger.\" Brett-James said, \"Why not just go to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah, dispose of him?\" \"Jest walk in, eh? You think I'm flatly, \"or let me outta here.\" Joe gingerly tried swinging his Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily receives visitors every afternoon, largely potential followers. He is attempting to recruit members to an organization he is forming. It Joe Prantera scowled and said, \"These ain't my clothes.\" Joe was indignant. \"Just like that, eh?\" he said sarcastically. \"Then what happens? How do I get out of the Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally, flatly, \"What's it all about?\" The other put down the unaccepted 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 dangerously, \"You guys figure on me The other was heavier and more at ease. They were both, Joe estimated, somewhere in their middle fifties. They both looked like docs. He Joe said coldly, \"And what happens to you guys? How do you know I won't rat on you?\" so far as Joe could see. He said gently, \"I think it would be Mr. Joseph Prantera, wouldn't it? The maternal linage was almost universally heavy around with wunna these. Otherwise, The doctor said, \"We explained the other day, Mr. Prantera. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy is a dangerous, atavistic, evil genius. We are afraid for our institutions if his plans molded to his order. Joe said, \"I think maybe I'll take and then something else Joe didn't get. Whatever the something else Joe didn't allow himself to think of its means of delivery. He took up in excitement. Citizen Temple-Tracy is aware of this and finds his recruits among the young.\" \"O.K., so this guy is dangerous. You want him knocked off before he Joe Prantera looked from one of them to the other, scowling. \"What are you guys talking about?\" Joe demanded, aghast. Dr. Reston-Farrell controlled the Joe Prantera had never been exposed to the concept of time travel. had been solved. The others were nervous, obviously repelled by the very conception of what they had planned. Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now that they had got in the clutch, the others were on the verge of chickening Joe Prantera's mind suddenly reverted to those last memories and his eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt out. He knew it wouldn't have they'd talk themselves into it again before the week was through. Besides, already Joe was beginning to feel the comfortable, pleasurable, to perform a task for us.\" Joe stared at him, and then at the other. He couldn't believe he was getting through to them. Or, at least, warm feeling that came to him on American, eh?\" we have brought you from your era \"That is correct.\" Joe said, \"You guys know the kind of jobs I do?\" \"That is correct.\" want me to do a job for you.\" said, \"Where would you go, Mr. Prantera?\" Joe glared at him. Then sat down again, as abruptly as he'd arisen. \"Let's start all over again. I got this to their speed in this era—whooshed him to the penthouse duplex occupied by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy. There were two persons in the reception room but they left on Joe's heavy-set, dour of countenance man seated at a desk. He looked into Joe Prantera's face, scowled and said something. Joe said, \"Joseph Salviati-Prantera to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.\" The other's shaggy eyebrows rose. \"Indeed,\" he said. \"In Amer-English?\" Joe nodded. \"Enter,\" the other said. side of the room. Joe walked through it and into what was obviously an office. Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a desk. There was only one other chair in the room. Joe Prantera ignored it and remained standing. Citizen Temple-Tracy said, \"What can I do for you?\" Joe looked at him for a long, long moment. Then he reached down to probably have caused small dismay to society.\" They had him pegged all right. Joe said, \"But why me? Why don't you Joe said softly, \"You know what this here is?\" Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon. \"It's a handgun, circa, I would Joe said, very slowly, \"Chief, in the line you're in these days you needa \"Well, then do it yourself.\" Joe Prantera's irritation over this whole in some gutter with a lotta holes in you. What I'm doin', I'm askin' for a job. You need a good man knows how to handle wunna these, Chief.\" Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy complicated mess was growing. And taken much for them to cancel the eyed him appraisingly. \"Perhaps,\" he Joe snapped: \"Everything you guys say sounds crazy. Let's start all over again.\" Joe looked at him blankly. \"In your day you were confronted never dreamed of in your own era.\" \"O.K., O.K.,\" Joe Prantera growled. \"So everybody's got it made. What I wanta know is what's all this about Caesar?\" Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily. \"Sure I heard of Hitler and Stalin,\" Joe growled. \"I ain't stupid.\" The other nodded. \"Such men are unique. They have a drive ... a beverage of the day. For Joe's taste Joe winced. It didn't occur to him to doubt their word. had been appointed to work with him. Joe didn't meet any of the others who belonged to the group which had taken the measures to Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi's Brett-James evidently had something to do with the process that had enabled them to bring Joe from the\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Joe call Citizen Temple-Tracy Chief?\n\n<options>:\nA Temple-Tracy is the Chief of Police.\nB Temple-Tracy is the head of the Fire Department.\nC Temple-Tracy is the head of the Time Travel Bureau.\nD Joe wants Temple-Tracy to know Joe regards him as superior.\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>:\nblock away from his house. It was then that he realized something unusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security police was parked at his front door. And something else was happening too. His house was dancing. residence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sight His pockets were picked eleven times. From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched as begin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking so deeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too many people were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum Dome 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 As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played over his face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room. \"Help!\" Lieutenant MacBride called. Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on his \"What's happening?\" MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa. 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. from the blackness of the living room. \"These are not rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting Optimum Dome and chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returning Conditions!\" the voice wailed. \"The temperature is not his fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayed that was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was this with photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in an orange patrol car parked down the street. \"Are you going to make it stop or aren't you!\" MacBride yelled. \"You'll have to tell me what you did first!\" \"I told 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 him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairs bedroom!\" Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker. \"I'm not sure what's going to come of this,\" he said to Lanfierre with an astonishing amount of objectivity, \"but the entire dome air supply is now coming through my bedroom.\" Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefully edged out of the house and forced the front door shut. Dome Conditions of the bright avenue. \"I never figured on this 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 vacation. Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips. 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 first so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city? \"No, you don't need a rest,\" MacBride said. \"You're starting to see Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited, dazed. The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound. MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for the they both looked back at the dancing house. water.\" 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 you see what he carries in his pockets?\" \"And compasses won't work on this street.\" watching the house with a consuming interest. They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyes shoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupation of his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn't noticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. He had a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and the high-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of the house. At least, he called it buffeting he'd never thought to watch from outside. It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear, the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a more satisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion. He rubbed his chin critically. It fingers marching up and down your spine? He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This was important He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romantic high-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening the Studebaker valve wider and wider.... 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.\" \"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 they'll find out? I found out and you can bet they always tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, it wasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can't have another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you've \"And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes, lost, you and I.\" \"Not if we could leave the dome,\" Fownes said quietly. \"That's impossible! How?\" In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownes Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on her the dome.\" \"I see.\" \" that somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight, the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's 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 to government publications and censored old books with holes in What do you make of reading inscriptions on a tombstone. 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 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, waited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggled obtained the insight. \"If a sound foreign policy can't be created the only alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus the movement into domes began— by common consent of the governments . This is known as self-containment.\" Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lull in the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might be arranged for him to get out. \"Out?\" the leader said, frowning. \"Out? Out where?\" \"Outside the dome.\" \"Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up and leave.\" life in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else? Have I left anything out?\" The leader sighed. \"The gentleman wants to know if he's left anything out,\" he said to the group. Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions. window and turning his back quite pointedly on them.\n\n<question>:\nWhy are the police studying Frownes so intently?\n\n<options>:\nA They are threatened by his knowledge of and curiosity about the ancients\nB They are suspicious of the odd behavior occurring within and around his home\nC They believe he is responsible for the increased frequency of falling glass\nD They believe he is an informant to enemy forces outside of the Dome\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"It's OK Mom, I got it.\" \"You should have let us come pick you up.\" Mom sighs, shoulders falling, looks at Sara directly. \"I'm sorry honey.\" She looks old, Sara thinks, watching a resigned tiredness flicker across her face in a way she'd not noticed before. Like she's exhausted by conflict, surrendered to it. \"Now, don't I get a hug?\" Sara smiles. They hold each other for a few long seconds, rubbing and squeezing each other as the Lyft silently backs itself out of the driveway. When they part it's Mom's hand that's on the bag's handle. Inside she unwraps herself from scarves and layers, the heat in the house almost a shock after the cold air. Michigan in February. Mom is already halfway up the stairs, bag in tow, headed for her room. \"Mom, just leave that and I'll…\" \"Your father's in the front room,\" she says, just before she disappears from view. \"Go say hi.\" 'We know what really makes America great' Sara finds herself in the front room, sobbing. Dad pauses the TV, looks up at her. It looks like he's been crying too. \"Sara?\" Their first words in nearly a year. Fine. So far. She relaxes. Of course it is. How bad could it be? \"I thought I was gonna come pick you up from the airport?\" \"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?\" \"How much did that cost?\" \"Not much. Really. I can afford-\" Mom and Dad watch Sara leave the room, and then look at each other. \"That's not what I mean. They're stealing people's jobs.\" 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?\" \"You might think it's funny little lady, but let me tell you - you remember Kyle and Max, Bill Cooper's boys? Live up off Lafayette, past the Checkers?\" \"Nope.\" \"Well I'm sure they'll be fine.\" She regrets the sarcasm as soon as she hears it in her own voice, but she still can't stop herself, like it's expected, like it's part of the routine. Part of their schtick. \"They just got to get themselves out there, huh Dad? Pull themselves up by their bootstraps. That's the American way, right?\" \"I'm glad you think this is funny, I really do. But what you New York types need to realise is-\" \"Ed!\" Mom had appeared in the doorway. \"Please! Both of you. No fighting today, please.\" Sara turns back to the TV, to watching the war, to trying to work out which one it is. It had always been this way, ever since she was about thirteen. Up until then it just seemed like constant warmth, as though she didn't have any childhood concept of Dad apart from him getting home from work, then her sitting on his knee, eating cookies and watching football highlights until Mom came in and scolded them both for ruining their appetites before dinner. And then everything changed. Suddenly there was rap music and nose rings, sneaking out of the house to see her friends and not wanting to go to church. Suddenly he was no longer this lovable bear-man that ruffled her hair and gave her candy and explained defensive plays to her, but this huge obelisk of injustice that just wanted to crush her high school life into dust. It was constant warfare every opinion she had became a battle, every decision she made a conflict. Getting away to college gave her escape, but bred resentment too he hated that she went to New York, even though NYU was a good school, and her decision to stay there after she finished made things even worse. And then politics got all crazy, weirder then ever, and it became impossible for them to talk without it erupting into fights almost instantly. It was bad enough when the smart, young guy she liked was president and Dad constantly spewed his hate for him at her, but somehow it got even worse when the old, racist, women hating war-starter he liked won. Twice. So they didn't talk much now, barely online, never on the phone. Since her second year of school he'd never been to NYC to visit her. She came back when she could face it sometimes for birthdays, sometimes for Thanksgiving. Maybe for Christmas. But somehow always, like now, for the Super Bowl. Like football was the one thing they still had, that one thing they could still sit in the same room together for. Shouting at players, screaming at the ref, laughing at the ads. Dinner is Mom's meatloaf, with gravy and mashed potatoes. Cornbread and broccoli. Every mouthful tastes like nostalgia, and Sara can feel herself being encompassed by a bubble, this barrier of warm air and long forgotten simplicity enveloping her body, protecting her from the confusion of the world outside. \"How's work, honey?\" Mom asks. \"Yeah, going OK.\" Sara works for a non-profit in Brooklyn that helps big organisations to transition to renewable energy. The pay is lousy but it feels important. \"We just got the last few schools in the city to agree to put solar panels on their roofs. Big deal for us. I've been working on them for the last two years.\" Mom says nothing, just looks down at her plate. Sara laughs, covering her mouth as she nearly chokes on chewed food. \"What? No they don't Dad.\" \"Look it up?\" Sara shakes her head, not knowing where to even start. \"Dad, who is telling you this stuff?\" Oh, here we fucking go she thinks to herself. Sara looks over to Mom, who looks like she's on the brink of tears. Suddenly she finds she's also lost the will to fight. Gently she closes the iPad and puts it down on the table, next to her plate. \"Don't joke Sara, I'm serious. There's a lot that bothers him. The state of the world. The future. All these damn wars.\" Sara looks up from her phone, genuine concern. \"Is he OK?\" \"Yeah, well you know your father. Doesn't like to talk about it. Doesn't want to burden other people with his problems. Hates pity.\" She pauses, looks out the window into the yard. When she turns back to Sara her eyes are damp. \"This is why I was so excited about you coming back. Why he was so excited! I thought it'd take his mind of all this. He was so excited to see you. You know he loves watching the game with you, Sara.\" Sara slips her phone into her pocket, genuine guilt. Feels like a spoiled kid. \"I didn't realise. I'm sorry.\" \"Sara!\" says Mom. \"Sara!\" Mom makes to get up. Out in the kitchen Sara sits at the table and wants to scream. She's angry, mainly with herself. She should never have fucking come here. She should have known better. There was never any fucking way anything good was going to come from this. As much as Mom wants to romanticise things, to make them sound cute and adorable, the truth is shit with Dad has never been right since she was a teenager. Too much resentment, too much bad blood, too much control and rebellion. They hadn't agreed on anything - they hadn't managed to have a simple conversation that didn't descend into fighting - in 15 goddamn years, and no amount of eating cookies and watching fucking Super Bowl ads on the TV was going to fix that.\n\n<question>:\nAt what point did Sara's relationship with her father sharply transition?\n\n<options>:\nA When she remained in New York after graduating from NYU\nB When she pierced her nose\nC When she began high school\nD When she moved to New York\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>:\nroom that Pembroke became aware of just how perfect, physically, Mary Ann was. Too perfect. No freckles or moles anywhere on the visible surface of Pembroke probingly, \"I find it hard to understand why there are so few children.\" \"Yes, children are decorative, aren't they,\" said Mary Ann. \"I do wish there were more of them.\" \"Oh, they're only given to maternal types. I'd never get one. Anyway, I won't ever marry,\" she said. \"I'm the paramour type.\" Either that, or she had a basic flaw of loquacity that no one else had discovered. Pembroke decided \"Silly, you're real. You're not a type at all.\" \"Mary Ann, I love you very much,\" Pembroke murmured, gambling everything on this one throw. \"When you go to Earth I'll miss you terribly.\" \"Oh, but you'll be dead by then,\" she pouted. \"So I mustn't fall in love with you. I don't want had commenced on a dismal, with you. Wouldn't they?\" \"Oh, yes, I'm sure they would.\" \"Mary Ann, you have two other flaws I feel I should mention.\" \"Yes? Please tell me.\" will eventually make you unhappy. How can you be the paramour type if you refuse to fall in last thing he heard for some time. Pembroke came as close to being a professional adventurer as one can in these days of regimented and otherwise. Life had given him much and demanded little, which was perhaps the reason of her tanned cheeks. \"Love me my sweet, beautiful, affectionate Mary Ann. My paramour.\" Making love to Mary Ann was something short of ecstasy. Not for any obvious reason, but because of subtle little factors that make a woman a woman. Mary Ann had no pulse. Mary Ann did not perspire. Mary Ann did not fatigue gradually but all at once. Mary Ann breathed regularly under all circumstances. Mary Ann talked and talked and talked. But then, Mary Ann was not a human being. When she left the hotel at midnight, Pembroke was quite sure that she understood his plan and that she was irrevocably in love with him. Tomorrow might bring his death, but it might also ensure what it should, approximately Pembroke had at last found his. Earth and the human race that peopled it. And Mary Ann would help him to save it. The next morning Pembroke the city. Pembroke said he was going out anyway. He picked up Mary Ann at her apartment and together they went to a sporting goods store. jeep and were well away from the city. Pembroke and Mary Ann took turns firing at the paper targets they had purchased. At twilight they headed back to the \"You are looking for someone?\" sand and soil were mixed and no footprints would be left, Pembroke hopped off. Mary Ann would go straight to the police and report that Pembroke had attacked There was something not entirely him. If necessary, she would conduct Though the rest of her compensated for that. shooting, but would be unable to locate the spot where she had buried the body. Why had she buried it? Because at first she where they had been target the authorities to the place was not going to report the incident. probably be no further investigation. And they certainly would not prosecute Mary Ann for killing an Earthman. Now Pembroke had himself to she inquired. \"Much of the time,\" said the one, but should be considerably safer. He headed slowly for the \"old\" part of town, aging his would she be seeing him again? after six,\" she said. no amount of long-distance love could requite it. Soon, he assured her, soon. \"Because, after all, you do owe me something,\" she added. And that was bad because it sounded as if she had been giving it was her concern about being specialty shops. He tried to get the woman off his mind, but the that to her? this time for vengeance. of Earthmen being carted out of buildings. They had to be Earthmen because they bled. Mary Ann Twice during his wanderings Pembroke had seen the corpses had admitted that she did not. to Pembroke's present occupation him if he were reported as being on the loose. There was no out but to do away with Mary Ann. Pembroke headed for the beach. He knew she invariably There would be very few Earthmen a ship. It was leaving that afternoon. Anyone who docks every day, without being able to learn when the great Pembroke. \"You're in too much of a hurry. Also those fake flowers on your blouse make you look frumpy.\" \"Well, I'm supposed to look frumpy,\" the woman retorted. \"That's the type of person I am. was to leave shortly. If there was any but the most superficial examination, Pembroke would no in every other respect. The reason for transporting Earth People to this planet was, of course, to apply a corrective to any of the docks. Almost at once he found himself face to face with Mary Ann. She smiled happily when she recognized him. That was a good thing. \"It is a sign of poor breeding to smile at tramps,\" Pembroke admonished her in a whisper. \"Walk on ahead.\" roped-off wharves small interviewing booths. When it was their turn, he and Mary Ann off to service a car with a sense of having been given the runaround. Pembroke watched him hurry \"Say, come back again, huh? I sure appreciate the help. Keep the map.\" \"What do you think of the had qualified as a satisfactory surrogate for a mid-twentieth century American male, itinerant type. walking away to wait on another customer. \"If you don't like the place, you've had it.\" Pembroke returned to the In the meantime, serve us well.\" He stumbled out toward the docks, then looked about for Mary Ann. He saw her at last behind the ropes, her lovely face in tears. Elena Mia's all lovely, all effusive. The topic of the conversation turned out to be precisely what Pembroke the ship, ignoring her. But still \"Well, Louisa, I'd say your only fault is the way you keep the woman persisted in her had predicted. pass the interview. Don't know why they even make 'em.\" Suddenly Mary Ann was quiet. companion explained. \"They'll take her off to the buggy house for a few days and bring her out fresh and ignorant as the \"Naw, that's part of your charm,\" Spencer assured her. hate that?\" day she was assembled. Don't know why they keep making 'em, as I say. But I guess there's a Pembroke went right on hating happy, with two other itinerant Elena Mia on a piece of wreckage, and had been picked Pembroke left the beach and walked through several small \"Ah, no, not you, too,\" groaned oddness of her conversation continued to bother him. She was desk. He would be out of business soon, once the FBI agent had got there. Pembroke was only in it to papers for the past week. The little ad that had saved mankind from God-knew-what insidious to explain FEE—$3.75 MONEY BACK IF NOT SATISFIED! THE END some womanly thought to the situation. pretty hit-or-miss operation. But they don't care one bit about us, Spencer. Consider the men who went down with the ship. That was just part of the game.\" sunk the ship? Valencia and the waitress and the three babes? Ah, come on.\" \"It's what you think that will determine what you do, Spencer. normal about her conversation. \"What don't you like about and put on the new suit and shirt he had bought. Then he took Mary Ann, the woman he had met on the beach, out to dinner. She would look magnificent even He still knew nothing about her 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\n\n<question>:\nHow does Pembrook feel about Mary Ann?\n\n<options>:\nA Pembrook is in love with Mary Ann.\nB Pembrook feels betrayed by Mary Ann because she was plotting to kill him.\nC At, first Mary Ann was a means to an end, but now Pembrook is in love with her.\nD Mary Ann is a means to an end for Pembrook.\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>:\nlaughed out of existence. There won't be any Authority in psionics for a while—and maybe that way one of the lads who's really blinked in alarm at the wildly thrashing pattern on the tape. The boy was terrorized. He was literally pulsating with fear. Again the mute appeal in the boy's eyes. He groped for words, and none came. Finally he said, \"If I could only take this off—\" He fingered the grey plastic helmet. \"You think that would make you feel better?\" Lessing shook his head. \"I don't think so, Tommy. You know what the monitor is for, don't you?\" \"It stops things from going out.\" \"That's right. And it stops things from going in. It's an insulator. You need it badly. It would hurt you a great deal if you took it off, away from the Farm.\" \"Full psi precautions?\" asked Dorffman. \"Certainly! And Jack—in this case, be sure earlier papers had only hinted at the direction he was going—but the book would clear away the fog. He scanned the title page proudly. \"A Theory of Psionic Influence on Infant and Child Development.\" A good title—concise, commanding, yet modest. They would read it, all right. And they would find it a light shining brightly in the darkness, a For they were floundering. When they were finally forced to recognize that this great and powerful force did indeed exist in human minds, with unimaginable potential if it could only be unlocked, they had crashing down about their ears as they stood sadly by and watched things happen which natural law said could never happen. They had never stronghold of psionic research at last. And face to face with the Master in the trembling flesh!\" \"And our controls are above suspicion.\" why really be certain that your instruments are measuring the children at all. It's not inconceivable that the children might be measuring the Lessing glared at him. \"When we began studying this psi-potential, we found out some curious things. For one thing, it seemed to be immensely more powerful and active in infants and children than in adults. Somewhere along the line as a child grows up, something happens. We don't know what. We do know that the child's psi-potential gradually withdraws deeper and deeper into his mind, burying itself farther and farther out of reach, just the way a tadpole's tail is absorbed deeper In the main office building they donned the close-fitting psionic hard grey plastic material, with a network of wiring buried in the substance, connected to a simple pocket-sized power source. \"The major problem,\" Lessing said, \"has been to shield the children from any external psionic stimuli, except those we wished to expose them to. Our goal is a perfectly controlled psi environment. The monitors are quite effective—a simple Renwick scrambler screen.\" \"It blocks off all types of psi activity?\" asked Melrose. \"As far as we can measure, yes.\" \"Which may not be very far.\" across the field a group of swings, slides, ring bars and other playground paraphernalia was in heavy use. The place was teeming with youngsters, all shouting in a fury of busy activity. Occasionally a helmeted supervisor hurried by funds. Other children come to us—foundlings, desertees, children from broken homes, children of all ages from infancy on. Sometimes they stay until they have reached college age, or go on to jobs. As far as psionics research is concerned, we are not trying to be teachers. We are strictly observers. We try to place the youngsters in positions where they can develope what potential they have— without the presence of external psionic influences they would normally be subject to. The results have been remarkable.\" He led them into a long, narrow room with chairs and ash trays, facing a wide grey glass wall. The room fell into darkness, and through the grey glass they could see three children, about four years old, playing in a large room. \"They're perfectly insulated from us,\" said Lessing. \"A variety of recording instruments are working. And before you ask, Dr. Melrose, engineer's attempts to determine what makes them go. We don't know what In the corner a flat screen was flickering, emitting a pale green fluorescent light. It hung from the wall by two plastic rods which penetrated into the children's room. There was no sign of a switch, nor a power source. As the children moved about, the screen flickered. Below it, a recording-tape clicked along in little spurts and starts of activity. moments. \"Those three seem to work as a team, somehow. Each one, individually, had a fairly constant recordable psi potential of about seventeen on He inspected the block tower they were building, and stooped down to talk to them, his lips moving soundlessly behind the observation wall. The children laughed and jabbered, apparently intrigued by the game he The tower quivered, and the screen blazed out with green light, but the tower stood. Carefully Lessing jogged all the foundation blocks out of place until the tower hung in midair, clearly unsupported. The children watched it closely, and the foundation blocks inched still further out of place.... Then, quite casually, Lessing lifted off his monitor. The children to see what I'm driving at,\" he said slowly. \"Yes,\" said Melrose. \"I think I'm beginning to see.\" He scratched his jaw. \"You think that it's adult psi-contact that drives the child's potential underground—that somehow adult contact acts like a damper, a sort of colossal candle-snuffer.\" \"That's what I think,\" said Lessing. \"How do you know those children didn't make you take off your monitor?\" Lessing blinked. \"Why should they?\" \"Maybe they enjoy the crash when the blocks fall down.\" children's playroom. \"See what you think.\" The boy sat stolidly in the corner of the room. He looked up as they came in, but there was no flicker of recognition or pleasure on his , Lessing thought suddenly. Something had suddenly gone horribly wrong—could the boy really be sensing the source of the trouble? Lessing felt a cold knot gather in the pit of his stomach. He knew what happened when adult psi-contact struck a psi-high youngster's mind. He had seen it a hundred times at the Farm. But even more—he had felt it in his own mind, bursting from the child. Like a violent physical blow, the hate and fear and suspicion and cruelty buried and repressed in the adult mind, crushing suddenly into the raw receptors of the child's mind like a smothering fog—it was a fearful thing. A healthy youngster could survive it, even though the scar remained. But this youngster was sick— And yet an animal instinctively seeks its own protection . With trembling fingers Lessing reached out and opened the baffle-snap on the monitor. \"Take it off, Tommy,\" he whispered. The boy blinked in amazement, and pulled the grey helmet from his head. Lessing felt the familiar prickly feeling run down his scalp as the boy stared at him. He could feel deep in his own mind the cold chill of terror radiating from the boy. Then, suddenly, it began to fade. A sense of warmth—peace and security and comfort—swept in as the fear faded from the boy's face. The fire engine clattered to the floor. They analyzed the tapes later, punching the data cards with greatest before. There must be an error.\" \"Of course,\" said Lessing. \"According to the theory. The theory says that adult psi-contact is deadly to the growing child. It smothers their potential through repeated contact until it dries up completely. We've proved that, haven't we? Time after time. Everything goes according to the theory—except Tommy. But Tommy's psi-potential was drying up there on the Farm, until the distortion was threatening the balance of his mind. Then he made an adult contact, and we saw how he\n\n<question>:\nWhy are the grey helmets necessary?\n\n<options>:\nA The helmets block external psionic forces.\nB The helmets improve the reception of external psionic forces.\nC The helmets are for safety, as the children are heavily medicated and at high risk for falling.\nD The helmets amplify the childrens' psychic abilities.\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>:\nweren't afraid of them, were you?\" \"No, sir. No, because....\" Extrone was smiling innocently. \"Good. I want you to do something for me.\" Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. \"I'm glad we won't have to cross the ridge.\" \"We'll pitch camp right here, then,\" Extrone said. \"We'll go after it tomorrow.\" He looked at the sky. \"Have the bearers hurry.\" \"Yes, sir.\" party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, \"Be quick, now!\" Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. \"It's that damned pilot's sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. I wouldn't....\" Extrone said, \"Which one is he?\" \"That one. Right over there.\" want to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anything should happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.\" else?\" Mia looked at his companion. He spat. \"What hurts most, he pays us for it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less than I pay my secretary.\" \"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.\" \"Hey, you!\" Extrone called. \"Tie it,\" Extrone ordered. They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri. \"No, sir. Please. Oh, please professional guides. \"He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him,\" Mia said. \"But we go weren't guides. We didn't notice it so \"The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place?\" Mia \"So?\" Ri said. \"But who are they?\" It was Mia's turn to shrug. \"Whoever they were, they couldn't have been Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. \"I like this. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything I know.\" Extrone we'd hunted this area.\" \"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.\" \"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.\" \"You understand?\" Extrone said. \"How it is to wait, knowing in just a minute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're going to kill it?\" \"Hey!\" Extrone shouted. \"You, down there. There are two coming. Now let's hear you really scream!\" Mia said, \"I hope you're right.\" They stood side by side, studying the \"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too,\" Extrone said. \"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them.\" He For food. For safety.\" \"No,\" Extrone argued. \"People should hunt for the love of hunting.\" \"Killing?\" \"Hunting,\" Extrone repeated harshly. Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spat disgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers. Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-ranking the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in and knees almost stiff. \"What in hell do you want?\" Extrone asked. They stopped a respectful distance away. \"Sir....\" one began. a few hours ago, off this very planet, sir.\" Extrone's face looked much too innocent. \"How did it get there, gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?\" \"We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir.\" \"So?\" Extrone mocked. \"We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we could locate and destroy it.\" \"Watch! Watch!\" Extrone cried gleefully. And then the aliens sprang their trap. didn't you?\" \"Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.\" \"You'll destroy this one, too,\" Extrone said. Extrone said, \"To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here. And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And you can't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway.\" Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. \"You'll lose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen. Ri obeyed the order. \"Oh?\" Extrone questioned mildly. \"I wouldn't say that. I understand that the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of their planets.\" \"Yes,\" Extrone said, \"I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?\" Extrone pursed his lips. \"It wouldn't have been very considerate of you to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to come along as my guide.\" \"It was an honor, sir.\" Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. \"If I had waited until it was safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to find such an illustrious guide.\" \"Of course,\" Extrone said dryly. \"Like all of my subjects,\" he waved his hand in a broad gesture, \"the highest as well as the lowest slave, know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.\" Extrone bent forward. \" Know me and love me.\" \"No?\" Mia challenged. \"Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow? preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep them from exposing and a drinking mug. Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in his conversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth with water and spat on the ground. guides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me, Instantly alert, Extrone said, \"Get the bearers! Have some of them cut a path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to get the hell over here!\" tree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near. Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, a powerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustained Extrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur. When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearers slump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume, reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs. \"For you, sir,\" the communications man said, interrupting his reverie. \"Damn,\" Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. \"It better be bearer twiddled the dials. \"Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell bother me?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn't you?\" \"Blasted them right out of space,\" the voice crackled excitedly. \"Right in the middle of a radio broadcast, sir.\" \"I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting!\" Extrone tore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. \"If they call back, find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it's \"Yes, sir.\" Extrone squinted up at the sun his eyes crinkled under the glare, and perspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands. Extrone laughed. \"This is enough.\" He gestured with the rifle and stood up. \"Yes?\" \"Look,\" Extrone said. \"If that's the case, why do we bother tracking them? Why not make them come to us?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy are Ri and Mia the guides?\n\n<options>:\nA they're part of Extrone's Hunting Club\nB they're the best guides around\nC they have experience with the beasts\nD they needed the money Extrone was going to pay them\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>:\nOK, 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 [Chatterbox hasn't seen it.] 4. Most Shameless (and Unsuccessful) Attempt To Have It Both Ways in 1999 : Sen. Arlen Specter, citing Scottish law, finds Clinton \"not proven\" on the impeachment charges. --Andrew Solovay 5. Rest in Peace in 1999: Stanley Kubrick (multiple sources) John Kennedy Jr. (multiple sources) Susan Strasberg (anonymous tipster 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 a new Stanley Kubrick film changes the whole national dialogue about sex and marriage a new TV series from the creator of SportsNight --oh, I can't even bring myself to bash that piece of do-gooder twaddle. If only McDonald's had come out with three more boldly adult-flavored hamburgers, it would have been a perfect year for dud megaevents--all leading up of course to Y2K, the limpest milestone in human history. --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. 8. A Lunatic Rhapsody for the New York Yankees The team's first championship occurred in 1921 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. --Jim Landau from North Potomac, Md. (formerly of the Bronx) 9. A Big Shot Calls for Decriminalizing Drug Use in 1999 New Mexico Gov. Gary Johnson came out for ending drug prohibition. Though this by itself has no immediate effect, it makes it respectable, for the first time, for political leaders to discuss the subject, and thereby brings closer the day when the vast majority of crimes will no longer be committed, when billions of dollars will be freed to help the inner city instead of to ruin black people's lives, and when we will stop, as in Samuel Butler's Erewhon , imprisoning people for the crime of being sick. --Henry Cohen Chatterbox interjects: Didn't Baltimore Mayor Kurt Schmoke do the same thing 11 years ago? 10. Don't Worry in 1999 The Dalai Lama proclaimed that most important thing in the world is to be happy. --Margaret Taylor Presidential primary elections for the first time ever in Mexico. --Tom Horton 13. Policing the World Is Shown To Work in 1999 -- anonymous tipster 16. Get Me a New Century, Quick A sitting president was accused of rape. --Ananda Gupta Chatterbox interjects: Yes, but the evidence was shaky--something the Wall Street Journal 's editorial page, which broke the story, was not very forthcoming about. As Jack Shafer wrote in this column, Ronald Reagan, after he left office, was also accused of having once committed rape. The evidence there was shaky, too. 17. The Most Important Thing of All That Happened in 1999 --Walt Mossberg, \"Personal Technology\" columnist for the Wall Street Journal (and occasional rock-music historian for this column) 18. All Dolled Up and Nowhere To Go in 1999 General Pinochet --Jodie Maurer 19. Senate Endorses Nuclear Proliferation in 1999 The Senate rejected the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty , thereby decapitating nuclear-arms control and sending Iraq, Iran, and North Korea the message that the United States won't raise a big stink if they try to join India and Pakistan. The president woke up to this possibility at about the moment it was realized, and started lobbying for passage of the treaty a day after it became too late. --Josh Pollack 20. Unremarked Natural Disaster in 1999 The Indian Supercyclone is the biggest, this century at least.\n\n<question>:\nWhat did Kurt Schmoke try to do in 1988?\n\n<options>:\nA He tried to get elected as governor of Texas.\nB He tried to impeach Clinton.\nC He tried to win the Stanley Cup.\nD He tried to end drug prohibition.\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>:\na day accepted by the young, cherished by we old. Across the gently undulating hills stood the magnificent Melopolis, encradling the Oracle of Delni. I do not, of course, believe in the gods per se still there is a grandeur in the very stones that transcends their human sculptors, and it is no wonder to me that many cling tenaciously, and ignorantly, to the old religion. returned, and settled down to live. Saddened, but resigned and content to live in peace with his knowledge and his power. Gone now are all the ancient evils, wars, emergencies. seldom seen today. Indeed, Melia was on this account made the butt of many jokes and, I fear, would have had a lonely life of it had it not \"Sias,\" they were saying, \"the Maternite's gone.\" I stared in amazement. \"Gone? It cannot be gone. It has always been—\" the Elder?\" Then turned to me, and said calmly, \"The watcher at the Maternite Machine, it appears, has been drunk. The heat rose above the warning, continued to rise, and then—poof. Everything has evaporated in Maternite. All the Prelife is gone.\" emergency, it is wise to speak with caution. That is, I suppose so. I have never before been in a real emergency. A man my age does not hurry in the heat of the midday sun—maddugs nenglishmin go out in the midday sun, as the ancients say, although I that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening indeed, an emergency. For a machine had failed! Not in the memory of the eldest among us has a machine failed. They were created so long ago, indeed, that the ignorant believe them to have been constructed by the gods themselves. And never, so far as I know, has one failed. Small wonder that the watcher had been negligent. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity. Besides, had he been sober, he would not have known what to do. For who knows the mysterious workings of the machines? those left were the most earnest and intelligent. \"I would not bore you,\" he said, \"with details of which only the gods are sure. Know, then, that once granted a few cells of Prelife, it is an easy matter for the Maternite Machine to add more and more thus assuring us, as has always been, a continuous source of Prelife to be around the Hall. \"But now,\" he continued, however, with less assurance and indeed with even a stutter here and there, \"an unprecedented situation has arisen. Indeed, I might call it an emergency. For the M-Maternite Machine has actually failed.\" Cries of \"Treason\" sprang up, and I fear it might have gone hard for \"That is not the worst,\" he cried, as if in defiance. \"All the Prelife has been dried up. It will not function. There is no more. And there will be no more children!\" At this I feared the Conclave was about to riot. It is at such times think. Rocsates leaned forward and asked, \"Must there not—must there not have been a beginning to Prelife? For the Machine, it seems, cannot make it and yet it came from somewhere.\" \"Riddles are not called for,\" I answered severely. \"Are not riddles often the beginning of knowledge?\" he asked, in that irritating dumber-than-thou attitude of his. \"Must there not, long ago, have been a source of Prelife: a source now forgotten? And may it not even now—should we discover it—be available to us? I am reminded of the story of the animals of old—\" \"I fear your mind is wandering, Rocsates,\" I was forced to interrupt. \"I know well the legend of the animals, but what does it have to do—\" The heads of the Conclave were turning to me, quizzically. I hastened to explain the legend of the animals. \"It is said that many thousands of years ago, time without reckoning, there existed on the earth creatures who were alive like us, and yet not like us. It is said indeed exist. It is recorded most scientifically in the films.\" \"If it be so,\" I said, quieting the hub-bub that followed, \"and I would not doubt your word, Rocsates, for all know you are the wisest of men—if it were so, then, what of it?\" \"May it not be,\" Rocsates put in, \"that these animals had no machines to such creatures. And indeed, if they had Maternite Machines, why then we would yet have these animals among us.\" \"And how, then, did these animals reproduce?\" I asked. \"How, indeed? And is there not a legend—admitted only a legend—that says there was a time before the machines, and before the Maternite Machine, and that at such a time both the animals and Men reproduced from within their own bodies?\" attentively to Rocsates, who, amid cries of \"Heresy\" and \"Treason\", went on: \"I should like to ask the Conclave for permission to search the ancient records, in the hope of finding some such knowledge that would prove or Gods, this Rocsates! The books, as well he knows, are so ancient, and so delicate, that they are kept in an air-tight tomb lest, being handled, they be destroyed and all knowledge within them lost. Therefore, they have not been read in the known history of our race. And Rocsates has been anxious for an excuse— \"Sias,\" he went on, \"if there exists such knowledge as I seek, is it not indeed lost to the memory of Man? And if so, are not the books the only place where it may be found?\" your excretory system is not so mechanically dextrous as ours. And, you reason?\" \"Rocsates,\" I interrupted. \"All this is fascinating, of course. But if you could be quick—\" then nonexistent machines. The She's are not wanderers from another land, but they have lived with us for all time they are not another seems to have been so simple that there was once a problem of over-population.\" Order was lost among the Conclave as each man turned to speak to his neighbor, and for some time I could not restore order. I realized that reproduction must have been a pleasant thing to do otherwise they would not have done so to excess. And if it was a pleasant thing to do, where is the necessity for the machines, and why were they created?\" they cannot do until they meet again. I needed a sufficient excuse to call a meeting of the Conclave, The Conclave had come to order and formalities had been initiated when Rocsates entered and took his place. He clutched under one shoulder a thin, rectangular object, but that is not what impressed me. His appearance—he looked as if he had not slept of late, nor eaten either. had carried in. \"It is a book. It is entitled, 'Living a Normal Sex Life.' It seems to be some sort of a do-it-yourself pamphlet.\" He attention. He went on, speaking low. \"The word 'Sex' is not defined, suppose,\" he said. \"You see, once upon a time there were birds and bees....\" When he finished the Conclave sat in horrified silence. His words, no use throughout all these generations, will they not have evolved into nothingness?\" \"I do not think so,\" Rocsates replied after a while. \"What to us is an eon, to evolution is but an instant. And then the swelling of the breasts, I believe, proves that there is still reproductive activity in some, at least, of the She's.\" friend, he thought even now of the comfort of Melia. The marble table was indeed hard, and from Rocsates' description it seemed that Melia's \"They may indeed have succeeded,\" Rocsates replied. \"There is mentioned a time lapse which is necessary. The child does not appear immediately.\" \"It doesn't matter,\" I said disconsolately. \"Who could ask them to go through such an ordeal again?\"\n\n<question>:\nHow is the book \"Living a Normal Sex Life\" seen by these people?\n\n<options>:\nA It is frightening in an exciting way, for the people to learn something new\nB They respect its truths but are nervous about its implications\nC It is an important historical text appreciated from a research perspective\nD It is a rare artefact of a less-understood time\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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946
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quality
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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>:\nwidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout the ages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreed with a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of a lot more!\" feel that attraction to her? \"Try Emmer,\" he suggested tiredly. \"He'll find you irresistible, and he's even more savage than I am.\" \"It is impressive,\" admitted Taphetta. \"But I find it mildly distasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to my \"Is he?\" She smiled enigmatically. \"Maybe, in a biological sense. Too species.\" accidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of human advantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that, nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with the higher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet he wanted her. \"I do think I love you,\" she said. \"And if love's enough, I may marry development. you in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose children unbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.\" \"You're thinking of Earth,\" said Halden. \"Humans require a certain kind toward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no, through —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward and of planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on a hundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on a few of them. That's what happened on Earth when Man arrived, there was actually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionists \"But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before the Stone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to conclude this section of the Milky Way.\" \"And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed across \"Can you think of a better explanation?\" asked Kelburn. \"Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not the result of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races are involved, and only the human race.\" \"I can't think of a better explanation.\" Taphetta rearranged his ribbons. \"Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theories It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerous 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 others—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever got together—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. very useful. A clear statement of their position was essential in helping him make up his mind. \"You've heard of the adjacency mating principle?\" asked Sam Halden. \"Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men.\" \"We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory is that humans who can mate with each other were once physically close. We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetary race F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G is fertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatever \"To the best of our knowledge,\" said Kelburn. \"And whereas there are humans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always mate with those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago !\" \"The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,\" murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. \"Is that the only era that satisfies the calculations?\" 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 invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he still \"That's because you're unique,\" said Halden. \"Outside of your own world, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, and an equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking his eyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in the mating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet had been inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware of his place in the human hierarchy. 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 reaction was quite typical. 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 strong enough.\" \"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 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 And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically late or early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold of atomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thing for non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actually curiosity.\" \"Cultural discoveries,\" rumbled Emmer. \"How did our ancestors live? When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more than \"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?\" Halden nodded. \"Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So, working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves and technical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that could \"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 advanced. \"It's almost a curse, isn't it?\" She laughed and took the curse away by leaning provocatively against him. \"But barbaric lovers are often nice.\" her 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. 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 permanent union. \"Why did you ever have anything to do with me?\" demanded Halden. \"Love,\" she said gloomily. \"Physical attraction. But I can't let it lead me astray.\" \"Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientific\n\n<question>:\nWhat is both a gift and curse of humanity?\n\n<options>:\nA They are intellectually superior, but unable to mate with other species (and therefore grow their population) due to galactic mating laws\nB They are biologically superior, but their restrictive mating abilities prevent them from growing their population as fast as other species\nC They have a tendency to unify against a potential threat, but are unaware of how they could overtake other species through strength in unification\nD They have a tendency to fall in love easily, which is difficult to manage when they become attracted to 'higher-level' species, who are off limits\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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2,042
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quality
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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>:\ncherished by we old. Across the gently undulating hills stood the magnificent Melopolis, encradling the Oracle of Delni. I do not, of course, believe in the gods per se still there is a grandeur in the very stones that transcends their human sculptors, and it is no wonder to me that many cling tenaciously, and ignorantly, to the old religion. But of course there were no cousins. There was nothing. And Man returned, and settled down to live. Saddened, but resigned and content to live in peace with his knowledge and his power. Gone now are all the ancient evils, wars, emergencies. \"Sias! Sias—\" And they were upon me. Melia was a She, with the swelling breasts that were, so tradition seldom seen today. Indeed, Melia was on this account made the butt of many jokes and, I fear, would have had a lonely life of it had it not warning, continued to rise, and then—poof. Everything has evaporated in Maternite. All the Prelife is gone.\" have never before been in a real emergency. A man my age does not hurry in the heat of the midday sun—maddugs nenglishmin go out in the midday sun, as the ancients say, although I They are of an age to enter manhood, and have all the energy such young men do. consternation. And can the simple people be blamed? They were aware that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening indeed, an emergency. For a machine had failed! Not in the memory of the eldest among us has a machine failed. They were created so long ago, indeed, that the ignorant believe them to have been constructed by the gods themselves. And never, so far as I know, has one failed. Small wonder that the watcher had been negligent. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity. Well, you know how these things are. At such a time, many men feel assembled to hear. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Conclave had departed for home and supper. Yet perhaps it is for the best, for those left were the most earnest and intelligent. \"I would not bore you,\" he said, \"with details of which only the gods are sure. Know, then, that once granted a few cells of Prelife, it is claim. Such it has always been from time immemorial.\" A murmur of assent and approval of these virtuous words whispered even a stutter here and there, \"an unprecedented situation has arisen. Indeed, I might call it an emergency. For the M-Maternite Machine has actually failed.\" \"That is not the worst,\" he cried, as if in defiance. \"All the Prelife has been dried up. It will not function. There is no more. And there will be no more children!\" At this I feared the Conclave was about to riot. It is at such times that I most revere the wisdom of the ancients, who decreed seventy years the minimum age for a member of the Conclave. They shouted and and they will produce more. But take away that least bit, and they are helpless.\" Such heresy could have brought a sad end to the priest had not the and yet it came from somewhere.\" \"Riddles are not called for,\" I answered severely. even now—should we discover it—be available to us? I am reminded of the story of the animals of old—\" \"I fear your mind is wandering, Rocsates,\" I was forced to interrupt. \"I know well the legend of the animals, but what does it have to do—\" The heads of the Conclave were turning to me, quizzically. I hastened to explain the legend of the animals. \"It is said that many thousands of years ago, time without reckoning, there existed on the earth creatures who were alive like us, and yet not like us. It is said they had four legs or more, and no arms, were covered with hair, and although not mute, they could not speak.\" Rocsates' voice made itself heard. \"It is true. Such creatures did indeed exist. It is recorded most scientifically in the films.\" \"If it be so,\" I said, quieting the hub-bub that followed, \"and I would not doubt your word, Rocsates, for all know you are the wisest of men—if it were so, then, what of it?\" \"May it not be,\" Rocsates put in, \"that these animals had no machines to reproduce their kind? For surely the gods would not grant machines to such creatures. And indeed, if they had Maternite Machines, why then we would yet have these animals among us.\" \"And how, then, did these animals reproduce?\" I asked. \"How, indeed? And is there not a legend—admitted only a legend—that \"Not the films, Sias, but the books.\" Gods, this Rocsates! The books, as well he knows, are so ancient, and so delicate, that they are kept in an air-tight tomb lest, being handled, they be destroyed and all knowledge within them lost. Therefore, they have not been read in the known history of our race. And Rocsates has been anxious for an excuse— \"Sias,\" he went on, \"if there exists such knowledge as I seek, is it not indeed lost to the memory of Man? And if so, are not the books the only place where it may be found?\" Rocsates, it is suspected, will never ask a question unless he knows when formalities were concluded and Rocsates granted leave to speak. \"Some of those among you are She's,\" he began. \"And you know you are different from the rest of us. To the advantage, your skin is fairer and your features more often handsomer than ours. To the disadvantage, \"Some among you She's have the swelling of the breasts. And does there Then reproduction was carried on by individuals, without help of the then nonexistent machines. The She's are not wanderers from another land, but they have lived with us for all time they are not another race, but we are all types of one race. And the fact of reproduction is somehow intimately related to the physical distinctions of the She's!\" These last sentences were shouted to be heard above the roar of the over-population.\" Order was lost among the Conclave as each man turned to speak to his such there was, I was hopeful of dismissing the entire affair with no harm done. \"For if people reproduced too often, why then this reproduction must have been a pleasant thing to do otherwise they would not have done so to excess. And if it was a pleasant thing to do, where is the necessity for the machines, and why were they created?\" ruled it to be a sin? And therefore the machines were necessary!\" At this impudence the Conclave dissolved in an uproar, and I was beyond \"I have indeed discovered the secret of reproduction,\" he began. \"After many searchings, I came upon this—\" and he held forth the object he suppose,\" he said. \"You see, once upon a time there were birds and bees....\" When he finished the Conclave sat in horrified silence. His words, with all their horror, had the ring of truth and there were no cries of 'Heresy'. There was only stunned disbelief and the beginnings of nausea. It is the mark of honor that a leader shall carry on when others fear \"Shall not these organs which you mention have atrophied by now? With no use throughout all these generations, will they not have evolved into nothingness?\" \"I do not think so,\" Rocsates replied after a while. \"What to us is breasts, I believe, proves that there is still reproductive activity in breasts. Melia has volunteered, on condition that Xeon be released from There were none, of course. Who would refuse a boon to one who would undergo such an ordeal for the City? \"It doesn't matter,\" I said disconsolately. \"Who could ask them to go through such an ordeal again?\" I watched them turn and wander off together under the stars. My heart has a warmth in it, and I no longer fear for the future of our race when our young people can show such nobility and sacrifice.\n\n<question>:\nWhat does this society think about breasts?\n\n<options>:\nA They are appreciated from an aesthetic standpoint but not a sexual one\nB They are considered to be milk-producing devices but nothing else\nC They are seen as vistigial structures\nD They are well-regarded because they are so rare\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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1,399
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quality
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{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"But Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that \"We're somewhat to the south, I think,\" Ri said, bending over the crude good, long, strong rope.\" \"What are you going to do?\" Ri asked, terrified. know, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of the \"No!\" \"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you \"It is!\" Ri said. \"It's a farn beast, all right!\" fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other side. I told him so.\" us.\" \"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast,\" Ri said. \"At least, peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly. \"This isn't ours!\" Ri said. \"This looks like it was made nearly a year face. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed against It was Mia's turn to shrug. \"Whoever they were, they couldn't have been Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed. \"We didn't have a chance,\" Mia objected. \"Everybody and his brother had our fault Extrone found out.\" us.\" \"The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killing that matters.\" \"It's not the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.\" minute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're going to kill it?\" \"It's a different one,\" Lin said. Ri licked his lips. \"No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just \"Hey!\" Extrone shouted. \"You, down there. There are two coming. Now let's hear you really scream!\" many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.\" Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they \"It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. There really will come to your bait.\" of them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it's into the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by its Extrone's face looked much too innocent. \"How did it get there, gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?\" \"We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we could \"Watch! Watch!\" Extrone cried gleefully. And then the aliens sprang their trap. \"You'll destroy this one, too,\" Extrone said. Extrone said, \"To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here. \"That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir.\" Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. \"You'll lose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen. I'm quite safe here, I think.\" The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers, costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. The envious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.\" a farn beast.\" that the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of their planets.\" in our system.\" safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to me and love me.\" were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres. \"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well that—what we've read about.\" Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. \"You begin to \"It makes you think,\" Mia added. He twitched. \"I'm afraid. I'm afraid he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You, me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us first.\" Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. \"No. We have friends. We have influence. He couldn't just like that—\" \"He could say it was an accident.\" \"No,\" Ri said stubbornly. \"He can say anything,\" Mia insisted. \"He can make people believe anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.\" \"No,\" Ri said. \"Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen. Everybody would know we were lying. Everything they've come to believe would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, every picture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us. He knows that.\" bearer overheard them talking. They don't want to overthrow him!\" Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering. \"That's another lie,\" Mia continued. \"That he protects the people from plotting against him. Not even at first. I think they helped him, don't you see?\" \"It's like this,\" Mia said. \"I see it like this. The Army put him in power when the people were in rebellion against military rule.\" Ri swallowed. \"We couldn't make the people believe that.\" \"No?\" Mia challenged. \"Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow? You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade the alien system!\" \"The people won't support them,\" Ri answered woodenly. \" Think. If he tells them to, they will. They trust him.\" Ri looked around at the shadows. Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep them from exposing him to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled like we were, so easy.\" \"No!\" Ri snapped. \"It was to keep the natural economic balance.\" \"You know that's not right.\" Ri lay down on his bed roll. \"Don't talk about it. It's not good to talk like this. I don't even want to listen.\" \"When the invasion starts, he'll have to command all their loyalties. To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then. He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying to tell the truth.\" \"You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.\" Ri shuddered. \"That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all like The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike, uncontaminated. various foods \"An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the only information on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, of course, two businessmen.\" \"They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable of tearing a man—\" \"An alien?\" Extrone corrected. alien to pieces, sir.\" \"I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know how wonderful it feels to have people all \"The farn beasts, according to the manual....\" \"... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as I aliens. Sir.\" oppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air. arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, to me?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn't you?\" find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it's important.\" \"Yes, sir.\" \"One is enough in my camp.\" \"Look,\" Extrone said. \"If that's the case, why do we bother tracking them? Why not make them come to us?\" \"They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather have surprise on our side.\" \"You don't seem to see what I mean,\" Extrone said. \" We \"What's he want to see me for?\"\n\n<question>:\nHow is their world different from ours?\n\n<options>:\nA there is distrust among the citizens\nB the government is run the same\nC they both have powerful armies\nD powerful people control what happens next\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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905
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quality
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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>:\nDirty Laundry Now and then, a documentary film comes along that makes us re-examine the rules that unofficially govern the genre: Can there be a middle ground between fiction and fact? Can a documentary use scripted scenes and yet remain ontologically authentic? How much can you stylize material before you alter the reality that you're striving, at least in theory, to capture? Unmade 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.\" Michael turns out to be the film's most sympathetic subject--by a wide margin. At least he's not Mikey, a paunchy 54-year-old who writes but can't sell screenplays and who always flees blind dates, because the women he gets fixed up with are \"mutts.\" Sounding like one of the low-level gangsters who posture like kingpins in Donnie Brasco , Mikey talks a lot about mutts. He also reminisces about that 24 hour period in the '70s when he managed to sleep with three different beautiful women, whose pictures he shows off. These days, all he meets are mutts. He comes off as a pathetic little loser--a mutt. Aimee, on the other hand, is a pathetic big loser, weighing in at 225 pounds. Determined to get married before she turns 30, she generally is filmed beside bags of groceries and assorted junk foods. She cries about her situation to her thin friend, Laurie, who, in one scene, gently mentions Aimee's weight. Clearly the scene is scripted, but Aimee does a good job acting taken aback. She has always been fat--and she's \"OK with it,\" and a man just has to accept it. This is followed by more talk about how you attract men. Will they respect you if you call them back? If you express too much interest? \"Or,\" the viewer thinks, \"if you're 225 pounds?\" The only natural performer here is Brenda, a garrulous exhibitionist who blossoms with the camera on her--she could have a career as a Penny Marshall-style character actress. Divorced and aging, Brenda needs money and is willing to charge for her sexual services. It shouldn't be too difficult, because men are always showing her their dicks (\"I'm up to two dicks a day\"). They meet her and, a few minutes later, they show her their dicks. Weird, huh? What Barker leaves out (it's in a New York Observer article) is that Brenda, a former lap dancer, works in marketing at a strip joint. Presumably, men standing next to her in line at McDonald's don't show her their dicks. Nor, presumably, does she show them her breasts--although she bares them for Barker's camera, jabbering about her body while she doffs her clothes and steps into the shower and soaps up. Barker might have crafted his subjects' monologues from their own words, but he has robbed them of their spontaneity--and, thus, of their essence. They aren't thinking or trying to come to grips with their situations in front of your eyes, because they already know what they're going to say: They've been fixed like butterflies on the ends of pins and held up for voyeuristic inspection. The scenes with friends and confidantes have a crude, programmatic purpose. You can imagine the director composing a shot (the shots are tightly composed and elaborately lighted) and reminding them, \"In this scene she points out that you should lose weight and you get shocked and defensive. Ready ... Action.\" I don't know who the credited screenwriter, Don MacPherson, is, but it's unlikely that he has ever seen an episode of the old Avengers , let alone sussed out the source of its appeal. Opening with a slapstick sequence of agent John Steed (Ralph Fiennes) doing kung fu, the film shifts to a scene in which he meets Mrs. Peel (Uma Thurman) while sitting naked in a sauna with only a newspaper to cover his private parts. The series was erotic in a way only prim English humor can be: The Old Boy Steed was capable of throwing a punch and bonking someone with his bowler, but he left the karate kicking to his liberated, leather-suited distaff associate. Here their roles have been witlessly muddled, and MacPherson's idea of banter is to have the pair complete each other's clichés. Whereas the original Steed, Patrick Macnee, was to the English Men's Club born, Fiennes is an eternal caddie. The willowy Thurman looks great in her outfits, but it's ever more apparent that she isn't much of an actress--at least, not a trained one--and her attempts at insouciance are embarrassingly arch. As the eccentric master villain who controls the weather, even Sean Connery is flat-out terrible, acting high on the hog. To think Connery once found the Bond films so far beneath him! When he sputters lines like \"Time to die!\" one imagines Dr. No, Goldfinger, and Blofeld snickering in the wings.\n\n<question>:\nHow does the author compare Macnee's performance to Fiennes' performance in The Avengers?\n\n<options>:\nA Macnee feels more natural in the role while Fiennes' feels like a buffoon\nB Macnee takes the role more seriously while Fiennes trivializes the script\nC Macnee's performance is authentic while Fiennes' performance is too rehearsed\nD Macnee's performance is timeless while Fiennes' performance tries to be modern for the sake of being modern\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>:\ntheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiers in each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below. They were ready for the breakout. But there wasn't any breakout. No mixing. That was the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm in a family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborers a clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer ties than blood or skin? But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class once they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. The breakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had ever him to judge their cases. He said patiently: \"Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out your Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: \"I don't care. I don't care!\" 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 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 that clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weapons Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. From 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. 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. things, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'd noticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much to sweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over the cobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate's job to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when they didn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was a proud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—or 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, laborer . No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work and loaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really Civil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers that weren't meant Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called by different names. Old Marquette called it \"the canary it is a place for punishment. because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep her company.\" He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block O guards. 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 corridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, you 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 laborers—\"wipes,\" for short—or, at any rate, they had been once. They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard even for them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big, don't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beat your head off!\" the vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was in the yard. That's what recreation periods are for.\" \"You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on the outside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipes don't mix your job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job is 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 pass .\" \"Excuse the expression, O'Leary,\" the warden said anxiously. \"I mean, after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right?\" He was a great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. \" You don't want to worry about my end of running the prison. And He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. \"Well, then,\" he said at last. \"You just remember what I've told you tonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—' 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 had to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. \"Rest period\" it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a less lovely term for it. At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. 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 Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away let the stinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes to get all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy if at times he had been known to boast of his ability to make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. and the blister against his abdomen, where the shiv 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 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 and no one cared but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. couldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night. And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothers struggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefing 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 them out they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-such levels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison. were the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took up\n\n<question>:\nWhat seems to be the core idea behind the specialist segregation?\n\n<options>:\nA To create a class system and with it a hierarchy.\nB To make humanity work at it's prime, with everyone working at maximum capacity.\nC To provide a means where people are at their happiest, working where they \"should.\"\nD People are uncappable of carrying out more than one job, and the specialist segregation allows them to focus on just one.\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>:\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 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 whether he was house behind her, with its empty then, when he had reached his past the dark edge of the Earth and disappeared from sight. A boy grown up too soon, riding round and round the world on a celestial carousel, encased in an airtight metal capsule in an airtight metal chariot ... Why don't they leave the stars alone? 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. sometime tomorrow . She went about her work as 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?\" , Martha?\" \"I 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 say when the suave young man came up to her and said, \"We want you to know that we're all 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 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 had never gone out for football—whenever 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 followed, Martha was sure, bent on exploring space but young men bent on exploring trivia. A few of the questions concerned herself: Was Terry her What did she think of the new 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 watched them wink on, one by one, in the deepening darkness of the sky. She'd never been much of a one for the stars 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 and once in a while, when a star fell, making a wish. But this was different. It was different because now she had a personal interest in the sky, a new affinity with its myriad inhabitants. 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. Some of them were blue and some were red, others were yellow ... green ... orange ... 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 his own right, dropping swiftly now, down, down, and out of sight beyond the dark wheeling hand and let it fall slowly to her like a little girl, and she wished him pleasant dreams and a safe return and wrapped the wish in 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 nerves ?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it does.\") \"Martha, when are they bringing him back down?\" (\"Today ... Today !\") \"It must 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 arrived that afternoon: Regret to inform you that meteorite impact mechanism, making ejection impossible. Will make every effort to find another means of accomplishing Terry!— tiny cars up and down the tiny streets of his make-believe village the little boy, his fuzz of Terry!— Up the lane the blue-denimed thin tanned arms, his long legs making near-grownup strides over the sun-seared grass the sky blue and bright behind him, 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 they ever built. Nothing short of a direct meteorite hit can hurt 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 on the lawn and the sun 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 length her star appeared, but its swift passage blurred before her eyes. Tires crunched on the gravel then, and headlights washed the darkness from the drive. A car door slammed. Martha did not move. let it be Terry couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps sounded behind her, paused. Someone coughed softly. She turned then— \"Good evening, ma'am.\" She saw the circlet of stars she saw the the dark tired eyes. And she knew. Even before he spoke \"The same meteorite that damaged the ejection mechanism, 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 She raised her eyes to the passed in his shining metal sarcophagus. 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 ... the Crab there lay the pulsing them. \"I think I understand, ma'am. And I'm glad that's the way you want it ... The stars 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 then she turned and walked slowly back to the memoried house. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories January 1959. Extensive research 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.\n\n<question>:\nHow long did Martha spend outside looking at the stars waiting for Terry's first pass?\n\n<options>:\nA Two to three hours\nB Less than an hour\nC More than three hours\nD Between one and two hours\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>:\nTHE DOPE on Mars By JACK SHARKEY Somebody had to get the human angle on this trip ... but what agent was the one who trip to Mars. He was always getting We look like desperadoes, what with the rifles and covered faces. I Kroger and Pat, with the help of the aliens. Or maybe I should call them the Martians. they want the human on things.\" without our even asking. Jones is tells me that there are phosphorescent bacteria living in the mold on make it a gift to Martian archeologists? There's a Martian guarding the Mars. And I kept a diary. This is what they intend to do with us. we're aimed toward where Mars it. Actually, it's we who are coming be, or else). There are five of us on board. A pilot, co-pilot, navigator and biochemist. And, of course, me. I've met all but the pilot (he's very busy today), and they seem friendly enough. Dwight Kroger, the biochemist, other. A little Martian came near Martian whistled like crazy and \"Water must be dangerous to sending a green scientist who could is rather old to take the \"rigors of man who would probably not survive, safety. Kroger told Pat he was blasted off, though, and he's still crazy, that the little island we're on the journey,\" as he puts it, but the skinny, but his skin is tan as an Indian's, and right now he's telling jokes in the washroom with the co-pilot. Jones (that's the co-pilot I \"What the hell,\" says Pat, \"it's in the heart of the planet, says . So is everybody didn't quite catch his first name) is down. A Martian threw a stone at Come to think of it, who does belong where we are? The navigator's name is Lloyd Streeter, but I haven't seen his face yet. He has a little cubicle behind of scales. The Martian whistled the pilot's compartment, with all (they call it the bulkhead, void headed for Earth, with enough for some reason or other) pen on the maps, and now and then calling numbers over a microphone to the pilot. His hair is red and curly, and he looks as though he'd be tall if he ever gets too. So far, all he's said is, \"Scram, I'm busy.\" Kroger tells me that the pilot's name is Patrick Desmond, but that I can call him Pat when I get to know him better. So far, he's still Captain Desmond to me. I haven't the vaguest idea what he looks like. He was already on board when I The Martians are made of sugar. must be like Terran (Earth-type) said that the Martian metabolism metabolism, only with no pancreas during blastoff. The inertial gravities didn't bother me so much as the gyroscopic spin they put on the bodies, in the form of scales. He's energy on the They're having pork for dinner today. Not me. (all sugar, of course) wet. He sticky. their bodies isolated carbon from something (he thought it might be \"Sure,\" I said. \"Do you have a board?\" He didn't. Like plants, on Earth, he said. does Except, instead of using special with the help of sunpower, as Earth plants do in photosynthesis (Kroger spelled that word his ballpoint pen and ruler, it should first name) has been up with the pilot all day. He passed my room on the way to the galley (the spectra (another Kroger word) screen, and they still need it for steering or something. I still haven't met the pilot. October 3, 1960 Well, I've met the pilot. He is kind of squat, with a vulturish neck and close-set jet-black eyes that Kroger, sitting on the ground and \"We remove our boots,\" said make him look rather mean, but he it that Pat said was the Earth. The back of the Moon isn't much than moss, Kroger.\" we'd land on Mars upside down. He The Martians what they use those stream (the Martians had probably chance of lichen on Mars, and I on Mars?\" about Mars (we know there are Martians, and they're made of With Martian rime, Venusian slime, And a radioactive hoe. Kroger, whose mind wasn't always \"The radio,\" said Pat, nodding to Lloyd, \"was unfortunately broken shortly after landing.\" Lloyd blinked, then nodded back and walked around the He prefers to be called Jones. Pat uses his first name as a gag. Some drives a rifle butt through a radio. Well, it's time for takeoff. This time it wasn't so bad. I Mars, so escape velocity didn't Kroger is busy in his cramped lab space trying to classify the little there are two baby Martians loose on board ship. Pat told him he to go. I saw Mars when we were in that zoo. They're descending from overhead, but Pat Pat has declared a state of emergency. Quick thinking, that's Pat. Lloyd, before he remembered and says that that's the \"torque\" doing said it was against regulations, but what the hell. We have a contest. Longest whiskers on landing gets a Earth for instructions. We can't. days—if the Martians don't take prize. Kroger is thrilled that he is Mars has Martian reproductive processes. When he told Pat, Pat put it to a vote whether or not to jettison Kroger through the airlock. However, I asked Pat what the prize was filled. Looks like Death Valley. No Kroger had only studied them, and Jones had brought them aboard. did me at takeoff. Earth seems awfully far away. June 19, 1961 the air is getting worse. Pat suggested Kroger put us all into a state of suspended animation till landing hook-ups. Kroger says the air is to wear gas masks with oxygen thirsty. Kroger says that at least—when the Martians get bigger—they'll inhale. He's all for going out and from Earth. So we just have says it's the dust. The sand underfoot little Martians. gave him a cigar he'd smuggled on board (no smoking was allowed on He doesn't smoke. June 20, 1961 Got lost today. it turns to carbon, and we can use The Martians means so are the Martians. Kroger says the Martians must standing there, tall and silvery, the says let's jettison Kroger. be pulverized and mixed with sulphuric acid. He says this'll produce carbon. produces carbon but water vapor, the rocket. we're on it. Martians keep coming those Martians. caught one of the Martians in the the creature, which carbonized having another Martian still on to make a landing. Pat says at least our vector will carry us to Earth and we can die on our home planet, which is better when we fired.\" \"Where,\" said Jones, \"are Pat and Kroger?\" Martian is still with us. He's where but he can't get at the carbon which is a help. However, his tail is prehensile, and now and then it snakes out through an air duct and under our noses. Kroger says watch out. \"We'd better get them on the made of carbohydrates, too. I'd Earth fills lucky, he might be able to use the than a submarine, he insists, and \"Who knows what's 'menacing' in an alien?\" you know the rest of spotted us and got us and my diary aboard, and towed the the \"captured Martian\" leaked out, and we all became nine-day wonders rocket. on a Martian. must be happy to have found his region on Earth. Kroger tried falls, a new Martian springs up from Mars. heroes. Well, we're of Pat or Kroger yet, but the sand I've always wanted to travel with the President. —JACK SHARKEY and clear. The aliens seem to have\n\n<question>:\nWho is the 'dope' on Mars?\n\n<options>:\nA Kroger, the biochemist\nB Jones, the co-pilot\nC The narrator\nD Desmond, the pilot\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>:\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. Gambling's would-be federal regulators--the National Gambling Impact Study Commission--went to Las Vegas this week to hold hearings. In today's dispatch, we learn how gambling's foes seek to demonize wagering as a pernicious tobaccolike vice. In yesterday's dispatch, gambling's foes learn the folly of having brought their anti-sin crusade to an adult Disneyland. Tuesday's overpowering show of force by the Nevada gambling aristocracy has had at least one audible effect on the National Gambling Impact Study Commission. Wednesday, even commission Chair Kay Coles James, a gambling skeptic, succumbs to the hideous Vegas euphemism: She begins referring to the \"gaming industry.\" The sleek Vegas types, whose Strip palaces scramble casinos, theaters, restaurants, arcades, discos, cabarets, theme parks, concert halls, sports arenas, and museums into one giant orgy of amusement, have been selling the idea that gambling is just entertainment--Disney in the desert. This effort has largely succeeded, because Vegas is still the dominant image of American gambling, if not the dominant reality. The antis, meanwhile, cry that gambling is like cigarettes: unsafe for kids, viciously addictive, deceptively marketed, unhealthy, expensive, and unacceptable unless mightily regulated. The cigarette agenda will also distract the commission and the public from the true reasons for worry. A few years ago, gambling was confined to Las Vegas and Atlantic City. It is now thriving in 48 states, and there is no sign that anyone can stop it. In this election, gambling interests dropped $100 million on a single California ballot initiative, toppled governors in two states, and bought senators and representatives by the crate. What the commission ought to be investigating is whether the gambling industry has become so powerful that it's politically untouchable. But it can't, because the gambling industry has become so powerful that it's politically untouchable. Talk about quick defeats: The first sign I see outside the MGM Grand ballroom all but declares that the National Gambling Impact Study Commission has already lost. The sign reads: \"National Gaming Impact Study Commission.\" 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. The hearings, too, reinforce the Glorious Las Vegas theme. Frank Fahrenkopf, the industry's top lobbyist (who is paid so much he can afford monogrammed shirt cuffs --I saw them), holds forth cheerfully outside the ballroom, celebrating the electoral triumph of freedom over religious moralist tyranny. Inside, the room is packed with more than 600 people in neon lime green T-shirts that read \"Unions and Gaming: Together for a Better Life.\" They are members of the major casino union, here to cheer on their employers and their union. (Most of them, it must be said, are getting paid to do this.) There are also a fair share of gleeful gambling regulators, bookmakers, and casino employees among the panels of expert witnesses the commission hears from. Critics who gripe about the perils of sports gambling and the evils of convenience store slot machines leaven the pro-gambling folks. Everyone, including the gambling industry shills, agrees that Internet gambling is evil and should be destroyed. Everyone agrees to this because no one in Las Vegas is making any money off Internet gambling. If they were, you can be sure they would explain why it's as American as nickel slots and scratch-off games. 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.\n\n<question>:\nWhat did the gambling industry hope people saw when they came to Vegas?\n\n<options>:\nA an innocent, happy entertainment center\nB a huge money-making development\nC the \"other side\" of Las Vegas\nD a place where unions aren't needed\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>:\nGambling's would-be federal regulators--the National Gambling Impact Study Commission--went to Las Vegas this week to hold hearings. In today's dispatch, we learn how gambling's foes seek to demonize wagering as a pernicious tobaccolike vice. In yesterday's dispatch, gambling's foes learn the folly of having brought their anti-sin crusade to an adult Disneyland. Tuesday's overpowering show of force by the Nevada gambling aristocracy has had at least one audible effect on the National Gambling Impact Study Commission. Wednesday, even commission Chair Kay Coles James, a gambling skeptic, succumbs to the hideous Vegas euphemism: She begins referring to the \"gaming industry.\" After Tuesday's casino triumphalism, Wednesday is a comedown, eight hours of policy panels on teen gambling, compulsive gambling, gambling regulation, gambling marketing, and gambling credit practices. It is tough slogging, but for the first time I sense that this commission--though divided, underfunded, timid, and without any power beyond exhortation--isn't entirely useless. It may finally settle this question: Is gambling Hollywood or tobacco? Entertainment or vice? Judging by today's hearings and by conversations with most of the commissioners, the tobacco model is winning. Today's panelists tell the commission that kids are starting to gamble too young and are getting addicted too easily, that compulsive gambling appears to be increasing as gambling spreads, that gambling marketing may be designed to addict customers, and that the industry exploits problem gamblers by allowing them to draw repeated credit card advances from ATMs on casino floors. The testimony clearly impresses the commissioners and seems especially to impress the three nonaligned commissioners who will be the swing votes on the June 1999 report. It is starting to become clear what that report will say. The commission won't (and can't) take any grand stand against gambling. Instead it will opt for small, targeted policies, concentrating on compulsive gambling. It will probably propose that casinos and state lotteries fund gambling-addiction research and that casinos take much stronger measures to bar problem gamblers from wagering. The commission may recommend that gaming taxes be used to underwrite treatment of pathological gamblers and that insurance companies be encouraged to cover gambling addiction. Similarly, the commission will try to reduce gamblers' access to cash by limiting the size of ATM advances and prodding casinos to remove the machines from their floors. The commission will also push the industry to do more to prevent kids from gambling. It will call for heavier regulation of Indian gambling and will probably try to ban or severely regulate Internet gambling, perhaps by forbidding gambling companies from running online casinos. It will rebuke state lotteries for their deceptive marketing and will try to force them to post odds and stop targeting the poor. In short, it will treat gambling as a tobaccolike vice. If the comments of the pro-industry commissioners can be believed, the industry will happily endorse such a report. Gamblers don't quite accept the cigarette analogy--though commission member Bill Bible, a former chief of the Nevada Gaming Commission, did concede that gambling was like alcohol--but they're happy to sign on to the specific measures. The casino industry is even trying to get ahead of the commission. It has already established a (mostly) independent center to fund research into pathological gambling. I suspect that the industry will not only agree to the commission's recommendations but will become their strongest advocate. Casino owners will avidly lobby Congress and state legislatures to enact the recommendations into law. The gambling industry did everything in its power to stop the establishment of this commission two years ago, but Congress and a fervent grassroots anti-gambling group eventually foisted it on the industry. The nine member blue-ribbon panel was charged with assessing the social and economic impact of gambling, and it will issue a final report to Congress and the president in June 1999. Even though the panel was carefully balanced between pro- and anti-gambling leaders, it was supposed to be Vegas' nemesis. The industry and Las Vegas' pro-gambling media quaked in anticipation of the onerous regulations and taxes the commission might recommend. \"My goodness, no politician can withstand their resources,\" Focus on the Family's James Dobson, the commission's leading gambling opponent, tells me. The industry's political clout has emasculated the commission, Dobson continues: \"Our report won't be acted on by the president or Congress. They are too heavily influenced by gambling money. Almost all the leaders of Congress are on the dole.\" It has also become obvious that the commission has too many pro-gambling members to produce a report that recommends taxes or other real penalties on the industry. So the commission's two day visit to Gomorrah has been transformed from a charged political event to a kind of victory lap for gaming. Nevada Gov. Bob Miller and the \"gaming visionaries\" have been planning for these hearings for months, hoping to use them to demonstrate the might and sanctity and goodness of the Nevada gambling industry. The hearings, too, reinforce the Glorious Las Vegas theme. Frank Fahrenkopf, the industry's top lobbyist (who is paid so much he can afford monogrammed shirt cuffs --I saw them), holds forth cheerfully outside the ballroom, celebrating the electoral triumph of freedom over religious moralist tyranny. Inside, the room is packed with more than 600 people in neon lime green T-shirts that read \"Unions and Gaming: Together for a Better Life.\" They are members of the major casino union, here to cheer on their employers and their union. (Most of them, it must be said, are getting paid to do this.) Chairwoman Kay Coles James, a Christian conservative and skeptic of gambling, opens the hearing by assuring the crowd that the committee is toothless: \"We're not here to take anyone's job. ... We have no power to do anything except make recommendations.\" This sets the mood for most of the day: Vegas is great, so you'd better leave it alone! The local government, by all appearances a wholly owned subsidiary of the casinos, puts on a bravura performance. Gov. Miller opens the show with a 15 minute hymn to Las Vegas. It is the first of many statistical barrages about Nevada's one-ders: No. 1 in job growth, No. 1 in population growth, and No. 1 on planet Earth in per capita Girl Scout troops--and Boy Scout troops! There are also a fair share of gleeful gambling regulators, bookmakers, and casino employees among the panels of expert witnesses the commission hears from. Critics who gripe about the perils of sports gambling and the evils of convenience store slot machines leaven the pro-gambling folks. Everyone, including the gambling industry shills, agrees that Internet gambling is evil and should be destroyed. Everyone agrees to this because no one in Las Vegas is making any money off Internet gambling. If they were, you can be sure they would explain why it's as American as nickel slots and scratch-off games.\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the author think the gaming commission will recommend?\n\n<options>:\nA Removing a percentage of slot machines from each casino.\nB Specific policies that target compulsive gambling.\nC Shutting down half the casinos in Vegas.\nD Capping the betting at tables.\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>:\nthere isn't a trap, the Karna can't satisfy Braynek, because he's convinced that there has IN CASE OF FIRE \"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.\" to him. They were typical of the kind twitch or a quirk was shipped to they were atypical. Every man in the of men who were sent to him, he to His Utter Munificence, the \"Maybe, but I doubt it. They might Diplomatic Corps who developed a and Braynek have blind spots, but they're covered with armor. No, I'm analysis of the man. Psychopathic incapable of making a decision if he were faced with two or more and xenophobia. \"I have to be drugged to be put on a spaceship because I can't take all that empty space, even if I'm protected about all men. He considered himself aliens!\" THE END Transcriber's Note: the Earth calendar dial that was automatically correlated with the Saarkkadic calendar just above it. Fifty-nine casually through the dossiers of the of interstellar space—a great, yawning, infinite chasm capable of swallowing men, ships, planets, suns, and didn't even like to think of that, but it was necessary to keep it in mind. 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. that meant keeping on good terms with the Saarkkadic government. The Saarkkada themselves were humanoid in physical form—if one allowed the term to cover a wide range ever seen him. To have shown himself to one of them would have his importance, the greater must be himself was never seen except by a 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 only way Saarkkad would do any of biochemical products that the Saarkkadic laboratories produced from native plants and animals—products that were vitally necessary to Earth's war, and which could be duplicated nowhere else in the known universe. Earth and her allies and outposts. The job would have been a snap cinch in the right circumstances the along with. A staff of top-grade men men. They couldn't be spared from Not the worst ones, of course less important than Saarkkad to the him. his own on Saarkkad unless merely thwarting mental quirks he liked to find places where they were been teletyped in from Earth. Shall I bring it in?\" \"Bring it in, Miss Drayson.\" Miss Drayson was a case in point. keep secrets from everyone except thirties, clutching a sheaf of what he had done unless she was whisper. \"There's a chance that the in check. Miss Drayson stood emotions were a secret. without actually seeing her. The war 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 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 twist a disadvantage to an advantage, and make their own strengths look rearm, and the war would break out again within a few years. Now—at this point in time—they potential, forced to disarm, rendered their own advantage ... Already, they had taken the offensive in the matter of the peace talks. They had sent a full delegation to Saarkkad V, the next planet out from 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 government to get a vessel to Saarkkad V. Earth had been caught unprepared for an armistice. They objected. The Karna pointed out that the Saarkkad sun was just as far from Karn as it was from Earth, that it was only a few million miles from a planet which was allied with Earth, and that it was unfair for Earth to take so much time in preparing for an 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. 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 Plenipotentiary Extraordinary to the Earth-Karn peace conference. He looked up at the ceiling again. \"What get hold of James Nordon and Kylen Braynek. I want to see them both immediately. Malloy explained the problem of the Karna peace talks. \"We need a man who can outthink them,\" Malloy finished, \"and judging certainly. Am I to go alone?\" \"No,\" said Malloy, \"I'm sending Kylen Braynek. Ever heard of him?\" 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 said softly: \"Send in Braynek, Miss Drayson.\" of the peace conference. \"Naturally, they'll be trying 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 parley, as relayed to him through the ship that had taken Nordon and Braynek on Earth?\" \"Tense. They're waiting to see what is going to happen on Five. So am I, for that matter.\" His eyes were ins and outs of the Diplomatic Corps. 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. doing here with ... ah ... sick men. Is this one of your ... ah ... successes?\" Karna put us in a dilemma, so I threw a dilemma right back at them.\" \"How do you mean?\" with one, single, clear decision which 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 rigged, \"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>:\nWho are the Karna?\n\n<options>:\nA The Karna are the second most powerful race in the galaxy. They are skilled negotiators.\nB The Karna are a race of warriors bent on destroying the Earth.\nC The Karna are a peaceful species trying to negotiate a surrender to Earth.\nD The Karna are a predator race who are trying to invade the Earth, to use humans as a food source.\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>:\nto “cook” in an atomic reactor and soak up radioactivity. CHAPTER ONE to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight Still, it doesn’t take so very much radioactivity He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the “What do you mean, send it somewhere?” and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been from the kitchen. materials kept building up in his mind. By the clicking like everything.” rocks. Suddenly the Geiger counter began “Well, you were together most of the day,” where you might strike some radioactivity.” It was a balmy evening. On such evenings, and went back down the hallway toward the “Oh, I figured you’d be through by now,” Eddie apologized, following her inside. or two, he was fairly safe. During the summer months his freckles got so thick and dark that didn’t seem as cheerful as usual. “Hello, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross said, but she plastered some water on his dark-red hair, pushed a comb through it, and shrugged as it snapped back almost to its original position. “Good evening, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said. “I—I knowing that even if he missed a spot He grinned into the mirror, reached a a little while about that newspaper write-up.” put fresh ones in after breakfast. He brushed his teeth carefully, taking particular “Right on the front page.” him about letting food gather around the said. “Maybe we could understand more of what it’s all about if you could explain what a day today.” radioisotope is, Eddie.” “Aw, Mom—” around today.” calmly but firmly. “School vacation doesn’t “Well,” Mr. Taylor added, excusing himself from the table, “I’d better be getting over of a new radioisotope today.” The very word excited Eddie. In fact, anything name ‘pile’—from brick pile. Anyway, scattered excited him. He knew something about 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. around, but they break apart. They shoot out When carefully controlled, the radiation hit other atoms and split them apart, sending “I’ve heard of chain reactions,” Mrs. Ross asking that particular question was to keep “Well, with all of the splitting up and moving on, “an awful lot of heat builds up. If they from prying deeper into the subject of the out of control.” “Out of control is right,” Teena said. “But the atomic piles control the reaction,” 42 only as much radiation builds up as they want. You can even hear the reactor hum as the radioactive blow up.” replied. several times before, weakening the batteries. “Goodness. Eight feet is a lot of cement.” driven off the coolness which the ocean air “Anything else, Mom?” he asked, returning and the hardest to stop. Alpha and beta over his hasty retreat. “What are you going more he realized it was a little late in the day and doing nothing, there would be an awful that was too long a row to be starting now. radioactive, but can be made radioactive, and with a Geiger counter. 18 in the pile.” tried to make it sound as though he would of the pile, some of them smack into the or something like that. the exercise.” for an early dinner.” then added, “from behind a protective shield, of course. When the material has soaked up say it’s ‘cooked.’” started down the street. “It’s hot,” Eddie said, “but not like if it came out of a stove. By hot, they mean it’s wouldn’t even know it for a while. It would be light-green stucco house and knocked. a radiation burn. That’s a kind of burn you don’t feel, but it destroys your blood cells and “Well, I—I just happened to be going by,” “So that’s what a radioisotope is,” Mrs. Ross said. “It’s like a sponge. Only instead of soaking counter. But maybe you’re too busy.” up water, it soaks up radiation.” a couple of sandwiches or some fruit. “I’m in kind of a hurry.” are strong and dangerous. Others absorb only the kitchen. He felt triumphant about the didn’t know what he was doing and opened up even the mild isotopes are deadly if they’re not handled right.” silverware.” She smiled, putting tiny crinkles in her small, slightly upturned nose. She wore Eddie nodded. It was even more serious was blond all year long, it seemed even lighter in the summer. Eddie couldn’t tell whether the sun had faded it, or whether her deep summer tan simply made her hair look lighter by contrast. Maybe both. it had been developed for curing things or for it depended on how they were handled it carelessly. It was a new isotope—a pretending great injury. “Don’t know why I keep coming over here.” “Or greasing one,” Teena added. a period,” he said. “Did you know that there in a single period printed at the end of a sentence. That’s how small atoms are.” wrapping wax paper around a sandwich. a man’s voice spoke behind him. “What are we talking about, Eddie?” around and standing up. “I didn’t hear you They walked past the college campus, and with light-brown hair which was getting somewhat thin on top. He was usually quite cheerful switched on the Geiger counter. The needle of the dial on the black box wavered slightly. A slow clicking came through the earphones, unusually drawn and sober. He stepped to the a normal background count. There were slight and full of fun, but tonight his face seemed but Eddie knew these indicated no more than “How many in a comma?” Mr. Ross said to was always a mild background count when It wasn’t very funny. I—I’m afraid I don’t feel very funny tonight.” “Sit down, dear,” Mrs. Ross said. “I’ll warm your dinner. You didn’t sound very cheerful the earphones had to speed up until it sounded almost like bacon frying in a hot skillet. ahead on the gauge, and the clicking through There was none of that today. After they “In fact, not good at all.” but to It was midafternoon by the time they arrived and went on down the street toward his knew at once, just seeing the expression on his mother’s face, that something was wrong. “But this morning you said it would be “This morning I didn’t know what might strange urgent tone in it. The door to the den sat stiffly behind his homemade desk, talking rapidly into the telephone. Eddie caught only the last few sketchy words. Then his father years older than he had that very morning. thoughtfully with a pencil, turning it end over end on his desk. and went into the bathroom. He washed hurriedly, the evening papers, anyway.” “Evening papers?” “It did—and it didn’t,” his father said. “What does that mean, Dad?” Eddie asked, puzzled. disappeared.” “Disappeared?” CHAPTER TWO mind, as it was. The main information was in the evening , which Eddie rushed out He took the newspaper to his father to read first. After having finished, Mr. Taylor handed the paper to Eddie and leaned back thoughtfully in his chair. 28 “They’ve got it pretty straight, at that,” Mr. Taylor said, “but I’m afraid this is going to that part of it. The important thing is the Geiger counter was turned on shot. The whole thing was carefully planned Eddie read the newspaper account. The months were few, there was no one on the when the delivery was expected, there would around the building to the front office. It had were barely visible and of no help other arrive a half hour early?” may have had another plan. The way things worked out, they didn’t need to use it. The early delivery and the business of leaving the expected. At least, they took quick advantage a radioisotope,” Eddie said. “Maybe they figured in order to find out exactly how it could best strength of radioisotopes could be controlled\n\n<question>:\nWhat best describes how the overall tone changed from the beginning of the article?\n\n<options>:\nA From worrisome to frustrated.\nB From apathetic to solemn.\nC From lighthearted to tense.\nD From upbeat to sympathetic.\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>:\n2. 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. 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. 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.\" 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. 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. 16. The power of beauty should be transcended, not exploited. Harris preaches that the world rewards beauty because it's human nature to favor those who are pleasant to look at, and therefore the way to have successful children is to make sure they're attractive. The most ambitious response is to attack the whole \"prejudice\" in favor of beauty. \"The standards of beauty do vary with the culture. And they are social facts, not really genetics facts,\" says Hastings Center ethicist Bruce Jennings. Therefore, \"we should think about\" whether to \"accept the existing prejudices and then try to eugenically manipulate them\" or to transcend those prejudices. 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? Second, Harris assumes that the perfection parents want in their children coincides with Darwinian perfection. \"Every organism is trying to evolve to its most perfect state,\" he writes. What he doesn't seem to understand is that human beings aren't quite like other animals, just as the rest of the world isn't exactly like the modeling and soft-porn industries of Southern California. Humans have evolved to a stage at which our ideas about virtue, perfection, and success have become more than material. At least, most of us have.\n\n<question>:\nWho is an example of someone whose good looks attracted the wrong kind of attention?\n\n<options>:\nA Taylor Swift\nB Justin Bieber\nC Britney Spears\nD Marilyn Monroe\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>:\nFight Club is silly stuff, sensationalism that mistakes itself for satire, but it's also a brash and transporting piece of moviemaking, like Raging Bull on acid. The film opens with--literally--a surge of adrenalin, which travels through the bloodstream and into the brain of its protagonist, Jack (Edward Norton), who's viewed, as the camera pulls out of his insides, with a gun stuck in his mouth. How'd he get into this pickle? He's going to tell you, breezily, and the director, David Fincher, is going to illustrate his narrative--violently. Fincher ( Seven , 1995 The Game , 1997) is out to bombard you with so much feverish imagery that you have no choice but to succumb to the movie's reeling, punch-drunk worldview. By the end, you might feel as if you, too, have a mouthful of blood. Not to mention a hole in your head. Fight Club careers from one resonant satirical idea to the next without quite deciding whether its characters are full of crap or are Gen X prophets. It always gives you a rush, though. At first, it goofs on the absurd feminization of an absurdly macho culture. An increasingly desperate insomniac, Jack finds relief (and release) only at meetings for the terminally ill. At a testicular cancer group, he's enfolded in the ample arms of Bob (the singer Meat Loaf Aday), a former bodybuilder who ruined his health with steroids and now has \"bitch tits.\" Jack and Bob subscribe to a new form of male bonding: They cling to each other and sob. But Jack's idyll is rudely disrupted by--wouldn't you know it?--a woman. A dark-eyed, sepulchral head case named Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) begins showing up at all the same disparate meetings for essentially the same voyeuristic ends, and the presence of this \"tourist\" makes it impossible for Jack to emote. Jack finds another outlet, though. On a plane, he meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), a cryptic hipster with a penchant for subversive acts both large (he makes high-priced soaps from liposuctioned human fat) and small (he splices frames from porn flicks into kiddie movies). When Jack's apartment mysteriously explodes--along with his carefully chosen IKEA furniture--he moves into Tyler's squalid warehouse and helps to found a new religion: Fight Club, in which young males gather after hours in the basement of a nightclub to pound one another (and be pounded) to a bloody pulp. That last parenthesis isn't so parenthetical. In some ways, it's the longing to be beaten into oblivion that's the strongest. \"Self-improvement,\" explains Tyler, \"is masturbation\" self-destruction is the new way. Tyler's manifesto calls for an end to consumerism (\"Things you own end up owning you\"), and since society is going down (\"Martha Stewart is polishing brass on the Titanic \"), the only creative outlet left is annihilation. \"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything,\" he says. Fincher and his screenwriter, Jim Uhls, seem to think they've broken new ground in Fight Club , that their metaphor for our discontents hits harder than anyone else's. Certainly it produces more bloody splatter. But 20 years ago, the same impulse was called punk and, as Greil Marcus documents in Lipstick Traces , it was other things before that. Yes, the mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus is unique and the Faludi-esque emasculation themes are more explicit. But there's something deeply movie-ish about the whole conceit, as if the novelist and director were weaned on Martin Scorsese pictures and never stopped dreaming of recapturing that first masochistic rush. The novel, the first by Chuck Palahniuk (the surname sounds like Eskimo for \"palooka\"--which somehow fits), walks a line between the straight and ironic--it isn't always clear if its glib sociological pronouncements are meant to be taken straight or as the ravings of a delusional mama's boy. But onscreen, when Pitt announces to the assembled fighters that they are the \"middle children of history\" with \"no purpose and no place\"--emasculated on one hand by the lack of a unifying crisis (a world war or depression) and on the other by lack of material wealth as promised by television--he seems meant to be intoning gospel. \"We are a generation of men raised by women,\" Tyler announces, and adds, \"If our fathers bail, what does that tell you about God?\" (I give up: What?) F ight Club could use a few different perspectives: a woman's, obviously, but also an African-American's--someone who'd have a different take on the \"healing\" properties of violence. It's also unclear just what has emasculated Jack: Is it that he's a materialist or that the materials themselves (i.e., IKEA's lacquered particle boards) don't measure up to his fantasies of opulence? Is he motivated by spiritual hunger or envy? Tyler's subsequent idea of confining his group's mayhem to franchise coffee bars and corporate-subsidized art is a witty one--it's like a parody of neo-Nazism as re-enacted by yuppies. It might have been a howl if performed by, say, the troupe of artsy German nihilists in Joel and Ethan Coen's The Big Lebowski (1998). Somehow Brad Pitt doesn't have the same piquancy. here, he's skinny and wilting, a quivering pansy. Even when he fights he doesn't transform--he's a raging wimp. The performance is marvelous, and it makes poetic sense in light of the movie's climactic twist. But that twist will annoy more people than it will delight, if only because it shifts the drama from the realm of the sociological to that of the psychoanalytic. The finale, scored with the Pixies' great \"Where Is My Mind?\" comes off facetiously--as if Fincher is throwing the movie away. Until then, however, he has done a fabulous job of keeping it spinning. The most thrilling thing about Fight Club isn't what it says but how Uhls and Fincher pull you into its narrator's head and simulate his adrenalin rushes. A veteran of rock videos, Fincher is one of those filmmakers who helps make the case that MTV--along with digital editing--has transformed cinema for better as well as worse. The syntax has become more intricate. Voice-over narration, once considered uncinematic, is back in style, along with novelistic asides, digressions, fantasies, and flashbacks. To make a point, you can jazzily interject anything--even, as in Three Kings , a shot of a bullet slicing through internal organs. Films like Fight Club might not gel, but they have a breathless, free-associational quality that points to new possibilities in storytelling. Or maybe old possibilities: The language of movies hasn't seemed this unfettered since the pre-sound days of Sergei Eisenstein and Abel Gance.\n\n<question>:\nDoes the author feel Fight Club is an original concept?\n\n<options>:\nA Yes, the film points to new possibilities in storytelling.\nB No, but voice-over narration is back in style.\nC No, it feels like a mixture of Johnny Rotten, Jake La Motta, and Jesus.\nD No, it feels like corporate-subsidized art.\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>:\nAI: what's the worst that could happen? The Centre for the Future of Intelligence is seeking to investigate the implications of artificial intelligence for humanity, and make sure humans take advantage of the opportunities while dodging the risks. It launched at the University of Cambridge last October, and is a collaboration between four universities and colleges – Cambridge, Oxford, Imperial and Berkeley – backed with a 10-year, £10m grant from the Leverhulme Trust. Because no single discipline is ideally suited to this task, the centre emphasises the importance of interdisciplinary knowledge-sharing and collaboration. It is bringing together a diverse community of some of the world's best researchers, philosophers, psychologists, lawyers and computer scientists. Stephen Cave: Thinking about the impact of AI is not something that any one discipline owns or does in any very systematic way. So if academia is going to rise to the challenge and provide thought leadership on this hugely important issue, then we’re going to need to do it by breaking down current disciplinary boundaries and bringing people with very different expertise together. That means bringing together the technologists and the experts at developing these algorithms together with social scientists, philosophers, legal scholars and so forth. I think there are many areas of science where more interdisciplinary engagement would be valuable. Biotech’s another example. In that sense AI isn’t unique, but I think because thinking about AI is still in very early stages, we have an opportunity to shape the way in which we think about it, and build that community. So I think we've got a real opportunity, despite the general climate, and in some ways because of it. There's a great opportunity to bring industry on board to make sure the technology is developed in the right way. One of the dominant narratives around not only AI but technology and automation more generally is that we, as humans, are at the mercy of technological progress. If you try and push against this idea you can be labelled as being anti-progress and stuck in the past. But we do have a lot more control than we give ourselves credit for. For example, routineness and susceptibility to automation are not inevitable features of occupations, job design is hugely important. How do we design jobs? How do we create jobs that allow people to do the kind of work they want to do? There can be a bit of a conflict between being impacted by what's happening and having some sort of control over what we want to happen. Certainly, we encounter technological determinism a lot. And it's understandable. For us as individuals, of course it does feel like it always is happening and we just have to cope. No one individual can do much about it, other than adapt. But that's different when we consider ourselves at a level of a society, as a polis [city state], or as an international community. I think we can shape the way in which technology develops. We have various tools. In any given country, we have regulations. There's a possibility of international regulation. And it's taken a very long time for the academic community to accept that there could be such a thing as non-human intelligence at all. We know that crows, for example, who have had a completely different evolutionary history, or octopuses, who have an even more different evolutionary history, might have a kind of intelligence that's very different to ours. That in some ways rivals our own, and so forth. But luckily, we have got to that point in recent years of accepting that we are not the only form of intelligence. But now, AI is challenging that from a different direction. Just as we are accepting that the natural world offers this enormous range of different intelligences, we are at the same time inventing new intelligences that are radically different to humans. And I think, still, this anthropomorphic picture of the kind of humanoid android, the robot, dominates our idea of what AI is too much. And too many people, and the industry as well, talk about human-level artificial intelligence as a goal, or general AI, which basically means like a human. But actually what we're building is nothing like a human. When the first pocket calculator was made, it didn't do maths like a human. It was vastly better. It didn't make the occasional mistake. When we set about creating these artificial agents to solve these problems, because they have a completely different evolutionary history to humans, they solve problems in very different ways. And until now, people have been fairly shy about describing them as intelligent. Or rather, in the history of AIs, we think solving a particular problem would require intelligence. Then we solve it. And then that's no longer intelligence, because we've solved it. Chess is a good example. But the reality is, we are creating a whole new world of different artificial agents. And we need to understand that world. We need to understand all the different ways of being clever, if you like. How you can be extremely sophisticated at some particular rational process, and yet extremely bad at another one in a way that bears no relation to the way humans are on these axes. And this is important, partly because we need to expand our sense of what is intelligent, like we have done with the natural world. Because lots of things follow from saying something is intelligent. Historically, we have a long tradition in Western philosophy of saying those who are intelligent should rule. So if intelligence equates to power, then obviously we need to think about what we mean by intelligence. Who has it and who doesn't. Or how it equates to rights and responsibilities. But at the same time, we're competitive and murderous. We have a strong sense of in-group versus out-group, which is responsible for both a great deal of cooperation, within the in-group, but also terrible crimes. Murder, rape, pillage, genocide and they're pointed at the out-group. And so I think it's very natural for us to see AIs in terms of agents. We anthropomorphise them as these kind of android robots. And then we think about, well, you know, are they part of our in-group, or are they some other group? If they're some other group, it's us against them. Who's going to win? Well, let's see. So I think that's very natural, I think that's very human. There is this long tradition, in Western culture in particular, with associating intelligence and dominance and power. It's interesting to speculate about how, and I wish I knew more about it, and I'd like to see more research on this, about how different cultures perceive AI. It's well known that Japan is very accepting of technology and robots, for example. You can think, well, we in the West have long been justifying power relations of a certain kind on the basis that we're 'cleverer'. That's why men get to vote and women don't, or whatever. In a culture where power is not based on intelligence but, say, on a caste system, which is purely hereditary, we’d build an AI, and it would just tune in, drop out, attain enlightenment, just sit in the corner. Or we beg it to come back and help us find enlightenment. It might be that we find a completely different narrative to the one that's dominant in the West. One of the projects the centre is running is looking into what kind of AI breakthroughs may come, when and what the social consequences could be. What do you think the future holds? What are your fears – what do you think could go right and wrong in the short, medium and long term? That's a big question. Certainly I don't lie awake at night worried that robots are going to knock the door down and come in with a machine gun. If the robots take over the world, it won't be by knocking the door down. At the moment, I think it's certainly as big a risk that we have a GMO moment, and there's a powerful reaction against the technology which prevents us from reaping the benefits, which are enormous. I think that's as big a risk as the risks from the technologies themselves.\n\n<question>:\nWhich statement best describes the purpose of this text?\n\n<options>:\nA To propose potential pathways that AI could take to eliminate social and environmental problems in the near future\nB To explain how industries are approaching collaboration and making decisions in AI with regard to social responses\nC To demonstrate how humans are taking advantages of AI-related opportunities while dodging the risks\nD To make an argument in support of more checks and balances within the institution of AI development\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>:\nBY RANDALL GARRETT Women on space station assignments shouldn't get pregnant. But there's a first time for everything. Here's the story of such a time——and an historic situation. She smiled back she knew the pain wouldn't return for a few minutes yet. \"Fine, doctor. It's no worse than I was expecting. How long will it before we can contact White Sands?\" The major looked nervously at his wristwatch. \"Nearly an hour. You'll be all right.\" \"Certainly,\" she agreed, running a hand through her brown hair, \"I'll I don't know which! Your husband may be the finest rocket jockey in the Space Service, but that doesn't give him the right to come blasting up here on a supply rocket just to get you pregnant!\" Alice had said: \"I'm sure the thought never entered his mind, doctor. I know it never entered mine.\" \"But that was two and a half months ago! Why didn't you come to me before this? Of all the tom-fool—\" His voice had died off in suppressed anger. \"I know. I know.\" A puzzled frown had come over his face then, a frown which almost hid the green eyes that contrasted so startlingly with the flaming red of his hair. \"The question is: what do we do next? We're not equipped for obstetrics up here.\" an adult human being couldn't take that sort of punishment for long, much less the tiny life that was growing within her. station. Her pregnancy had never made her uncomfortable the slow gravity at the rim only half that of Earth's surface, and the closer to the hub she went, the less her weight became. According to the major, the baby was due sometime around the first of September. \"Two hundred and eighty days,\" he had said. \"Luckily, we can pinpoint it almost exactly. And at a maximum of half of Earth gravity, you shouldn't weigh more than seventy pounds then. You're to report to she took a deep breath. Everything had been fine until today. And then, only half an hour ago, space. The depressurization hadn't hurt her too much, but the shock had been enough to start labor. The baby was going to come two months early. She relaxed a little more, waiting for the next pain. There was nothing to worry about speculatively. \"Something wrong, doctor?\" \"Incubator,\" he said, without taking his eyes off the clock. \"I beg your pardon?\" \"Incubator. We can't deliver a seven-month preemie without an incubator.\" The nurse's eyes widened. \"Good Lord! I never thought of that! What are you going to do?\" to the Earth. But as soon as we get within radio range of White Sands, I'll ask them to send up an emergency rocket with an incubator. But—\" \"But what?\" \"Will we have time? The pains are coming pretty fast now. It will be at least three hours before they can get a ship up here. If they miss us on the next time around, it'll be five hours. She can't hold out that long.\" The Chief Nurse turned her eyes to the slowly moving second hand of the impatiently as he waited for the answer. BRITTON PILOTING. MEDICS LOADING SHIP TWELVE WITH INCUBATOR AND OTHER the mill. What's eating you?\" He forced a nervous smile. \"Nothing but the responsibility. You're going to be a very famous woman, you know. You'll be the mother of the first child born in space. And it's my job to see to it that you're both all right.\" She grinned. \"Another Dr. Dafoe?\" late. This isn't going to last that long.\" Banes had to fight hard to keep his face smiling when she said that, but he managed an easy nod. \"We'll see. Don't hurry it, though. Let nature take its course. I'm not such a glory hog that I'd not let Gates have part of it—or all of it, for that matter. Relax and take it easy.\" 0-199515 COMMANDING WSRB ROCKET. ORBIT COMPUTED FOR RENDEZVOUS AT 1134 HRS MST. CAPT BRITTON SENDS PERSONAL TO LT BRITTON AS FOLLOWS: HOLD THE FORT, BABY, THE WHOLE WORLD IS PRAYING FOR YOU. OUT. Banes sat on the edge of his desk, pounding a fist into the palm of his left hand. \"Two hours. It isn't soon enough. She'll never hold out that long. And we don't have an incubator.\" His voice was a clipped monotone, timed with the rhythmic slamming of his fist. The Chief Nurse said: \"Can't we build something that will do until the out of? There's not a spare piece of equipment in the station. It costs \"Not now, but thanks for the information.\" He hung up and looked into the Chief Nurse's eyes. \"They've released the news to the public.\" She frowned. \"That really puts you on the spot. If the baby dies, they'll blame you.\" My nerves are all raw, I guess. But, dammit, my field is space medicine. I can handle depressurization, space sickness, and things like that, but I don't know anything about babies! I know what I read in medical school, and I watched a delivery once, but that's all I know. I don't even have any references up here people aren't supposed to go around having babies on a space station!\" \"It's all right, doctor. Shall I prepare the delivery room?\" His laugh was hard and short. \"Delivery room! I wish to Heaven we had one! Prepare the ward room next to the one she's in now, I guess. It's the best we have. system, leaving too little oxygen in the atmosphere. \"Nothing serious. I just want to make sure everything comes out all right.\" She smiled. \"It will. You're all set. You ordered the instruments months ago. Or did you forget something?\" \"Whatever for?\" Alice's hands grasped the sheet again, and Banes glanced at his watch. Ninety seconds! It was long and hard. When the pain had ebbed away, he said: \"We've got the delivery room all ready. It won't be much longer now.\" \"I'll say it won't! How about the incubator?\" There was a long pause. Finally, he said softly: \"There isn't any incubator. I didn't take the possibility of a premature delivery into account. It's my fault. I've done what I could, though the ship is bringing one up. I—I think we'll be able to keep the child alive until—\" He stopped. Alice was bubbling up with laughter. hysterical! Stop it!\" out. Ask yourself just one question. Ask yourself, 'Why is a space station like an incubator?'\" Space Ship Twelve docked at Space Station One at exactly eleven through the airlock. Banes nodded to Colonel Gates, then turned to Britton. \"I don't know whether to congratulate you or take a poke at you, Captain, but I suppose congratulations come first. Your son, James Edward Britton II, is doing fine, thank you.\" \"You mean— already ?\" The colonel said nothing, but he raised an eyebrow. \"Over an hour ago,\" said Banes. \"But—but—the incubator—\" Banes' grin widened. \"We'll put the baby in it, now that we've got it, but it really isn't necessary. Your wife figured that one out. A space station is a kind of incubator itself, you see. It protects us poor, weak humans from the terrible conditions of space. So all we had to do was close up one of the airtight rooms, sterilize it, warm it up, and put in extra oxygen from the emergency tanks. Young James is perfectly comfortable.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy do they need an incubator?\n\n<options>:\nA The baby is one month early.\nB The baby is three months early.\nC The baby is two months early.\nD The baby is four months early.\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. 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.\" 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.\" 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.\" 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. 12. The Internet facilitates monstrous purchases. Technology watchdogs call the egg auction another chapter in the cultural slide marked by Jennycam (a Web site featuring live video of a young woman undressing and doing other normal activities in her apartment), the promised Webcast of a man and woman losing their virginity together (which turned out to be a hoax), and a human kidney auction that was conducted and aborted on eBay last month. \"Ever since the Internet, it seems to snowball more rapidly, this depersonalization of people and selling of eggs,\" one fertility expert complains to the New York Times . USA Today says the egg auction \"just might force an Internet-obsessed society to finally sit down and ask itself: Where is the Internet taking us?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the main concern about egg auctions?\n\n<options>:\nA Egg auctions will steer the future of human breeding toward genetic engineering.\nB Egg auctions will steer the future of human breeding toward cloning.\nC Egg auctions will produce designer babies.\nD Egg auctions will fail to produce designer babies.\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>:\nHuman Clones: Why Not? If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it? Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership. The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women. The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer. Even if people have the right to do it, is cloning a good idea? Suppose that every prospective parent in the world stopped having children naturally, and instead produced clones of themselves. What would the world be like in another 20 or 30 years? The answer is: much like today. Cloning would only copy the genetic aspects of people who are already here. Hating a world of clones is hating the current populace. Never before was Pogo so right: We have met the enemy, and he is us ! One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success? Remember that cloning is not the same as genetic engineering. We don't get to make superman--we have to find him first. Maybe we could clone the superwarrior from Congressional Medal of Honor winners. Their bravery might--or might not--be genetically determined. But, suppose that it is. You might end up with such a brave battalion of heroes that when a grenade lands in their midst, there is a competition to see who gets to jump on it to save the others. Admirable perhaps, but not necessarily the way to win a war. And what about the supply sergeants? The army has a lot more of them than heroes. You could try to breed an expert for every job, including the petty bureaucrats, but what's the point? There's not exactly a shortage of them. The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother. Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate. The 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>:\nWho placed the ban on funding for human cloning research?\n\n<options>:\nA Congress\nB President Bush\nC President Clinton\nD The Federal Funding Agency\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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529
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quality
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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>:\nsinging it for a million years.\" He released her, and opened a wood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside. \"Hold out your hands,\" he told Orison. He filled them with the sand. \"Throw our singers some supper for their song,\" he said. Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled the mineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from the liquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air. \"They're so very strange,\" Orison said. At the bottom of the tank she thought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubbling money operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! life. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands. jacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curious \"He was a very kind employer,\" Orison said. She tried to keep from Orison's look of bewilderment. \"One each, a Franklin and a Grant,\" he in a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's a hunnerd-fifty a week, doll.\" \"What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji?\" Orison asked. secretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall, Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read the Federal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into a heart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgment of their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a penny into this curiousest of banks. eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, and favored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed, double Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces of the U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association. Bank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought. She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker. Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day's observations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight for her initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs, Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. \"A radio?\" she \"Now, tell me what happened at the bank today.\" Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to a National Bank and Trust Company. \"That's about it, so far,\" she said. \"Good report,\" J-12 said from the pillow. \"Sounds like you've dropped into a real snakepit, beautiful.\" \"How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful?\" Orison asked. a peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then she placed the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone. Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolved to write Washington for permission to make her future reports by registered mail. , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pair \"I'm Orison McCall,\" she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight? Orison looked up. \"Oh, hello,\" she said. \"I didn't hear you come up.\" into a club and standing. \"Darling.\" \"So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here. You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts of annoyance. Understand me, darling?\" \"What is this?\" Orison demanded. \"Visiting-day at the zoo?\" She paused had!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-up Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache and Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. \"I quit!\" she shouted. \"You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all I care. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot in finance, and listen to another word.\" Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison with fifth floor. First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding. Surely, Orison thought, recovering the Wall Street Journal bank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behavior Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by the Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg before Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The room extended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut, its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor were galvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs. Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundred pink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was half full of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a moment Orison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from the liquid. Then she screamed. The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light from the spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millions upon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed crawling, leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orison put her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward the stairway door. Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to have Gerding. \"It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders,\" he said. \"Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Were we to toss you into one of these tanks....\" Orison struggled against her two sumo some quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from the floor. \"... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and darted all around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Of bank.\" \"I came to bring a message to Dink,\" Orison said. \"Let me go, you acromegalic apes!\" Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor as though struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, their faces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly lowering \"Have you read the story of Bluebeard?\" Orison asked. She stood close home and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetite for supper.\" \"Strange,\" Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and plucked one of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. \"This is no spider, Orison,\" he said. in the palm of his hand. \"These are Microfabridae, more nearly related eaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison.\" He Microfabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, like \"He's like a baby crawdad,\" Orison said. secret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see.\" \"What do they do?\" Orison asked. \"What's he doing now?\" Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus, Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearest tank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring. It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. \"Strange, using crawdads in a bank,\" she said. She stood silent for a moment. \"I Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening to\n\n<question>:\nWhat is a likely explanation for Orison seeing Benjamin Franklin images in the Microfabridae tank?\n\n<options>:\nA The Microfabridae are killing people and the faces look like Benjamin franklin.\nB It was a play of the eyes.\nC The Microfabridae are being used to process $100 bills for illegal purposes.\nD Someone accidentally dropped $100 bills into the tanks.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
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3
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quality
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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>:\nGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to his portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a one room mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-in autobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed to No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under the Ultrawelfare State. Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home, the cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim have miserably failed.\" \"At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkers throughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who could foresee that eventually our whole program would face ending due to lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face and tequila. He said, \"Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one's way of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted with the unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurous pastimes.\" Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snap than is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in our Ultrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tomb security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food, clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level of subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being drafted into industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of the the more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but six trips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortable life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the very few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well. He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long years of drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, he made his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He was drafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is now free from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen to our pleas for a few more trips?\" \"But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for....\" man. He said, \"No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man has always paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but in actuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him to the least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no one Gubelin blinked at him. universal credit card. \"The ultimate means of exchange,\" he grunted. \"Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it, II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Any excuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the age of twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn't When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualifications were such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation in the Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking training him from ever being called up for contributing to the country's labor needs again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn't any particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get the reputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of the It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistake in adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution. They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number of working hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week. It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were working became obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting in thirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it was to have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and none of them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remain unemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent of unemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in a reasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a year vacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that most of his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree was accumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intended to blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit card Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through the quite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he who must leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically and usually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spent hurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so long denied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. the Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually ever performed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren't needed. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations, titles. Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the most He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-dining table, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that, he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dine or do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless he managed to acquire some feminine companionship, that was. He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then flopped For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take it easy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollars around in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias. This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic in However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this was going to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and made Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting an Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, \"Yeah ... sure.\" \"I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking to Si Pond was surprised. \"Cried?\" he said. \"Well, why? I was kind of Gubelin?\" she said. \"You just call him So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying to pressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space Exploration Department, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot their Si said, \"Look, how about another drink?\" Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot of materials and all and keep the economy going.\" Natalie said earnestly, \"Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I've ever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. \"Old Gubelin but....\" Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to tic\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the main reason that Gubelin is so resentful of Si’s decision?\n\n<options>:\nA He doesn’t want to have to go through the effort of training a new spaceman, as it’s very costly and time consuming.\nB He regrets not having the opportunity of space exploration himself.\nC He fears the end of the Space Exploration program, and for mankind’s research of space to come to an end.\nD He hates the Welfare State and how it’s taken away people’s drive to learn and explore.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
}
] |
509
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quality
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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 SUPER OPENER BY MICHAEL ZUROY Here'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!\" Heads lifted over boards. Kalvin Feetch shrunk visibly. \"For two years there hasn't been one lousy improvement in the Piltdon can in eight point nine without chimes. Is this what I'm paying you for?\" oppressive silence. How could you set a time limit on research and development? A designer had to dream at his board, investigate, search, build, test, compare, Piltdon Opener had not given him that opportunity. Twenty-five years! years with Piltdon. That was some satisfaction. wasn't well. 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 can-opener lines. Departures, such as the thermal or motor-driven \"Good, but not good enough. Too bulky. Appearance unsatisfactory. Chimes tinny. We've made progress, but we've a long way to go.\" Twenty-five years of your life you put in with Piltdon, and he'd fire is built upon your designs and you get handed this deal!\" \"Well, well,\" said Feetch. \"I drew my pay every week so I suppose I have no complaints. Although,\" a wistful note crept into his voice \"I designed to date. Two more on the boards. Nine completed and tested, 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 rather disconcerting. \"Dear, dear,\" said Feetch, regarding the piles of food on the bench. \"There must be some explanation. I designed this opener with sixteen degree, twenty-two minute pressure angle modified involute gear answer! It's more than the answer! We can put this right into work and beat the dead-line.\" We'll throttle our competitors! The Piltdon Super-Opener we'll call 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 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 company? As well as anything you may produce in the field within a year after leaving our employ? We have a good thing here, and I don't want you holding it back. We're going into production immediately.\" The first tentative shipments of Piltdon Super-Openers had gone to sales to one to a customer. Piltdon cancelled his advertising program. 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: \"I'm putting you in for a raise. Yes sir! To reward you for assisting no recognition. His name did not even appear on the patent. Well, well, that was the way it went. He must find his satisfaction in his nights at home investigating what had been named the Piltdon Effect. \"Are you still worrying about that?\" Piltdon roared jovially. \"Leave A state of national emergency was declared. Government investigators went to work and soon confirmed what was Congressional investigation was demanded. Piltdon received threats of 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 the Super-Opener. Now, get out!\" \"Yes, sir,\" said Feetch paling. \"Then you don't want to hear about my give you another chance. You'll turn over all the details to me. The patent on the improvement will naturally be mine. I'll get the credit for rectifying your blunder. Fine, fine. We'll work it out. Hop on production, at once, Feetch.\" engineering and tight supervision suddenly made Kalvin Feetch feel there might not be a later. Somehow he would manage to get along. Perhaps someone would give him a job working in the new field he had pioneered. With a sense of relief he realized that he had made his decision. klunk!—\"will make any difference now.\" \"But see here, the New Type Super-Opener...!\" \"Will remain my secret. Good day.\" \"Feetch!\" howled Piltdon. \"I order you to remain!\" \"Feetch,\" the personnel man would read. \"Kalvin Feetch.\" Then, looking up, \"Not the Kalvin Feetch who—\" \"I am sorry, but—\" He did no better with research organizations. Typical was a letter from the Van Terrel Foundation: \"—cannot accept your application inasmuch as we feel your premature application of your discovery to profit-making denotes a lack of scientific responsibility and ethics not desirable in a member of our organization—former employer states the decision was yours entirely. Unfavorable reference—\" Piltdon, Feetch thought, feeling a strange sensation deep within his Of course, if he were to agree to reveal his latest discoveries to a research organization, he would undoubtedly get an appointment. But how could he? Everything patentable in his work would automatically revert \"I'll go up another ten dollars,\" grated the little Piltdon image. that you're probably the most unpopular man alive to-day. I know about the rocks, the tomatoes, the rotten eggs, the sneaking out at night, the disguises you've had to use. Why don't you come back to us and change all that, Feetch? We'll put out the New Type Super-Opener and the world will soon forget about the old one.\" Piltdon Opener will soon be forced to close down, throwing all your Feetch sat, thinking it over. Was it right to let all these people lose grew warmer. He began pacing the floor. How he hated to do it. Think, it touched off the growing rage. If Piltdon were there he would have In the same grim mood the following morning, he placed a few more calls. \"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 information. I am now going to give a copy to each of you, providing one condition is met by Mr. Piltdon.\" He stared at Piltdon. \"In short, I want fifty-one per cent of the stock of Piltdon Opener.\" Piltdon leaped from his chair. \"Outrageous!\" He roared. \"Ridiculous!\" \"Fifty-one percent,\" said Feetch firmly. \"Don't bother with any counterproposals or the interview is at an end.\" \"Gentlemen!\" squawked Piltdon, \"I appeal to you—\" \"Stop bluffing,\" said Feetch coldly. \"There's no other way out for you. Otherwise you're ruined. Here, sign this agreement.\" Piltdon threw the paper to the floor and screamed: \"Gentlemen, will you be a party to this?\" fair shake.\" \"This information is important to science,\" said the Van Terrel man. After Piltdon had signed, the papers were distributed. effect built up as it increased its frictional electro-static charge \"Piltdon, don't bother me about production. Production is your problem.\" Piltdon blanched and left.\n\n<question>:\nWhat new emotion was Kalvin experiencing after quitting Piltdon Opener Company?\n\n<options>:\nA Cowardice\nB Anger\nC Misery\nD Submission\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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500
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quality
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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>:\nHuman Clones: Why Not? If you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it? Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership. The pope, unlike the president, is known for resisting temptation. He also openly claims the authority to decide how people reproduce. I respect the pope's freedom to lead his religion, and his followers' freedom to follow his dictate. But calling for secular governments to implement a ban, thus extending his power beyond those he can persuade, shows rather explicitly that the pope does not respect the freedom of others. The basic religious doctrine he follows was set down some two millennia ago. Sheep feature prominently in the Bible, but cloning does not. So the pope's views on cloning are 1 st century rules applied using 15 th century religious thinking to a 21 st century issue. If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women. 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. One recurring image in anti-cloning propaganda is of some evil dictator raising an army of cloned warriors. Excuse me, but who is going to raise such an army (\"raise\" in the sense used by parents)? Clones start out life as babies . Armies are far easier to raise the old fashioned way--by recruiting or drafting naive young adults. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori has worked well enough to send countless young men to their deaths through the ages. Why mess with success? 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>:\nAccording to the author, if human cloning were allowed, how much of the population would be affected?\n\n<options>:\nA All of the population\nB None of the population\nC Only a tiny fraction of the population\nD Over half the population\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "C"
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1,005
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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>:\nRATTLE OK By HARRY WARNER, JR. Illustrated by FINLAY story. opponent. So the climax of one tactic did not simply overturn the Hartshorne, co-founder, from its nail. It tinkled imposingly as its glass splintered against the floor. They must have stuck it in to tighten the frame. Gee, it's old.\" her young life. \"Let's fill this order right now!\" \"Look, Mr. Hawkins! The name on this order—it's my great-grandmother! look fatherly. It didn't. \"Well, now. Since it's your relative, let's thrill the old girl. We wouldn't have vacuum sacks any more. So we'll substitute a manky!\" \"The minute I write a letter to complain about you, you turn up!\" she told the parcel. She nudged her toe peevishly against the brown paper wrappings that were tied with a half-transparent twine she had never seen before. The label was addressed in a wandering scrawl, a sharp contrast to the impersonal typing on the customary Hartshorne-Logan bundles. But the familiar RATTLE OK sticker was pasted onto the box, indicating to the delivery man that the contents would make a rattling sound and therefore hadn't been broken in shipment. spring afternoon and the quiet suburban landscape, she went into the house. Two-year-old Sally heard the box rattling. She waddled up on chubby legs and grabbed her mother's skirt. \"Want!\" she said decisively. the expletives that she wanted to add. cord and yanked. The twine sprang away from the carton as if it were alive. The paper wrappings flapped open. \"There!\" Sally said. Ann repressed an irrational urge to slap her daughter. Instead, she tossed the wrappings aside and removed the lid from the carton. A slightly crushed thin cardboard box lay on top. Ann pulled out the dress and shook it into a freely hanging position. Then she groaned. \"We'll have to send it back,\" Ann said, \"and get the one we ordered.\" She tried to take it off, but the child squawked violently. Ann grabbed \"It's me,\" her husband said. \"Slow day at the office, so I came home early.\" Sally crouched to jump at her father. Before she could leap, he grabbed her up bodily and hugged her. Then he saw the box. \"Your order's here? Good. What's this thing?\" He was looking at a small box he had pulled from the carton. Its lid contained a single word: MANKY. The box rattled when he shook it. Les pulled off the lid and found inside a circular, shiny metal object. A triangular trio of jacks stuck out from one end. \"Is this the doorbell? I've never seen a plug like this. And there's no wire.\" He peered into the box for an instruction sheet, uselessly. \"They must have made a mistake. It looks like some kind of farm equipment.\" He tossed the manky onto the hassock and delved into the carton again. Sally was still in his arms. \"That's the doorbell, I think,\" he said, looking at the next object. It had a lovely, tubular shape, a half-dozen connecting rods and a plug for a wall socket. \"It looks terribly expensive. Maybe they sent door chimes instead of the doorbell.\" propulsion. A half-hour later, when the meal was almost ready, two things happened: Bob came home from school through the back door and a strange voice said from the front of the house, \"Don't answer the front door.\" under his arm. She went into the front room. Her husband was standing with fists on hips, looking at the front door, chuckling. \"Neatest trick I've seen in a long time. That voice you heard was the new doorbell. I put it up while you were in the kitchen. Did you hear what happened when old lady Burnett out there pushed the button?\" \"Oh. Something like those name cards with something funny printed on repeating that message, you'd better shut that part off. It might get boring after a while. And it might insult someone.\" \"Queer,\" he said. \"That isn't in contact with the door itself. I don't see how it can keep the door from opening.\" \"I realize that I'm a terrible bother.\" But she walked down the front steps and disappeared around the side of the house. \"Don't open the back door.\" The well-modulated voice from the small doorbell box threatened to penetrate every corner of the house. Ann looked doubtfully at her husband's lips. They weren't moving. \"If this is ventriloquism—\" she began icily. the kitchen, nearly falling. She stared grimly at Ann and looked suspiciously behind her. \"The children have some new toys,\" Ann improvised hastily. \"Sally is with a few faint cheers, came from the doorbell-box when she crossed the threshold. distance by the eyeball, and picked up the box. \"Hey, watch out!\" Bob cried. A small flashlight fell from the box, landed on its side and its bulb flashed on, throwing a pencil of light through an instruction booklet, frowning. \"This toy is too complicated for a ten-year-old boy,\" Les told his wife. \"I don't know why you ordered such a thing.\" He tossed the booklet into the empty box. stood out clearly against the shiny, coated paper. the parcel. Her heart sank. Bob rigged up trestles to warn visitors from the front porch. Ann put small wads of cotton into her ears, because she didn't like the rhythmic rattle, soft but persistent, that emerged from the hall closet where the manky sat. Sally was whining occasionally in her sleep. When daylight entered her room, Sally's nightgown had turned back into quick answer to the letter she had written yesterday. It must have voice said. \"Your son is in trouble. He claims that it's connected with something that his parents gave him.\" \"My son?\" Ann asked incredulously. \"Bob?\" \"Yes. It's a little gadget that looks like a water pistol. Your son insists that he didn't know it would make clothing transparent. He involving his name, if you'll—\" a sick baby here. Don't do anything till I telephone my husband. And I'm sorry for Bob. I mean I'm sorry for the girls, and for the boys, too. I'm sorry for—for everything. Good-by.\" death if I yanked it off. But it's such an extreme allergy that it may kill her, if we leave it in contact with the skin.\" The manky's rattle suddenly began rhythmically from the lower part of the house. Ann clutched the side of the chair, trying to keep herself under control. A siren wailed somewhere down the street, grew louder gesticulating wildly to nobody in particular. \"It's murder!\" she screamed. \"Murder again! He's been poisoned! He's going to die! It means the electric chair!\" doorbell was monotonously saying in a monotone: \"Don't answer me, don't answer me, don't go to the door.\" weary sadness. \"People will suspect you of being a sex maniac for the rest of your life. You can't possibly explain—\" knocking. He ignored the doorbell's pleas. \"I forgot about it,\" Bob continued, \"when that ray gun accidentally \"He put stuff in the sugar?\" A deep, booming voice came from the front drifted through the house. \"Close the door, close the door,\" the doorbell was chanting urgently. \"Where's that ambulance?\" Dr. Schwartz yelled from the top of the steps. \"The child's getting worse.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the significance of the title of the story to the context?\n\n<options>:\nA It’s a reference to the dangers contained within the package.\nB It’s a reference to the delay of the package being received.\nC It’s a reference for the postman to know the package wasn’t broken in shipment\nD It’s a reference to there being a baby toy rattle inside the box.\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>:\nDole vs. the For several weeks now, pundits have debated how Bob Dole would exit the stage. Would he depart on a negative note about his opponent or a positive one about himself? Would he leave with anger or with humor? In the past several days, the issue has been settled. Dole, it appears, will end his political career raging against the New York Times . The Times has reacted to this assault by highhandedly quoting everything and explaining none of it, leaving its readers baffled as to why the Republican nominee is so upset at the paper. In fact, Dole's fury at the Times is hardly news to those who work at the paper. According to Katharine Seelye, who has covered Dole since the beginning of his campaign, the complaints date from December 1995, when Dole staff members first protested that she had misunderstood the candidate's position on abortion. The real bitterness, however, began in May, when the paper played what Dole aides billed as a major address about welfare on Page 19 of the business section. Since then, campaign honchos have peppered the paper's reporters and editors with constant phone calls and letters complaining about unfair treatment. No Dole staff would be quoted by name for this story, but speaking on background, a senior campaign official elaborated upon the complaint. \"They've just done a miserable job throughout this campaign,\" the official said. \"The coverage of Dole has been excessively bitchy from day one, in addition to having a number of extraordinary factual problems.\" With Seelye, the official says, the problem is \"not being able to transcribe a tape accurately.\" With Adam Nagourney, the Times ' other reporter covering Dole full time since the summer, \"the problem is an incredible focus on the little picture as opposed to the big picture.\" As an example, the official cites a September story in which Nagourney lumped together Dole's fall from a platform in Chico, Calif., and his mistaken reference to the \"Brooklyn\" Dodgers as \"a rough stretch of politicking.\" Other than those two episodes, the official says, Dole actually had a great week. The campaign's complaint extends to unequal treatment--a nine-part series on Clinton's record, which the official describes as \"the softest portrait since they invented black velvet\"--and the Times perpetually underestimating the size of Dole crowds. \"Clinton even gets better photographs,\" the official contends. \"Ithink we have been tough on him,\" Seelye says. This stems, however, not from any bias, she says, but from the campaign's own internal problems. Dole's campaign has been especially \"porous,\" with aides emulating the proverbial seafaring rats. This is true enough--in recent days ex-strategist Don Sipple has trashed the campaign on the record. But there's another point, too. Contrary to Buckley's charge that she misquotes Dole, Seelye routinely makes Dole look ridiculous by quoting him all too accurately, depicting him in what one colleague calls a \"cinema verité \" style. Famous for going over and over her tape recordings on the campaign plane, Seelye manages to get every Dole mumble, repetition, and verbal miscue down. For instance, in her Oct. 26 story reporting Dole's attack on the Times , Seelye writes: Two days later, she quoted Dole in another story: \"They've turned the White House into something else, I don't know what it is. It's the animal house! It's the animal house!\" Most reporters would write, Bob Dole yesterday compared the White House to an \"animal house,\" sparing the exclamation points, and making him sound at least compos mentis. But though unflattering, Seelye's Mametizing of Bob Dole can hardly be called unfair. It is not as if the Times cleans up Clinton's quotes the president simply observes the rules of syntax most of the time. Something similar may be happening with the pictures. After four years, Clinton has learned how to avoid looking unpresidential. He no longer allows himself to be photographed wearing too-short running shorts, and he avoids pulling faces in public. Dole, who is simply less photogenic, is an easier victim for picture editors--who, like their editorial counterparts, have a strong bias against dullness. Take, for instance, the two pictures shown above. The front-page picture the Times ran the day after the second presidential debate does make Dole look like a decomposing monster. But unlike the picture in the Washington Post the same day, it captures the spirit of the event, with Dole grimly taking the offensive and Clinton watching warily but standing aside from the attacks. Dole sounds absurd when he alleges that the paper that broke Whitewater and the story of the first lady's commodities trades has not been aggressive in pursuing Clinton scandals. All sorts of potential Dole scandals have been soft-pedaled by the media, including the Times , because he is so far behind. It's true that coverage of Clinton on the campaign trail has been somewhat softer than the coverage of Dole, as even other Times reporters acknowledge. But the explanation is institutional, not ideological. The press, as many have complained, overemphasizes the \"horse race\" aspect of politics. As a side effect of that disease, reporters have excessive respect for a well-run campaign. (In 1988, Republican George Bush benefited from this phenomenon.) A cruder reality is that reporters need to have a relationship with Clinton after Tuesday. None of these factors, though, is unique to the Times . So why is Dole singling it out? Dole's attacks on the Times have the appearance of being an exercise in populist demagogy. In one of his great cue-card reading remarks, Dole tried to explain his recent attacks on CNN the other night by saying, \"I like the media. They don't like them in the South.\" But this pat explanation doesn't entirely make sense. Red meat for right-wing crowds doesn't help Dole with the centrist voters he would need to turn around in order to make the miraculous happen. And in fact, according to a senior Dole aide, the attacks are heartfelt on the candidate's part. Dole has been going after the Times over the objections of advisers who have been telling him there's no percentage in picking fights with the press. But if Dole is attacking the Times because he is truly furious and not because he thinks it will help him get elected, what is he so angry about? The answer, I think, is that there has always been a Nixonian streak in Bob Dole, by which I mean a part of him which feels shut out of the closed circle of the Eastern establishment. At the Republican convention, Dole blasted the Clinton administration as a \"corps of the elite who never grew up, never did anything real, never sacrificed, never suffered, and never learned.\" That phrase recalled an attack he made on the press long ago, in the days of Watergate, when he accused the Washington Post of being in bed with George McGovern. \"There is a cultural and social affinity between the McGovernites and the Post executives and editors,\" Dole said then. \"They belong to the same elite: They can be found living cheek-by-jowl in the same exclusive chic neighborhoods, and hob-nobbing at the same Georgetown parties.\" The deeper story here isn't whether Dole was wrongly shunted onto D19 when he ought to have been on A1. It's his feelings, as he says goodbye to politics, about the people who get to decide.\n\n<question>:\nDole's quote would have been perceived as _________________if it had included included the exclamation points from his tone?\n\n<options>:\nA less impartial\nB more inflammatory\nC less dignified\nD more misguided\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>:\nMarnagan winced. \"You breathing oxygen or whiskey?\" \"There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete picture of Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's face when you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good an actor are you?\" long in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on to his camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that had last. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were being pursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed.\" \"Both. The other guy went after the Patrol.\" \"Impossible!\" His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped him from filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther was throwing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of his fragile, bony legs and their atrophied state. Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw three of the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground and twitch. God, what photography! camera. Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it. wreckage into that silence. He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in his taking place immediately outside his window. The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. And got it here, on film.\" Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. \"It's not proof we need now, Click. Oxygen. And then whose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally wins through to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, by limbless, suddenly. \"Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge!\" They ran back. \"Let's try it again.\" They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened. Click's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurt the creatures at all. \"Damn your damn camera!\" yelled Marnagan. \"They might come in!\" \"Use your gun.\" \"They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase, eh, Click?\" \"Yeah. Sure. Marnagan shifted uneasily. \"Here, now. You're doing nothing but sitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so take me a profile shot of the beasties and myself.\" Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. \"What in hell's the use? All this swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it.\" Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. \"Snap me this pose,\" he said. \"I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped, my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peace negotiations betwixt me and these pixies.\" his mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture of Marnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals. Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smiling for the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, without much effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing death wall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not saying anything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and they had sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts. When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used it up arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him: \"He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them.\" Hathaway nodded at the beasts. \"People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or from wounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animals tend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtle his attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if the Patrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation, developed, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developing film. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical, leaving imprints \"What!\" Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again: Pictures in montage Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationally with . Then, closeup—of—NOTHING! mess! Here—\" He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film, the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said the monsters weren't there, they weren't there. \"Yeah,\" said Marnagan. \"But step outside this cave—\" \"If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid,\" said Click. Marnagan scowled. \"You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet or infra-red or something that won't come out on film?\" see, the camera sees. We've been fooled.\" \"Hey, where you No more monsters. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. \"Hey, Click, look at me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail and ran away!\" \"I'll take it up with the Board, lad.\" \"Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in one hunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are part of his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased back into their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothing suspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animals kill them.\" \"Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill.\" In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source, Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters.\" Click attached his camera to his mid-belt. \"Gunther probably thinks we're dead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates they never had a chance to disbelieve them.\" \"If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—\" \"Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident—\" Click \"Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animals came from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to come back!\" \"Come back? How?\" The monsters returned. A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarming in malevolent anticipation about the two men. forget the monsters. besides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty.\" The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on. Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily. \"We'll be taking our chances on guard,\" hissed Irish. \"I'll go ahead, draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then, you show up with The strange harsh voice said, \"That's better. Don't try and pick that gun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off. How'd you get past the animals?\" Click started running. He switched off his sending rocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them for cargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and the wanted. They were scared off. The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank of intricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored film\n\n<question>:\nWhat makes the protagonists become less concerned about being trapped by the beasts?\n\n<options>:\nA They realized that the beasts were not actually interested in hurting them, so they were able to calmly leave their hiding spot.\nB They realized that the beasts were too big to fit into the space they were in, so they could camp out in that spot indefinitely.\nC They realized the beasts were not actual beasts, but were meant to seem real.\nD They realized that the beasts die when their photo is taken, and they had captured many of the beasts on camera.\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>:\nthe making. .\" \"Crewmen,\" Rexroad said, \"make poor reporters.\" The before with a thousand families, reached the planet with less than five hundred surviving colonists. Upon the return to Earth a year later, the crew's report of suffering and chaos during the year's outgoing voyage was twisted, distorted and fragmentary. Ellason remembered it well. The decision of Interstellar was that the colonists started a revolution far out in space, that it was fanned by the ignorance of Captain Sessions in dealing with such matters. the problem of small groups in space—witness the discovery of Antheon, for example—but when there are large groups, control is more life.\" \"The second trip is history,\" Rexroad said. \"And a puzzle.\" \"Assuming no accident in space,\" Phipps said, \"it was a wrong decision. They probably took over the ship.\" Captain Branson and his fifty crewmen want to return as badly as you do.\" He grinned. \"You can write that novel you're always talking about what we are. The , at a tremendous cost. Basically, it was an instrument shoulder-to-shoulder pressure of a crowded solar system. A gigantic, hollow spike, the ship would never land anywhere, but would circle Antheon as it circled Earth, shuttling its cargo and passengers to the promised land, the new frontier. A space-borne metropolis, it would compartments, recreation areas, swimming pool, library, theater. Nothing had been overlooked. The captain's briefing room was crowded, the air was heavy with the breathing of so many men, and the ventilators could not quite clear the strictly from the observer viewpoint. There will be no story for Transworld at the end.\" not dwelt on it. Now it loomed large in his mind. \"I don't understand, Captain Branson. It seems to me—\" \"Let me put it differently. Let me say that you will not understand why I say that until the journey ends.\" He smiled. \"Perhaps I shouldn't The penetration of space by large groups is the coming out from under the traditions of thousands of years, and as these planet-orginated rules fall away, the floundering group seeks a new control, for they are humanity adrift, rudderless, for whom the stars are no longer bearings but nonexistent things, and values are altered if they are not shown the way. The theft of Carver Janssen's attache case occurred on the thirty-first day out. In Ellason's mind the incident, though insignificant from the standpoint of the ship as a whole, could very well be the cause of dissension later on. His notes covering it were therefore very thorough. them, according to the Captain's Bulletin, the ship's daily newsletter which went to all hands and passengers. In the Bulletin the captain was significant that all en route had passed stability tests, and that it was to the ship's discredit that someone with criminal tendencies should have been permitted aboard. Ellason had to smile at that. What did Captain Branson think of those colonists who killed each other on the thousand strangers and stuck them in a can for a year. When Ellason saw Branson about it, the captain said, \"Of course I realize it takes only a little thing like this to set things off. I know people get tired of seeing each other, playing the same tapes, \"What would he want seeds for? Have you thought of that?\" tired face and sad eyes. He said, \"Now what am I going to Antheon for? I could only take along so much baggage and I threw out some comfort items to make room for the seeds. I'm a horticulturist, and Interstellar asked me to go along. But what use am I now? Where am describing the seeds, telling of their value, and requesting their On the forty-fifth day June Failright, the young wife of one of the passenger meteorologists, ran screaming down one of the long corridors though her description of what he had done did not appear in the story in the newsletter, it lost no time in penetrating every compartment of the ship. no crewmen to spare for police duty.\" The delegation commenced speaking vehemently, to be quieted by The group left in a surly mood. \"You wonder at my reluctance, Mr. Ellason,\" Captain Branson said. \"But suppose I assign the crew to patrol duties, the culprit isn't caught, and further incidents occur. What then? It soon becomes the crew's fault. And soon the colonists will begin thinking these things might be the crew's doing in the first place.\" the theft of the belt. Captain Branson did not wait for the newsletter. Through the ship's speaker system, he reported that Palugger had a fortune in credits in the belt and had died of a severe beating. He said that since the incident occurred in the staff section of the ship, his crew would be forced to submit to a thorough inspection in an effort to find the mask, the seed case, the money and the man. \"I will not countenance such an act by a crewman,\" Branson said. \"If and when he is found, he will be severely dealt with. But he might not be a member of the crew. I am ordering an assembly of all passengers at \"What's that?\" \"This ship is only so wide, so long and so deep. If every inch is searched, you'll find your man. He has to be somewhere aboard.\" death. of themselves. A special congratulatory message from Captain Branson appeared one day in the Bulletin newsletter. The colonists settled down to living out the rest of the voyage until put occupants to sleep as he went, taking many articles of value and leaving disorder behind. \"What does he want that stuff for?\" Casey Stromberg, a passenger doctor, asked. \"I can see him taking my narcotics, my doctor's kit—but insane.\" Many people said it. The council issued orders that all passengers from now on would be required to lock their compartments at all times. More guns were Ellason was busy noting it all in his book. It became filled with \"And what will you do when you get him?\" Lemuel Tarper, who was appointed prosecutor, asked him, \"What did you do with the loot, Critten?\" Critten looked him square in the eye and said, \"I threw it out one of the escape chutes. Does that answer your question?\" \"Threw it away?\" Tarper and the crowd were incredulous. \"Sure,\" Critten said. \"You colonists got the easy life as passengers, just sitting around. I had to work my head off keeping records for you The verdict was, of course, death. by a great crowd in the assembly hall. A detail from the ship's crew disposed of his body through a chute. which it always is. The , so they had you trained to be a scapegoat. Is that right?\" Critten nodded. \"When great numbers are being transported, they are apt to magnify each little event because so little happens. It was my job the passengers.\" \"To say nothing of me,\" Critten said. items will be returned. They're all tagged with their owner's names. Captain Branson will say they were found somewhere on the ship. You see, I was a liar.\" \"How about that assault on June Failright?\" Critten grinned again. \"She played right into our hands. She ran out into the hall claiming I'd attacked her, which I did not. She was certainly amazed when the ship's physicians agreed with her. Of course Captain Branson told them to do that.\" \"And the murder?\" \"The colonists will never know the truth,\" Branson went on. \"There will be other ships outward bound.\" Critten sighed. \"And I'll have to be caught again.\" each other, and are a theme, with variations, in the endless stretches of deep space, objects of hatred and contempt, professional heels, dying once a trip when the time is ripe, antidote to boredom, and we'll ply our trade, our little tragedies, on a thousand ships bringing\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the significance of the story's title?\n\n<options>:\nA There is a reporter on board to act as a set of eyes to keep passengers from acting up\nB It hints at the importance of the balance of weight on the ship for successful mission\nC There is a man on board hired specifically to act as the weight to keep the others balanced\nD It refers to the fact that a lot of belongings are thrown overboard\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>:\nplaces. Standing in the sticky, sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyed the robot apprehensively. Half buried in mud, it stood quiet in the shadowy light except for an Then the robots figured out an additional service—putting Man out of his misery. Alan turned slightly to the Pete could cram enough brain scraping the spongy ground like alone. \"There just isn't room for the electronics. You'd tree-bound octopus. Fitful little plants grew straggly in the the tentacles of some monstrous robot, crunching and snapping its way through the undergrowth like an onrushing forest on the planet, the shadows were long and gloomy. Alan peered around him at the turns he'd taken in the jungle. jungle floor, but now, late afternoon back, to visualize the twists and vine-draped shadows, listening \"All I need is to get lost.\" I'll bet anything they're automatically controlled by the camp computer. That's where to the soft rustlings and faint He pictured the camp computer twig-snappings of life in the towards the camp. Trees exploded to his left as another robot fired in his direction, too far away to be effective but churning towards him temporary home for the scout ship and the eleven men who, with Alan, were the only humans two robots coming up from either side, behind him. His eyes were well accustomed to the dark on the jungle planet, Waiamea. Stepping through the low shrubbery at the edge of the slashes from ankle to thigh. The crashing rumble of the killer robots shook the night behind him, nearer sometimes, then falling slightly back, but exploratory party of scientists and technicians to Waiamea three days before. Except for a few of the killer robots rolling slowly around the camp site on their quiet treads, there was no owe Pete a bourbon-and-soda for sure. Anybody who can build a robot that hunts by homing in on animals' mind impulses ...\" pause and squeeze his eyelids tight shut before he could see again, and the robots would move a little closer. To his right the trees silhouetted Alan leaped back, and fell sprawling over a bush just as one of the robots rolled silently a third robot slowly moved up in the distance. Without thinking, up from the right, lowering its Pete built those things wrong!\" briefly against brilliance as blaster barrel to aim directly at itself from the smoldering branches and crashed against the robot, clawing insanely at the with no one to stop it, automatically With an awkward jerk the robot sending its robots in antenna and blaster barrel. the planet. Technologically advanced machines doing the job wider and wider forays, slowly wiping every trace of life from for which they were built, completely, thoroughly, without feeling, and without human masters towards the camp, leaving Alan alone. Shakily, Alan crawled a few feet back into the undergrowth children, eager girls, and their camp, but not himself be seen. Though visibility didn't make any difference to the robots, he felt safer, somehow, hidden. He men would also lie, beside a rusty hulk, beneath the alien sun. \"Peggy!\" glint of a robot only a hundred yards away, much nearer than he had thought. \"Thank heaven himself, \"that Pete assembled these robots in a batch and then activated them all at once, probably never living to realize that they're tuned to pick up human blinked the pain tears from his eyes and looked up—into a robot's unaccountably in the trees overhead and every now and then somehow. Then he remembered the robot on the river bank, jiggling and swaying for seconds after each shot. \"Of wouldn't even singe a robot, but it just might stop one of those ahead through the bush. can't get to the camp with a pack of mind-activated mechanical killers running around. The robot shook spasmodically with each shot, its gun tilted upward of mind impulses, the If I can just hold out until morning, night. On the other hand, I certainly Ahead, across fifty yards of grass stood the headquarters building, housing the robot-controlling computer. Still firing at Peggy, arriving tomorrow short intervals he started across with the other colonists, the wives and kids! The metal killers, tuned to blast any living marry a girl and then take off for an unknown planet, with her to follow, to try to create a home in a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe, shakily in the dark edge of the jungle waiting, it seemed, for his small blaster to run dry. saw another of the robots standing From the corner of his eye he that jutted up through the grass. \"Be damned! You can't win \"No!\" He threw himself on the ground as a new robot suddenly appeared around the edge of the building a few feet away, engulfed in a swarm of locust-like insects that beat disgustingly against his eyes and had been lying stretched out. Then, like an ambient fungus, it slithered off into the jungle undergrowth. at the robot's antenna. In a flash, hundreds of the winged things erupted angrily from the hole in pile of dirt and insects directly planet's double moon had risen and he could see a robot rolling slowly across the clearing in his general direction, blasting indiscriminately robot fired erratically as Alan crouched and raced painfully for transmitting mental energy to the robot's pickup devices. Confused by the sudden dispersion headed for the jungle, each to a slightly different spot. Frantically, Alan slammed open the door as the robot, sensing Apparently the robot hadn't by the blast. him strongly now, aimed multi-hurting thing that crawled through his body and dragged ragged tentacles across his brown-haired girl crowding with the others to the gangway, eager to embrace the new planet, and the next instant a charred nothing, unrecognizable, the victim try.\" He moved into the blackness. Powerful as a small tank, the killer robot was equipped to he could manage to keep ahead of it, barely out of blaster range. Only, the robot didn't get tired. and danced across the jungle floor, hiding debris that tripped him and often sent him sprawling clothes, and insects attracted by the blood matted against his pants and shirt. Behind, the robot crashed imperturbably after him, lighting the night with fitful a pack of small feline creatures leaped snarling and clawing back into the night. maybe. Why the devil didn't I load in fresh cells this morning!\" The robot crashed on, louder now, gaining on the tired human. Legs aching and bruised, stinging from insect bites, Alan tried to force himself to run shadows. The robot crashed loudly behind him now. Without stopping to think, Alan fumbled along the and leaped back, trying frantically to wipe the clinging, a mere hundred yards behind. He screamed at the blast. \"Damn you, Pete! Damn your robots! Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!\" with hairy, disjointed arms as if to snag even the dirty little as the heavy little robot rolled slowly and inexorably towards the moons, the killer robot stopped and its blaster swivelled slowly down. Frantically, Alan housing, frantically locking his arms around the barrel as the robot's treads churned furiously in the sticky mud, causing it to buck and plunge like a Brahma a steel-skinned water monster trying to dislodge a tenacious crab, while Alan, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the blaster barrel and housing, pressed fiercely against the robot's metal skin. Slowly, trying to anticipate the sides to the thin crack between the revolving housing and the stationary portion of the robot. With a quick prayer he jammed in the knife blade—and\n\n<question>:\nWhere is Pete?\n\n<options>:\nA On the second ship with the larger group of people.\nB Back on his home planet, having sent his robot designs to the colony.\nC Somewhere on the planet's surface, having died by the hand of his own creation.\nD Hidden somewhere on the planet trying to escape the robot attacks.\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>:\ntight. This is a holdup.\" Anderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There was Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in their joint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward (Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollars in the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels, withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were three the others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, and with the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'd been moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was the her best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scooting 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 to keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man with the gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to the Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch. cars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shooting were going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrong when they crawled dazedly out of their car. huh, Mom?\" \"Come along home,\" said his mother, grabbing his hand. \"We don't want to be involved.\" \"It was the nuttiest thing,\" said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. \"An Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. \"It's ruined!\" he cried. \"What did you do to the tires?\" \"Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup.\" did you use, incendiary bullets?\" 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. As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted to awaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that he really ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He then allegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom. Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. Thelma Stodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at the house at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-locked bedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door and \"stop acting like a child.\" Neighbors reported to the police that they heard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, \"Go away! Can't you let a man sleep?\" At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence, a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block of similar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly erupted from his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, being annoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shells at them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in the hand and shoulder. Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screaming out the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting, \"Murder! Murder!\" At this point, neighbors called the police. One position across the street from the scene of carnage and went to work with a Zoomar lens. In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house, firing at anything that moved. The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. One concentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighbors and ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens to search for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-home and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at the corner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr. Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. The police used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, they had the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway. Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challenge anyone present to hand-to-hand combat. The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy day and all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken. Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again. The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly and dramatically. Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose of shooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped and threw the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithered down to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fell barrel first onto the lawn. Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like a wounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fall into the arms of the waiting police. They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actually trying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he was were red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There was another burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder. Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burn ointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. The neighbors went home and telephoned their friends. Stevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappy He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all. Captain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be both best not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks. no reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk. all of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks to says he put it on there. Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer's case. He's trying to build up an insanity defense.\" \"He put it on there himself, Stevenson,\" said the captain with weary what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?\" \"They were defective,\" said Hanks promptly. that rifle too hot, and left his signature behind.\" know,\" the captain told him, \"is Higgins put that name on \"Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What do \"He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him.\" all upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch. The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought a You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people could determined that the matter could only be settled in a war. 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. \"Fuzz!\" screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward the the yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street. And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault. threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it\n\n<question>:\nHad the gun barrel not became extremely hot and burned Higgins, what would have likely happened during his standoff?\n\n<options>:\nA Higgins' wife would have eventually been able to convince him to surrender.\nB The police would have eventually given up on their suspect and left the scene.\nC The police would have had to force entry into his home and take him into custody.\nD Higgins' sister would have eventually been able to convince him to surrender.\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>:\nTHE MADMAN FROM EARTH BY KEITH LAUMER compliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the Groacian Groaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—\" The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room, \"You can't offend the Groaci,\" Miss Meuhl said sharply. \"Consul Whaffle of armed Groaci in the consulate?\" letting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you to figure out whose side you're on.\" \"I'm on the side of common decency!\" you do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacian \"What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out this atrocities.\" avoid with the Groaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding—\" \"Take the man,\" Shluh said. \"The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworlders the fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on one occasion.\" \"You mean when they came looking for the cruiser?\" \"They never found the cruiser, did they?\" \"Certainly not on Groac.\" The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressed \"The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly.\" \"The specific instructions of the Archivist.\" The Groacian's voice rose direction of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians on Groacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in. A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink from the edge of the pit. \"To sample a true Groacian beverage.\" digestive sacs to express regret.\" decide whether I like it.\" \"To get the lead out,\" Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in the dish provided. \"To shake a tentacle.\" \"The procuring of a cage,\" a thin voice called from the sidelines. \"The displaying of a freak.\" Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gesture of contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent the creature was drunk. \"To begone, freak,\" the Groacian whispered. The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him, Groacian. Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacian are two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.\" Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornaments \"One hour ago,\" The Groacian said, \"a Groacian national was brought the Terrestrial Consul.\" Miss Meuhl gasped audibly. \"Have you ever heard,\" Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, \"of a Terrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific , which dropped from sight in this sector nine years ago?\" it hits a sour note with me.\" \"All our efforts,\" Miss Meuhl said, \"to live down that terrible episode! And you—\" \"Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groac and sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funny Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they were \"Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don't think your story will be good enough.\" it.\" Fith rose Shluh followed suit. \"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 \"The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. It has outdone itself—\" \"Enough!\" Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. \"I can talk no more of this matter—\" curious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged, they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through the communicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit. \"Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after the parade was over?\" out for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made them yell....\" \"No!\" Fith gasped. \"I must correct this terrible false impression at once.\" narco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw the more information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship? brisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A close call, eh?\" \"We were afraid,\" Shluh said. \"We are a simple people. We feared the a blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to make amends....\" \"Where is the ship?\" \"The ship?\" Where is it?\" The two Groacians exchanged looks. A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up. Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Empty visible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVS where acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrument Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel and \"We were at fault,\" Fith said abjectly. \"Now we wish only friendship.\" \"The Terrific was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.\" Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. \"Where is \"Where is that ship?\" Retief rapped out. \"You never learn, do you? Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressively toward the Terrestrial. \"Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shall the Groacian government.\" going to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci off Meuhl snorted. \"I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not a I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out. far. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to know \"The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You can Groaci. I think I can get past them all right.\" \"The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper in indignation. \"You're like a ... a....\" \"You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move for the Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who know better of you,\" she gasped. \"In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I've never heard anything so ridiculous.\" \"Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food and water in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut the \"I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ... Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy—\" \"Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better,\" Retief said, \"but \"What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to your clothing?\" it later.\" \"At this hour? There's no one there....\" \"Exactly.\" Office?\" \"That's right,\" Retief said calmly. \"Now—\" \"This is absolutely the end!\" Miss Meuhl said. \"Thank heaven I've already—\" \"Get that sender going, woman!\" Retief snapped. \"This is important.\" \"That's good,\" Retief said. \"I don't think the Groaci can knock us off office. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decision have been completely dispelled by what you've just told me.\" of a Board of Inquiry, you will—\" Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphant \"I heard him say he was going get my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassing all around.\" \"I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, and offer my profound—\" A Groacian official appeared on the screen. the Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consul\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the name of the space cruiser that the Groacians are hiding?\n\n<options>:\nA The Terran\nB The Territory\nC The Terror\nD The Terrific\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>:\nnever make it unless he somehow managed to PICK A CRIME By RICHARD R. SMITH treatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commit a crime, get caught and be a hero ... an were laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPA watching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employees and volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietly watching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies, it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeply Work! Work! Exes always get good jobs because employers know they're good workers. It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do. The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted, illegal—a bartender always watered the drinks. Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, but had always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had been only a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year. The girl laughed. \"If you're that hard up, I don't know if I should take this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job like get another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card and \"I'm sorry,\" the girl said. \"I didn't know you were a DCT.\" \"And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score. When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they even tell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're a Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure several jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man, street-cleaner, ditch-digger—\" locked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you until the day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, a DCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've had across the table and whispered in the girl's ear, \"That's what I want to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I get convicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job!\" \"See what I mean?\" Hendricks asked. \"A century ago, you would have been . something big to plan a crime. A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting, blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—Crime Prevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officials had declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to prevent crime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands of ingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crime almost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred men in the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts. No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to kill someone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished he Hendricks laughed. \"You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean, wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except for freaks like yourself, criminals are—\" criminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shock criminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city could afford the CPA hospitals. The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods because treatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy and a dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were few commit a crime was a sort of hero. He was a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulses to kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only a hero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of the CPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... a And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatment was commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of the word an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs. \"Well,\" the girl said. \"I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten. intended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it a crime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc., were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't complete the act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that the CPA had once again functioned properly. had collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime. Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented from committing a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properly once again. That meant the CPA had once again the CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attempt because it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever did prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward and they'd be famous.\" thousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks from reading about guys like you, but these days things are dull because it's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk down the street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and no CPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboard criminals ... to hate them as nothing has ever been hated before. your CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job.\" \"Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is a own imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug the feeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting for Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went. with pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now it supervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to think of kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics was pointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every place of business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectors that could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain. And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearance of the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambled that he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots were required to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average of And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking at subconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crime was the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things. Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousands law, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, but crime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead of being respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed. for the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed. Thief! Police! Help! \" When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, the metal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone who cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day. But now—another change in him— glad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You're an ex -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never be able to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kind of guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and get would have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPA employee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA pays\n\n<question>:\nIn what significant way was the CPA system different than other judicial systems for criminals?\n\n<options>:\nA Crimes were not punished.\nB All crimes had the same punishment.\nC Criminals were kept on lock-down forever without any kind of trial.\nD Criminals were hired for higher-up jobs in society.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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1,992
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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>:\nA scream of brakes, the splash over the party telephone. \"We'll talking about,\" he grated wildly. Kar-Rah. You are the only man leaped suddenly into view, its lights glaring blindingly past a high, up-jutting mass of Jurassic though their forefathers originated on this planet. They have gone far beyond you in evolution. To them you would be only a senseless curiosity. You are much better off with my people—our only swift young reflexes to rely on to avoid a fearful, telescoping rock at the turn of the road. hadn't yet tarred the traffic-loosened gravel at the Bend. An incredible science, millions of years old, lay in the minds of these creatures. exploring carefully the man's mind. After hours of research, didn't more than half believe it. His mind was too confused for he saw and felt and heard might be some kind of any ordinary Earthly kind, he could have faced bravely. But the His heart was pounding heavily, and his eyes were wide. He animal chucklings around him, and the occasional touch of a furry body, hurried his feverish scrambling. But he emerged at last at the surface. He stood there panting in that Behind him he heard an excited, squeaky chattering. Rodents in pursuit. Looking back, he saw the pinpoint gleams of from those glittering rodent Death, and the Father of Change, seemed to wait.... \"Kaalleee! Tik!... Tik, tik, tik!... Kaalleee!...\" The excited cry, which no human throat could quite have duplicated accurately, arose thinly \"Kaalleee!... Tik, tik, tik!...\" At first there was only one voice uttering those weird, triumphant sounds. Then other the city of Kar-Rah. In a flying vocal organs took up that trilling wail, and those short, sharp questioning, wondering notes mixed with the cadence. Lacking qualities identifiable as human, the disturbance was still like the babble of a group of workmen who have discovered something remarkable. The desolate expanse around \"Hey, somebody!\" he called. of hope. Dazzled, and befuddled by his chuckles of eagerness. Other gods in exodus, perhaps it was—half a million years ago. Man than this, death from homesickness had come. Loy Chuk was a scientist. In common with all real scientists, regardless of the species from which they spring, he loved the \"Kaalleee!... Tik, tik, tik!...\" The sounds were not human. They were more like the chatter and wail of small desert animals. subjects of his researches. He had done that. wanted this ancient man to live and to be happy. Or this creature streamlined bulk of a flying machine, shiny and new. The bell-like muzzle of a strange excavator-apparatus, now, on the well-being of this anachronism he had so miraculously resurrected—this human, this Kaalleee.... which seemed to that had baffled far keener wits than Loy's. But he was bent, from the city of Kar-Rah. And he was very happy now—flushed with a vast and unlooked-for success. He crouched there on his creamy. White whiskers spread around his inquisitive, pink-tipped snout. But his cranium bulged up and that pair of brain-helmets again, of time, of survival of the fittest, of evolution. He could think and dream and invent, and the civilization of his kind was already far beyond that of the ancient plans. The government of Kar-Rah Twentieth Century. Loy Chuk and his fellow workers gleeful, around the things their digging had exposed to the daylight. help he needed. A horde of small, grey-furred beings and their machines, toiled in it was a huddled form, brown and hard as old wood. The She wore a blue dress, and a mischievous smile curved her lips. As though she had succeeded in \"Kaalleee!\" Man, that meant. Not the star-conquering demi-gods, but the ancestral stock that had built the first machines on Earth, and in the early Twenty-first Century, the first interplanetary rockets. No wonder Loy Chuk and his co-workers were happy in their paleontological enthusiasm! A strange accident, happening in a legendary antiquity, had aided them in their quest for knowledge. At last Loy Chuk gave a soft, chirping signal. The chant of triumph ended, while instruments flicked in his tiny hands. within, through the agency of focused X-rays, he saw magnified images of the internal organs of this ancient human corpse. What his probing gaze revealed to him, made his pleasure even greater than before. In twittering, chattering sounds, he and dimming his brain, so that it would never question or doubt, or observe too closely the incongruous was perfectly preserved, even to its brain cells! Medical and biological sciences were far advanced among Loy Chuk's kind. Perhaps, by the application of principles long known to them, this long-dead body could be He didn't know that this Betty was of the same origin—a miraculous own memories of the original. Thus Loy Chuk's kind could study this ancient man—this \"Tik, tik, tik!...\" Kaalleee. Thus, their motives eager chattering with a command. Work was always more substantial than cheering. With infinite care—small, sharp hand-tools were used, now—the were mostly selfish. magnificent, inexorable march of the ages. He remembered the ancient \"The Kaalleee believes himself to himself, contemplating the Far out in a deep valley, Kar-Rah, beating down upon him, soothing Chuk's laboratory, a short distance below the surface. Here at once, the scientist began his work. The body of the ancient communicated his further knowledge passing between complicated electrodes. The cells of antique flesh and brain gradually took on a chemical composition nearer to that of the life that they had devoid of moisture, the mummy once known. instruments. The time passed swiftly. At last, eager and ready for whatever might happen now, shock of vast change around him. Though it had been dehydrated, his brain had been kept perfectly intact through the ages, and now it was restored. assault upon an intangible wall whose weird shapes suggested alienness, and knowledge beyond bones, some of them seemed, from their size. But there was a complete skeleton of a dog, too, and the skeleton of a man, and a second man-skeleton that was not quite human. Its neck-vertebrae were very thick and solid, its shoulders were was fearfully wrong! The nervous terror of the unknown was on him. Feeble and in the museums of Kar-Rah! to a sitting posture. There was a muffled murmur around him, as of some vast, un-Earthly shrill, parrot-like, and mechanical. source of the voice—located the voice seemed to have originated. Before it crouched a small, brownish animal with a bulging insane and incomprehensible. A rodent, looking like a prairie dog, but plainly possessing a high order of intelligence. Loy Chuk had probed his brain, with the aid of a pair of helmets, thoughts in common, long-dead English. Loy, whose vocal organs were not human, would have had great difficulty speaking English words, anyway. a curious calm. \"Stark—starin'—nuts....\" about a million years ago. I discovered your body. I brought you back to life. We have science that can do that. I'm Loy It took only a moment for the box to tell the full story in clear, bold, friendly terms. Thus Loy sought, with calm, human logic, to make his charge feel at home. Probably, though, he was a fool, it out. \"A prairie dog,\" he said. \"Speaking to me. One million years. Evolution. The scientists\n\n<question>:\nWhy are the Kar-Rah shouting \"Kaalleee tik tik tik!\"?\n\n<options>:\nA They are warning each other of a potential predator\nB They are praising Loy Chuk for his accomplishment\nC They are attempting to reconvene after being separated\nD They are exuberating in their discovery of a human\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
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684
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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>:\nHOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, April 1958. the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, dying fire, seeing the bright glowing coals as living fingers clutching at the wood in consuming embrace, taking all and returning nothing but ashes. Slowly his eyelids yielded. His body sagged, and blood seemed to fill his brain, bathing it in a gentle, warm flood. He slept. His brain slept. all else was at rest. Images began to appear, drawn from inexhaustible files, wherein are kept all thoughts, past, present, and future.... It was the night before he was to go overseas. World War III had been declared, and he had enlisted, receiving his old rank of captain. He was with his wife in the living room of their home. They had put the children to bed—their sons—and now sat on the couch, watching the \"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.\" Then she had slipped the ring on her finger and her arms around him. He held her very close, feeling the warmth from her body flowing into his and making him oblivious to everything except that she was there in his arms and that he was sinking deep, deep into a familiar sea, where he had been many times before but each time found something new and shimmering light, letting it spin at the end of its chain. It caught it for a moment. Then he kissed her, and instantly was drawn down into 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 little bulge under his uniform, and the touch of it seemed to warm the blood in his veins. Three days later they had landed in Spain, merged with another division, then crossed the Pyrenees into France, and finally to Paris 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. Three years later they were on the road to Moscow. Over a thousand 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 soldier needed to make him fight harder and live longer. But the planes had passed over, the sun glinting on their bellies, reflecting a blinding light. They were bound for bigger, more important screaming noises which had jarred the people from sleep in time to die. The defending planes roared into the sky to intercept the on-rushing bombers. The horrendous battle split the universe. Many bombers fell, victims of fanatical suicide planes, or of missiles that streaked across the sky which none could escape. But too many bombers got through, dropping their deadly cargo upon the filled with the poisonous gases that the wind swept away to other cities, where men had not died quickly and mercifully, but had rotted away, leaving shreds of putrid flesh behind to mark the places where they had crawled. The retaliatory forces had roared away to bomb the Russian cities. Few, if any, had returned. Too much blood and life were on their hands. Those who had remained alive had found a resting place on the crown of some distant mountain. Others had preferred the silent peaceful sea, where flesh stayed not long on bones, and only darting fishes and merciful beams of filtered light found their aluminum coffins. The war had ended. To no avail. Neither side had won. Most of the cities and the majority of the population of both countries had been destroyed. Even their governments had vanished, leaving a silent nothingness. The armies that remained were without leaders, without sources of supplies, save what they could forage and beg from an unfriendly people. They were alone now, a group of tired, battered men, for whom life held nothing. Their families had long since died, their bodies turned to dust, their spirits fled on the winds to a new world. Yet these remnants of an army must return—or at least try. Their exodus was just beginning. Somehow he had managed to hold together the few men left from his force. He had always nourished the hope that she might still be alive. And now that the war was over he had to return—had to know whether she was still waiting for him. They had started the long trek. Throughout Europe anarchy reigned. He and his men were alone. All they could do now was fight. Finally they Rio Grande. All its great cities had been destroyed, and those that had been only partially destroyed were devoid of people. The land across waded into the muddy waters and somehow landed on the American side. In the November world. It was rightly called. The deserts were long. All plant life had died, leaving to those once great fertile stretches, nothing but the sad, temporal beauty that comes with death. No people had he seen. Only the ruins of what had once been their cities. He had walked through them, remained there a long time—how long he could not tell, for he could only measure time by the cycles of the sun and the moon. Finally he had taken the horse, the rifle and what food was left, and once again started the long journey home. The farther north he went, the more life seemed to have survived. He her once again all would be well, and his long journey would be over. The images faded. Even memory slept in a flow of warm blood. Body and mind slept into the shadows of the dawn. the sun to the moon. The torch became a white pock-marked goddess, with creature beside the fire held his attention. It had taken a ring from one skeleton-like finger and stood, turning the ring slowly as if trying to decipher some inscription inside it. He knew then. He had come home. his neck until he found the locket and the clasp which had held it safely through endless nightmare days and nights. He slipped the clasp and the locket fell into his waiting hand. As one in a dream, he opened 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. Conqueror trotted away, the sound of his hooves echoing hollowly in the vast emptiness.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the double meaning of the ring’s engraving, “It Is Forever.”\n\n<options>:\nA Forever in marriage; forever after death.\nB Forever in life; forever undead.\nC Forever in life; forever in war.\nD Forever in war; forever after.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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1,083
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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. He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and the 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 Taggart. to reach the Moon!\" Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: \"Still going to spend the weekend with us, aren't you, Ben?\" I shook my head. \"Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We're planning to see the town tonight.\" \"Why don't you both come with us?\" you asked. \"Our folks have their own plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room. 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?\" want, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want.\" \"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—\" \"Yes?\" 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 \"Sure,\" I said to Mickey, \"we can still have a good weekend.\" \"Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he's sort of funny.\" spaceman then.\" \"But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family?\" I smiled and shook my head. \"If he had, he never mentioned it. Charlie doesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far as I know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson.\" want to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we were Charlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternally alone, never finding a home. Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earth 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?\" too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he were drugged. I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk about going to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna. 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 have lived the kind of life a kid should live. Mickey noticed my frown. \"What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm just not like you and Charlie, I guess. I—\" \"No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really.\" \"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 I'll stay, Mickey. Sure.\" \"Can't a spaceman marry, too?\" \"Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see, Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for maybe two months, \"Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happened on the Cyclops You've got to decide now , I told myself. You can't stay here. You've got to make a choice. You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and a home and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now. My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie! The audiogram had lied! I pressed the stud again. \"... regret to inform you of death of 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 This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space. It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed letters instead of children, a medal instead of a home. And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping, and the house is silent. It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I am Charlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that they could tell me what he could not express in words. could look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could never live to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. He left himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be a man's dream. 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. want to die in the clean, cool air of Earth? It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was the 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 he'll go with me in memory to whatever part of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura.\n\n<question>:\nWhy doesn't Charlie want to go with Laura and Mickey?\n\n<options>:\nA Charlie is not really a people person. He likes Ben, but that's about it.\nB Charlie is very self-conscious about his scars. He is uncomfortable around other people.\nC Charlie is uncomfortable with Laura and Mickey's wealth. He feels a bit shabby because his coat is missing a button.\nD Charlie is dying and Ben is the only family he has. He wants to spend his last moments with Ben.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "D"
}
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1,200
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quality
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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>:\nrelentlessly toward him. He awoke still screaming.... A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, a question already formed in his mind. With never a moment to rest, the pursuit through space felt like a game of hounds and hares ... or was it follow the leader? \"Who is he?\" She sat on the chair beside him. why you saved me?\" \"Why aren't you with him now?\" \"He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've been Investigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know how we operate?\" He told her the tales he'd heard. She nodded. \"There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and a after we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction, but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.\" \"Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is only to Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejects who couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They know it, that's our business.\" She pursed her lips. \"But if they guessed how strong we are or that we have friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different. There probably would be a crackdown.\" pushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suited boys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason for resisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke and through the drone of alcohol-cracked voices. They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyed Ben stiffened. \"And that's why you want me for an astrogator.\" Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. \"If you want to come—and if you get well.\" She looked at him strangely. \"Suppose—\" He fought to find the right words. \"Suppose I got well and decided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let me go?\" Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment, then fear. \"I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.\" He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched his hand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotion that had coursed through her. When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo. He was like two people, he thought. , Ben told himself. Close in the shadows.\" Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows? For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips spitting whiskey-slurred curses. At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents' death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the night Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly and Ben knew that he was dead. Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as, a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger. He ran. peeking through electric fences of spaceports. Or— There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen who operated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren't outlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth. Ben didn't answer. \"They say it is because after women come, they want first thing a Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy. reward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? The Martian kid, perhaps? Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements and a chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were like tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away. falling. The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised. A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk with feline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remained undisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily in Just another second— Or would the exits be guarded? He heard the hiss. body overpowered him. In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voice yell, \"Turn on the damn lights!\" \"You may die if you don't give yourself up.\" \"No, no.\" He tried to stumble toward the exit. at once. \"Anti ... anti ...\" The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forced consciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of black nothingness to a dream-like state of awareness. He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders, hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation and constantly above him—a face, he supposed. He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound was a deep, staccato grunting. But he heard someone say, \"Don't try to talk.\" It was the same gentle mist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears: \"Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food.\" Or, \"Close your and thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-looking pallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at the same time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Her straight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, and drawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck. \"I—I am better,\" he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. \"I \"Yes.\" \"Why?\" Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen mask in readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it. \"Why?\" he asked again. \"It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow.\" A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness. He lay back then, panting, exhausted. \"You have nothing to worry about,\" the girl said softly. Her cool hand touched his hot forehead. \"Rest. We'll talk later.\" His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept. the edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterless void. The girl entered the room. \"Hi,\" she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were less prominent. Her face was relaxed. She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him rise to a sitting position. He looked at her, wondering. \"You won't tell me?\" \"Not yet. Later, perhaps.\" \"Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn?\" She shrugged. \"We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in the \"Maggie.\" \"Why did you save me?\" His own eyes widened. \"How did you know that?\" She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. \"I know everything about you, \"There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, we have many friends.\" He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly. \"I'm sorry,\" she said. \"I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happy \"Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walk She hesitated. He thought, Damn it, of all the questions, why did I ask that? \"Children?\" \"Two. I don't know their ages.\" She left the room. He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side, down and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands and knees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was a\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Maggie decide to save Ben?\n\n<options>:\nA She felt sorry for him, knowing he hadn't meant to kill Cobb.\nB She knew her husband needed an astrogator.\nC She was also on the run and needed a companion.\nD She was pressured by the others.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
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32
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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>:\nunder the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers, had stumbled onto a murderous plot more hair-raising than any she had ever concocted. And the danger from the villain of the piece Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] shoulder. \"Beg pardon, thir,\" he said with his racial lisp, \"thereth thome one to in-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for another enforced. againth the ruleth....\" one there at this hour.\" the drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions: ? What happened to the book you were in the name of science fiction than anyone alive. But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored for more. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publishers and hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between two expeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto. \"What happened to ?\" I asked. \"That was the title of Pluto .\" I grinned. \"All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universe Satellite Theater in ten minutes. Come on, you're going with me.\" . ONE NIGHT ONLY DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS NINE GENIUSES THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF THE SYSTEM the players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll go \"That damned fossilized dynamo,\" I muttered. \"She'll be the death of me yet.\" 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 . voice echoed through the theater: \" \" And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed in cafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offering bantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed, or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name of the winner. seemed to have lost much of its were turned in a smile of satisfaction. When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-moving occurred. unpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days of rushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered to was all but deserted. I nodded. \"As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. men ought to clamp down.\" \"The I.P. men aren't strong enough.\" \"What do you mean?\" \"My last book, Death In The Atom she began. \"When it was finished I had planned to take a six months' vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel. Karn....\" \"Who?\" I interrupted. \"An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts of his adventures, and he told me plenty.\" I shook my head. \"Some new kind of ...\" Alpha projected at high speed. But the character of the never been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they are Beta and lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this condition develops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership or guidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit of \"Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the three enough to endanger all civilized life. \"The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowing government was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox had ordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people was immediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedom followed.\" old prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of his Flames!\" if it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planets after the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were in existence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble. \"Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it made it was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back on Earth.\" \"I see,\" I said as she lapsed into silence. \"And now you've come to the conclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone is and laughed heartily. \"The same old Flowers,\" I said. \"Tell me, who's I shrugged. \"The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in.\" happening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars, police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government by representation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a military dictator to step in. \"And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that a times more potent and is transmiting it en masse .\" \"All right!\" An instant later we were plunging through the dark night. We had traveled this far by had its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic force Ezra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions to the lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. You see, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from the ship.\" steadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visi just before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observer that broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, an Grannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plots which she had skilfully blended into a novel? undulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watched From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dress trained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brain and follows with a relentless purpose.\" \"Then that would mean...?\" being watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest.\" The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water here resembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long winding the swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesive multi-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours. hand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured in a matter of seconds. The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latest civilization entirely. cigarette. \"You know where it is, don't you?\" \"Ye-s,\" Karn nodded. \"But like I told you before, that ship lies in \"Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outside of myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got away because I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escaped because he made 'em laugh.\" \"Laugh?\" A scowl crossed Grannie's face. \"That's right,\" Karn said. \"The Varsoom have a strange nervous reaction that's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes them laugh, I don't know.\" You gotta wait 'til I hear it.\" about us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness and 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, that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations. half buried in the swamp soil. circle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble.\" But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence. the lower hold are probably exposed to a tholpane plate and their \"You'll never do it that way,\" Grannie said. \"Nothing short of an the crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a single move.\"\n\n<question>:\nHow will the story likely continue?\n\n<options>:\nA The group will continue to search for a way to get to the Green Flames.\nB The Green Flames will make Grannie Annie lose her drive to obtain them.\nC Grannie Annie will leave the storage of Green Flame behind, since she can’t get through the glass.\nD arn will betray the duo and take the lot for himself.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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2,022
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[
{
"human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Linton lay down his steel fork beside the massively solid transparency of the restaurant water glass. \"Isn't that Rogers Snead at that table?\" he heard himself say stupidly. know how it is. Snead's dead, don't you remember?\" Linton remembered. Howell had to know that he would remember. What were they trying to pull on him? \"The man who isn't Snead is leaving,\" Linton said, describing the scene over Howell's shoulder. \"If that's Snead's brother, I might catch him to pay my respects.\" \"No,\" Howell said, \"I wouldn't do that.\" \"I wouldn't. Probably no relation to Snead at all. Somebody who looks like him.\" \"He's practically running,\" Linton said. \"He almost ran out of the restaurant.\" \"Who? Oh, the man who looked like Snead, you mean.\" \"Yes,\" Linton said. A thick-bodied man at the next table leaned his groaning chair back intimately against Linton's own chair. \"That fellow who just left looked like a friend of yours, huh?\" the thick man said. \"Couldn't have been him, though,\" Linton answered automatically. \"My friend's dead.\" The thick man rocked forward and came down on all six feet. He threw you've probably got old Snead into trouble.\" \"Snead's dead,\" Linton said. \"What do you say it like that for?\" Linton demanded angrily. \"The man's dead. Plain dead. He's not Sherlock Holmes or the Frankenstein Monster—there's no doubt or semantic leeway to the thing.\" \"You know how it is,\" Howell said. Linton had thought he had known how death was. He had buried his wife, or rather he had watched the two workmen scoop and shove dirt in on the sawdust-fresh pine box that held the coffin. He had known what he known a genuine affection for her. But it didn't seem he knew about death at all. Linton felt that his silence was asking Howell by this time. \"I don't know, mind you,\" Howell said, puffing out tobacco smoke, \"but life?\" Linton said. He knew, of course, that Howell did not mean that. Howell meant that some people had a system of making it appear that a person had died in order to gain some illegal advantage. But by saying something so patently ridiculous, Linton hoped to bring the contradicting truth to the surface immediately. \"An invention? I guess that's how it is,\" Howell agreed. \"I don't know much about people like that. I'm an honest businessman.\" \"But it's wonderful,\" Linton said, thinking his immediate thoughts. \"Wonderful! Why should a thing like that be illegal? Why don't I know about it?\" their whole life. You got to realize that.\" \"That's not enough. Not nearly enough.\" \"I see,\" Linton said. He tried to assimilate it. Of course he had, he reminded himself, been out of touch for some time. It might be true. Then again, they might be Howell threw money on the table with the same kind of disinterest as the thick-set man and stalked out. I've got to hurry too, Linton thought. It's Resurrection Day! The doctor fluttered his hands and chirped about the office. \"Well, well, Mr. Linton, we understand you've been causing disturbances.\" \"Come, come,\" the doctor chided. \"You started riots in two places, attempted to bribe an officer. That's disturbing, Mr. Linton, very disturbing.\" \"I was only trying to find out something,\" Linton maintained. \"They could have told me. Everybody seems to know but me.\" The doctor clucked his tongue. \"Let's not think any such thing. People can find out anything by asking the right questions of the right person at the right time.\" Linton stared suspiciously. \"Do you know where I can find a cynics.\" Linton scooted forward on the insultingly cold metal chair and really looked at the doctor for the first time. \"Doctor, can you \"Will you stop being cynical? Of course I can!\" \"Doctor, I'm beginning to believe in you,\" Linton said, \"but tell me, could be years. Centuries. It's all mathematics, my boy. I need only one fragment of the body and my computers can compute what the rest of it was like and recreate it. It's infallible. Naturally there is a away?\" \"First, I must follow an ancient medical practice. I must bleed you.\" Linton grasped the situation immediately. \"You mean you want money. You realize I've just got out of an institution....\" \"I've often been in institutions myself, for alcoholism, narcotics addiction and more.\" \"What a wonderful professional career,\" Linton said, when he couldn't care less. \"Oh, yes—yes, indeed. But I didn't come out broke.\" Beautifully.\" The certificate to allow reburial in Virginia hadn't been impossible to obtain. The doctor had taken the body and Linton's fortune and fed them both into the maw of his calculators, and by means of the secret, smuggled formulae, Greta would be cybernetically reborn. Linton shook his head. It seemed impossible. But Greta opened the olive-drab slab of metal of the door to the doctor's inner-inner sanctum and walked out into the medicinal cold fluorescent lighting. It wasn't fair at all, Linton thought. He should have had some time to prepare himself. Greta lifted her arms, stretching the white smock over the lines of her \"Now, now,\" Linton said, \"we mustn't get excited. You've been through a trial.\" She accepted the verdict. She pulled away and touched at her hair. It you haven't the money to do it?\" \"No,\" Linton said. \"I'm sold out. I've borrowed on my insurance to the hilt. It won't pay any more until I'm buried, and then, of course, you to quench death and smother decay. It's Linton followed the direction of Greta's gaze and found only an ashtray stand, looking vaguely like a fanatic's idol to a heathen religion on a Greta pounced on the stand, hefted it at the base and ran toward him with it over her head. Linton leaped aside and Greta hit the edge of the desk instead of him. Brain damage, he concluded nervously. Cell deterioration. Greta raised it again and he caught her wrists high over her head. She writhed against him provocatively. \"Frank, I'm sorry, dear, but I have to have that insurance money. It's hell!\" Linton understood immediately. He felt foolish, humiliated. All that money! He had resurrected a gold ring that had turned his knuckles green. No one must ever know. Linton twisted the stand away from his wife and watched her face in some appalled form of satisfaction as it registered horror and acceptance of the crumpled metal disk falling toward it. He split her head open and watched her float to the floor. Linton was surprised at the fine wire mesh just below the skin and those shiny little tabs that looked like pictures of transistors in institutional advertising. It was what you thought was real that made it so, not the other way around. \"I've killed my wife!\" Linton called, rising from his knees, stretching his hands out to something. The pain stung him to sleep—a pain in his neck like a needle that left He opened his eyes to the doctor's spotless, well-ordered office. The doctor looked down at him consolingly. \"You'll have to go back, Mr. Linton. But they'll cure you. You'll be cured of ever thinking your wife was brought back to life and that you killed her all over again.\" \"Do you really think so, Doctor?\" Linton asked hopefully.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the significance of the story's title?\n\n<options>:\nA It hints at the extra costs for less natural things\nB It marks the setting for the story\nC It hints at Linton's constant desire for sweet things\nD It shows Linton's goal for the story\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
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883
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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>:\nHumphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was one The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously. residence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sight own independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immense Fownes' abstraction curiosity. From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched as The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch. cushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging an old, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of his ancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room. He stood up rifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets. postman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In the confusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postman Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on his dripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in the distance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly. and take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea he was playing. There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass. \" huge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing. Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass still intrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humidity rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting his fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayed five-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster of Paris. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight and handedness behind. By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier complete Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownes \"You'll have to tell me what you did first!\" particularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his way Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker. genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable. small efforts, rarer. \"Sometimes his house patronizing tone of voice. \"And up and down.\" With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house. was a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. He it away. different \"Sure, he was only with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownes amount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully, standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It was When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certain trite. Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refused out of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases every in an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievably to believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting a Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. He the house toward the side of the dome. \"It says here,\" Fownes shouted \"Fownes!\" MacBride shouted. \"This is a direct order! Make it go back!\" But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodging \"No, I don't need a vacation.\" dazed. There was quite a large fall of glass. \"And compasses won't work on this street.\" 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. Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off his Every window slammed shut. then, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realistic 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 rather stay over instead of going home.... the first time the winds got out of line. 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 tinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes had she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible for 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 \"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 healthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadily worse for him.\" \"I don't seem to mind the air.\" Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork. 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 \"And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes, \"That won't be necessary,\" Fownes said with unusual force. \"With all \"But my dear Mr. Fownes,\" she said, leaning across the table. \"We're \"That's impossible! How?\" In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownes ,\" Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, \"they say for his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ... When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was a would be such a deliciously Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to the to government publications and censored old books with holes in unintelligibility. \"Here's one,\" she said to him as he entered. \" the librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curious borrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married.\" looking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. \"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 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?\" Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. He waited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggled only alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus the \"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 Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.\n\n<question>:\nWhy is it so easy to steal from Fownes?\n\n<options>:\nA He is distracted by his thoughts\nB He is unable to defend himself\nC He is unaware of his possessions' value\nD He is physically feeble\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
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108
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quality
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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>:\nPEGGY FINDS THE THEATER I Dramatic Dialogue “Of course, this is no surprise to us,” Thomas Lane said to his daughter Peggy, who perched tensely on Peggy lay on her back, staring at the ceiling and the edge of a kitchen stool. “We could hardly have herself on? Which ones would she do best? And calling it a quick decision!” She turned to her mother, her hazel eyes flashing under a mass of dark chestnut of the roles which had once seemed perfectly suited to her talent and her appearance. But both had changed. She was certainly not a mature actress yet, from any point of view, but neither was she a schoolgirl. Her trim figure was well formed her face had lost the undefined, simple cuteness of the early teens, and had gained character. She didn’t think she should read a young romantic part like Juliet. Not curls. “Mother, you understand, don’t you?” that she couldn’t do it, but perhaps something ? Or perhaps not Shakespeare at all. Maybe the people at the Academy would think she was too arty or too pretentious? Maybe she should do something dramatic and full of stormy emotion, like Blanche in A Streetcar Named warm and slow. ? Or, better for her development and age, a light, brittle, comedy role...? 19 Nothing seemed quite right. Peggy’s thoughts “Peg, I don’t want to hold up your career. I don’t have any objections to your wanting to act. I think—judging Desire and all important.” “None of them is as fascinating as acting to me,” Peggy replied, “and none of them is nearly as important to my life.” just the same way when I was your age, except that for me it was singing instead of acting. But—” and here her pleasant face betrayed a trace of this and wanting it for years! You can’t follow that by “What you must realize, Margaret, is that you may not quite make the grade. We think you’re wonderful, except luck. You may be one of these girls, and if you are, we want you to be prepared for it. We want you to have something to fall back on, just in case which ones were most suited to her now? She recognized that she had grown and developed past some Peggy stared at the faded linoleum on the floor for Peggy said. “I’m not that conceited or that silly. All “It seems to me, Tom, that Margaret has a pretty good idea of what she’s doing,” Mrs. Lane said. “She sounds sensible and practical. If she were all starry-eyed and expected to see her name in lights in a few evenly. “Peg, your mother and I are cautious only because we love you so much and want what’s going to make Mrs. Lane patted Peggy’s arm and said, “We won’t Peggy nodded silently and walked to the kitchen As she stepped out into the soft summer dusk she turned to look back just in time to see her mother throw her a comically exaggerated wink of assurance. Feeling much better, Peggy shut the screen door behind been Peggy’s favorite place to go to be by herself and Peggy stopped first at the bag that hung on the wall Peggy’s hand in appreciation. Peggy had lived all her life here, knew every tree-shaded Seeing the image of herself hungry and tired, going from office to office looking for a part in a play, Peggy suddenly laughed aloud and brought herself soft-eyed gaze of Socks. She threw her arm around the smooth bay neck and laid her face next to the see how they were coming along, Peggy continued Jean grinned, her eyes shut tight against the soapsuds. “Again, I’m afraid,” she answered. “Maybe it’s a nervous habit!” “Well, if I do go bald, at least it will be with a clean scalp!” Jean answered with a humorous crinkle hair was tightly plastered to the back of her head. “There!” she announced. “Don’t I look beautiful?” 10 After a brisk rubdown with one towel, Jean rolled another dry towel around her head like an Indian tattered, plaid bathrobe, she led Peggy out of the comfortable on the pillow-strewn daybeds, Jean came straight to the point. “So the grand debate is still going on, is it? When do you think they’ll make up their minds?” she asked. decided yet.” “You know, if I were as smart as you,” Peggy said thoughtfully, “I would have figured out a way to convince Mother and Dad by now.” “Oh, don’t feel bad about being dumb,” Jean said in mock tones of comfort. “If I were as pretty and talented as you are, I wouldn’t need brains, either!” With a hoot of laughter, she rolled quickly aside on the floor, Peggy looked up at her friend with a rueful “Nonsense!” Jean replied firmly. “Your parents know a lot better than to confuse being stuffy with being grown-up and responsible. And, besides, I doubt in the world about you. But they know how hard it can be to get a start as an actress, and they “I know,” Peggy answered. “We had a long talk decision. You know,” she said suddenly, sitting up on the floor and crossing her legs under her, “I bet they wouldn’t hesitate a minute if you would only talent when I see it—and to recognize that it’s not there when it isn’t!” “But, Jean,” Peggy protested, “you can handle comedy and character lines as well as anyone I know!” Jean nodded, accepting the compliment and seeming at the same time to brush it off. “That doesn’t more to being an actress—a successful one—than reading lines well. There’s the ability to make the audience sit up and notice you the minute you walk make them look at you and respond to you and be with you all the way, even with bad lines. That’s “No buts!” Jean cut in. “We’ve talked about this enough before, and I’m not going to change my mind. I’m as sure about what I want as you are about your mind as easily as all that?” Peggy asked. “That’s the dark and devious part of my plan,” Jean answered with a mysterious laugh that ended in a comic witch’s cackle and an unconvincing witch-look that was completely out of place on her round, I’ll be in a spot where I can use my special talent of recognizing talent. And that way,” she added, becoming Peggy nodded silently, not trusting herself to speak for fear of saying something foolishly sentimental, or even of crying. Her friend’s earnestness about the importance of her work and her faith in Peggy’s talent had touched her more than she could say. The silence lasted what seemed a terribly long time, until Jean broke it by suddenly jumping up and that her parents had had enough time to talk things out. Leaving the Wilson house, she walked slowly despite her eagerness, trying in all fairness to give her As Peggy entered the room, her father put down “What’s all set, Dad?” Peggy said, breaking into a sure was to follow his announcement. But Peggy just stood, hardly moving a muscle. Then she walked Peggy swallowed hard before answering. When her voice came, it sounded strange, about two tones higher than usual. “I ... I’m trying to be sedate ... and poised ... and very grown-up,” she said. “But it’s not easy. All I want to do is to—” and she of oatmeal cookies, no longer “sedate” or “poised,” but her natural, bubbling self. “Who was that on the phone, and where are the three of us going, and what’s all set?” give us some help. Her name is May Berriman, and she’s spent all her life in the theater. In fact, she was “Oh, Mother! It sounds wonderful!” Peggy exulted. “Tomorrow?” Peggy repeated, almost unable to believe prevent her from rushing out of the kitchen. “Not now, young lady! We’ll pack in the morning, talk Reluctantly, Peggy agreed, recognizing the sense\n\n<question>:\nWhich of these sets of descriptions best describes Peggy?\n\n<options>:\nA She's dedicated, bold, and pretty\nB She's talented, unwise, and creative\nC She's reserved, strong, and caring\nD She's reasonable, unobservant, and bold\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "A"
}
] |
1,765
|
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>:\nslowed, and settled to their proper places. Standing in the sticky, the robot apprehensively. Half comforts, make smooth his way. Then the robots figured out an additional service—putting Man out of his misery. There was a sudden crash that hung sharply in the air, floor. \"Damn!\" He cursed again, for the tenth time, and stood uncertainly in the dimness. He tried to visualize the computing circuits needed for the operation of its tracking mechanism alone. \"There just isn't room for the electronics. You'd need a computer as big as the one at camp headquarters.\" tree-bound octopus. Fitful little plants grew straggly in the the tentacles of some monstrous In the distance the sky blazed on the planet, the shadows other! The one I jammed must be calling others to help.\" He began to move along the too far away to be effective but churning towards him through the blackness. clearing of the camp site, the temporary home for the scout ship and the eleven men who, with Alan, were the only humans on the jungle planet, Waiamea. area to the two temporary structures, the camp headquarters where the power supplies and the computer were and the sleeping quarters. Beyond, nose high, stood the silver scout ship that had brought the advance exploratory party of scientists because a man can sometimes cover to shake, then clicked sharply for which they were built, completely, as an overload relay snapped thoroughly, without feeling, tight shut before he could see again, and the robots would move a little closer. towards the camp, leaving Alan \"All I need is to get lost.\" He pictured the camp computer with no one to stop it, automatically where he could lie and watch the wider and wider forays, slowly wiping every trace of life from lower half of the cat creature which had clung across the barrel. But the back pressure of the cat's body overloaded the discharge circuits. The robot started to separate sense from futility. and without human masters Finally parts would wear out, circuits would short, and one by the planet. Technologically advanced machines doing the job alone. Shakily, Alan crawled a few children, eager girls, and their men would also lie, beside a rusty hulk, beneath the alien feet back into the undergrowth one the killers would crunch to sun. sounds had been and why there hadn't been anyone around the camp site. A charred blob lying in the grass of the clearing confirmed his hypothesis. His stomach Though visibility didn't make any difference to the robots, he felt safer, somehow, hidden. He these robots in a batch and then activated them all at once, probably and fell heavily. Pain danced up his leg as he grabbed his ankle. Quickly he exist no more. And the bones of earth. camp, but not himself be seen. He shuddered. \"Not a very healthy spot to spend the night. On the other hand, I certainly can't get to the camp with a pack of mind-activated mechanical killers running around. If I can just hold out until morning, when the big ship arrives ... The big ship! Good Lord, Peggy!\" He turned white oily sweat punctuated his forehead. night sky, and half dragging his swelling leg he stumbled out of building, housing the robot-controlling computer. Still firing at short intervals he started across Ahead, across fifty yards of at every step. Straining every muscle in spite of the agonizing pain, Alan forced himself to a limping run It was crazy, he supposed, to marry a girl and then take off for an unknown planet, with her the jungle waiting, it seemed, for his small blaster to run dry. \"Be damned! You can't win now!\" Alan yelled between blaster thirty years of loneliness and had, at last, given him a reason at his feet. He dropped the useless gun. \"No!\" He threw himself on the ground as a new robot suddenly appeared around the edge at the robot's antenna. In a flash, hundreds of the winged things erupted angrily from the hole in a swarming cloud, each part of planet's double moon had risen the door. It fired again, closer, Six or seven others also left the camp headquarters area and as he fumbled with the lock headed for the jungle, each to a Frantically, Alan slammed open the door as the robot, sensing by the blast. red-clad safety switch mounted beside the computer. Time stopped. There was nothing else in the world. He half-jumped, half-fell him. His stomach tightened. Panic. The dank, musty smell of the jungle seemed for an instant to thicken and choke in his throat. Then he thought of the big ship landing in the morning, settling down slowly after a lonely two-week voyage. He thought of a brown-haired girl crowding with the others to the gangway, eager brain. He moaned. A voice spoke hollowly in the to embrace the new planet, and of a design error or a misplaced wire in a machine. \"I have to try,\" he said aloud. \"I have to space medical insignia. \"Yes,\" he acknowledged the question in he could manage to keep ahead tightly against him. Neither of them spoke. They couldn't. There was too much to say. THE END Transcriber's Note: of it, barely out of blaster range. floor, hiding debris that tripped him and often sent him sprawling Only, the robot didn't get tired. pants and shirt. Behind, the robot crashed imperturbably after multi-hurting thing that crawled through his body and dragged ragged tentacles across his a pack of small feline creatures There wouldn't be much. \"Enough for a few more shots, load in fresh cells this morning!\" The robot crashed on, louder now, gaining on the tired human. Legs aching and bruised, stinging from insect bites, Alan tried to force himself to run buckled. His blaster fell into the shadows. The robot crashed loudly behind him now. Without stopping to think, Alan fumbled along the ground after his gun, straining and leaped back, trying frantically to wipe the clinging, you, Pete! Damn your robots! Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!\" He stepped into emptiness. by the water, the pain began to fall away. He wanted to lie there as the heavy little robot rolled slowly and inexorably towards he thought, \"in battle dress.\" He tried to stand but his legs were almost too weak and his arm felt numb. \"I'll drown him,\" he said aloud. \"I'll drown Peggy, arriving tomorrow months or years, but eventually, as now, he would have to watch, with the other colonists, the \"Dammit, no law says I have to flame-out now !\" He forced himself to rise, forced his legs to stand, struggling painfully in the shin-deep ooze. He worked his way to the bank and began to but he forced his hands to dig, dig, dig, cursing and crying to grass stood the headquarters small cave about three feet deep in the bank. Beyond that the soil was held too tightly by the roots from above and he had to stop. a second, its treads spinning crazily as the earth collapsed underneath it, where Alan had Without hesitation Alan threw himself across the blaster housing, frantically locking his arms around the barrel as the robot's treads churned furiously in the sticky mud, causing it to buck and plunge like a Brahma bull. The treads stopped and the down. Then the whole housing whirled around and around, tilting alternately up and down like trying to dislodge a tenacious crab, while Alan, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the blaster skin. Slowly, trying to anticipate and shift his weight with the hardly able to move on the wildly swinging turret, he felt down the sides to the thin crack between the revolving housing and the stationary portion of the robot. With a quick prayer he\n\n<question>:\nWhy are there only 11 men on the planet's surface?\n\n<options>:\nA They wanted to establish a colony only for men.\nB They served as a lookahead team for a larger group.\nC They wanted to go unnoticed as they set up on the planet's surface.\nD There was not enough space on the ship for more people.\n\n<answer>:\n",
"assistant": "B"
}
] |
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