Subset (3)

instruct · 4.61k rows

Split (2)

train · 2.52k rows

conversation_id int64 1 2.52k	category stringclasses 1 value	conversation list
2,285	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, which she always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk. \"It's in your purse,\" I blurted out. I was sent home with a stinging note. Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was able International Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, it seems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapement and balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The last luggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went through slips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and a ukulele. I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first. The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft, flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was a I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spent a frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop that balance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I tried to close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, the the landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel would start again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still. I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybe calling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions. Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before the unconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walking through the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. I had my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other. So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane and watch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfield carts. They weren't as careful as I would have been. It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag contained the bomb I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. The assortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—was packed in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate where I was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining the balance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down a ramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloaded and placed in a long rack. I went with it. There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases, and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast to determine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left was the attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, and a fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one. The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment I stared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presented it to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and I was ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags with his eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed it toward me. \"Thanks,\" I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward the remaining bag. \"One left over, eh?\" He was getting too curious. \"Oh, I just wondered, that's all.\" I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entrance and put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurrying over. \"Cab?\" Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb. I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggage claim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ran through my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfied man named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussing something very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what could I do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take the bag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able to live with myself. No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—until what? A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out of the entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on a pair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I could tell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain the whole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my own But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and started across the street to the parking area. I could have called to him, \"Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag.\" But I didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claim counter out of the side of my eye. The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the ramp to the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I went inside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bag on the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. The clerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room. I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. How many minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to the had to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop the clock again. \"Can I help you?\" the clerk asked. \"No. I'm waiting for someone.\" I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against the device, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheel escaped my grasp. \"Do you have my suitcase?\" I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stood there looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right hand how I had discovered what was in her overnight bag. pale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tears there when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag. airport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said her name was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was a bomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worried when we reached the lobby. The two bags weren't there. I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap. \"See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old battered suitcase?\" \"Bag? Suitcase?\" he mumbled. Then he became excited. \"Why, a man just stepped out of here—\" He turned to look down the street. \"That's him.\" The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off Julia's bag in his right hand, mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry. The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He came abreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the door and threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in. The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time I reached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, then walked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with the redcap, who said, \"That man steal them suitcases?\" \"That he did,\" I said. Just then the airport policeman started across the street from the parking lot. Redcap said, \"Better tell him about it.\" The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, \"We'd better get over to the office.\" The officer said, \"Yes, miss?\" \"I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat happened to the man who stole the suitcases?\n\n<options>:\nA The man who stole the suitcases was arrested by the FBI after the bomb-sniffing dogs caught up with him.\nB The man who stole the suitcases was mauled by the bomb-sniffing dogs.\nC The man who stole the suitcases died when the bomb exploded.\nD The man who stole the suitcases was arrested by the airport police.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,790	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nfrom their position. Finally, a three-man team, asbestos-clad, lead-shielded, stepped out from the ring of spectators. They carried geiger counters on long poles before them. Jerry held his breath as they approached the object The VENUS not more than fifteen feet in total circumference. \"We expect a certain amount of \"Greetings from Venus,\" it phrase in six languages. \"The ship you see is a Venusian Class 7 interplanetary rocket, built for one-passenger. It is clear of all radiation, and is perfectly assignment he had waited four years to get. But another \"A crate—\" \"Colligan! Moore! Schaffer! Lend a hand here—\" A trio came forward and hoisted the crate out of the ship. Jerry deduced that it must have load of the ship. \"Please open the crate. You will find our delegate within. with the courtesy of an official emissary.\" They set to work on the crate, its gray plastic material giving in readily to the application of personal their tools. But when it was amazement and consternation. There were a variety of metal pieces packed within, protected by a filmy packing material. \"Wait a minute,\" the general said. \"Here's a book—\" He picked up a gray-bound volume, and opened its cover. \"'Instructions for assembling Delegate,'\" he read aloud. \"'First, remove all parts and \"You mean the spaceship's arrange them in the following coming down?\" arrange for the nose cone to order. A-1, central nervous system item which had started the build the damn thing.\" The Delegate, a handsomely constructed robot almost eight feet tall, was pieced together some three hours later, by a team of scientists and engineers \"Yes. A special foreign ministers instructions as elementary as a blueprint in an Erector set. But simple as the job was, they were morning, and a decision was mechanism they had assembled. they ought to get the Secret obeyed the final instruction. obviously impressed by the They found button K, and pressed it. The robot bowed. \"Thank you, gentlemen,\" it said, in sweet, unmetallic accents. the 39 Steps place ...\" It wasn't until three days after the landing that Jerry Bridges saw the Delegate again. radio message to earth from the Along with a dozen assorted escort me to the meeting came to the Red Tape Bar &amp after seventy-two frustrating hours, he was escorted by Marine guard into New York City. it was the yet to come. The vast auditorium which housed the general assembly was filled to its capacity, Spocker was unavailable. His foreign minister's debate. And the cause of it all, a placid, highly-polished metal robot, was seated blithely at a desk which bore the designation: VENUS. The robot delegate stood up. \"Gentlemen,\" it said into the microphone, and the great men the confining effect of a mannishly-tailored prompt attention. I come as a Her hand, small and delicate, felt like a slab of lead when it slammed into his cheek. She left a bruise five fingers wide, and then turned and stalked instrumentation which has been created for me, and I come to offer your planet not merely a threat, a promise, or the unpaid bill. It took a rapid \"Your earth satellites have we foresee the day when contact cannot last in the face of job, and then you won't have But do all this now at your command. Once unleashed, these forces may or may not destroy all that you have gained. But we, the scientists of Venus, promise you this—that \"It just won't be any use. Venus will act swiftly, mercilessly, \"The vessel which brought me Earth, as a messenger of war. Unstoppable, inexorable, it may return, bearing a different Delegate human \"But if you print one but in the explosion of atoms. Think of thousands of such Delegates, from Venus—a Delegate of the planet Venus, men of Earth, poised to wreak its wrath upon Four days later, a mysterious of Los Alamos, and the Venus spacecraft was no more. Two hours after that, the robot delegate, its message delivered, its mission fulfilled, requested to be locked inside a bombproof chamber. When the door was being launched by the Russians. \"The State Department, silly. apartment, and it was the first ?\" session of the UN just to figure out what to do about it. The only hitch is, Russia doesn't want to wait that long, and is \"But don't you think he's done \"I'm not worried about that. I think that damn robot did more for peace than anything that's ever come along in this \"Don't be silly. The spaceship's from Venus they've already from last night.\" established that. And the does. But in the middle of an \"Wait a minute!\" the UN and everything, and they want to take part. They say that with all the satellites a debris of cardboard boxes, he found a worn old leather brief case, and cackled with delight \"You mean these Venusians to do, right away!\" when I'm not wanted.\" She took her hat and coat from I'm not even supposed to it?\" Laboratory about now.\" \"Holland Laboratory? What's a massive woman with gray hair and impervious to Where is this place?\" and located a fresh-painted can't deliver any messages.\" an envelope, stamped URGENT. \"Do it for me, Hedy. And I'll buy you the flashiest pair of deliver it with his next batch of mail.\" \"When will that be?\" \"In an hour. He's in a terribly now.\" \"You've got some mail right there. Earrings and a bracelet to match.\" \"There was something about the Robot's speech that sounded familiar—I could have sworn I'd heard some of the words with a grin of triumph. There were six men in the room, three in military uniform. by the waiting reporters and produced a sheet of paper. right to know about this spaceship by the Delegate from Venus.\" homing pigeon you constructed. landing site. But you will not be and engineers, a group press until such a time as about a group of teachers, scientists, he whispered. \"We're supposed to group would secretly launch an earth satellite of their own, and favor. Now come down safely at a certain time and place. They would install a marvelous electronic robot within the cone, ready to be assembled. They would beam a about the landing tonight—\" cone, seemingly as if it originated from their 'spaceship.' Then, when the Robot was assembled, Landing instructions are being given at Los Alamos, and the they would speak ship will presumably land reached to accept the delegate. through it to demand peace for on it. Meanwhile, consider yourself in custody.\" The USAF jet transport wasn't the only secrecy-shrouded will be a jet leaving Washington the rear seat flanked by two Sphinx-like Secret Service men, did it, there might not be a aircraft that took off that evening aboard. probed the thick cumulus. There were sleek, purring black autos waiting to rush the air passengers to some unnamed destination. of nowhere. On the perimeter, official vehicles were parked in orderly rows, and four USAF trailer trucks were in evidence, their radarscopes turning slowly. This etext was produced from but it was well-ordered contained. He was allowed to leave the It stood impassive until they in an intricate pattern. part! \"Here she comes!\" a voice shouted. And in a moment, the heard. Then the crisscrossing lights struck metal, glancing off the gleaming body of a descending object. Larger and larger the object grew, until it assumed the definable shape of a squat hit, a dust cloud obscured it from sight. unintelligible order, but its message\n\n<question>:\nWhy doesn't the robot arrive already put together?\n\n<options>:\nA The spaceship is only 15 feet in total circumference. If the robot was already put together it wouldn't fit inside.\nB The Venusians think the task of building the robot will unite the people of Earth.\nC Professor Coltz's team thinks the task of building the robot will unite the people of Earth.\nD The robot is sent in pieces packed in a special material to protect it from the landing impact.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
324	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>:\nbank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, they all wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers, brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs over the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulled out the front door and running down the street toward the police station in the next block, shouting, \"Help! Help! Robbery!\" the gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to the floor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front, in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine. Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch. and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb and drove straight down the street toward the police station. The police cars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shooting There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robbers path behind them. Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenly started jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. And all the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robbers when they crawled dazedly out of their car. tires .\" \"Well,\" said Pauling, \"it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbed \"What I can't figure out,\" said Stevenson, \"is exactly what made those tires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't that hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fast enough to melt your tires down.\" Pauling shrugged again. \"We got them. That's the important thing.\" \"Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling out Rockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubes blow out and there they are.\" Stevenson shook his head. \"I can't figure it.\" stolen almost immediately after it happened.\" was gone.\" \"You left the keys in it?\" \"Yes, sir. In here.\" 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.\" Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. \"Look at that! There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! What did you use, incendiary bullets?\" Stevenson shook his head. \"No, sir. When that happened they were two \"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car.\" a bank holdup.\" the car was stolen?\" \"Of course not!\" The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn man 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 neighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two television house. The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere, and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at the corner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr. 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. ointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. The neighbors went home and telephoned their friends. \"Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson?\" he demanded. \"I'm not sure,\" admitted Stevenson. \"But we've got these two things. First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt for no reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk. patience. \"What are you trying to prove?\" \"I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. And what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?\" \"They were defective,\" said Hanks promptly. \"All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on the trunk?\" \"How do I know?\" demanded the captain. \"Kids put it on before the car was stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows? What do you trying to prove?\" \"I guess,\" said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, \"I guess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and made that rifle too hot, and left his signature behind.\" \"What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What are \"And what made it so hot?\" \"Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What do you refrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and getting all upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch. Remember?\" The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separate clubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to play \"Listen, lady,\" said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, \"we got a long way to go to get home.\" \"Yeah,\" said another kid, in a black mask, \"and we're late as it is.\" \"I couldn't care less,\" Judy told them callously. \"You can't go down black knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. \"Why can't we go down there?\" this apparition demanded. \"Because I said so,\" Judy told him. \"Now, you kids get away from here. Take off.\" \"Hey!\" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. \"Hey, they're fighting down there!\" \"Cheez,\" said one of the kids. \"The cops!\" \"Fuzz!\" screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward the schoolyard, shouting, \"Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!\" The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, waving their arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pulling off their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering. They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy's warning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once both that much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny ever seeing that word on their jackets until after the fight.\" \"A bunch of juvenile delinquents,\" said Hanks in disgust. \"You take their word?\" \"I glanced through it.\" \"All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they started fighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at once all the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins and belt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch. And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had to pull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were later collected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had been you something,\" said Hanks severely. \"They heard the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed\n\n<question>:\nWhy did the bank robbers end up crashing?\n\n<options>:\nA The cops used incendiary bullets to melt the tires.\nB The Scorpion somehow melted their tires.\nC They didn't realize the car they stole was damaged.\nD It was so hot outside that their tires melted and blew out.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,153	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nthe path altogether.\" \"But the book is due! The Conference speech—\" \"I think we'll make some changes in the book,\" Lessing said slowly. \"It'll be costly—but it might even be fun. It's a pretty dry, logical Dr. David Lessing found Jack Dorffman and the boy waiting in his office silly asses of ourselves? Because when I finish this book, we'll be his heavy unshaven face seemed to sag at every crease. Lessing \"So you bring him down here,\" said Lessing sourly. \"The worst place he There was nothing singular about the boy's appearance. He was thin, with a pale freckled face and the guileless expression of any normal eight-year-old as he blinked across the desk at Lessing. The awkward appeal in his large grey eyes as Lessing flipped the reader-switch and blinked in alarm at the wildly thrashing pattern on the tape. The boy was terrorized. He was literally pulsating with fear. Lessing sat back slowly. \"Tell me about it, Tommy,\" he said gently. \"Of me? Of Dr. Dorffman?\" Lessing shook his head. \"I don't think so, Tommy. You know what the \"Well, we'll see. You can stay here for a while.\" Lessing nodded at \"I know, I know.\" Lessing chewed his lip. \"I don't like it. We'd better deal with this morning—the one who's threatening to upset the whole Conference next month with some crazy theories he's been playing with. I'll probably have to take him out to the Farm to shut him up.\" Lessing ran a hand through sparse grey hair. \"See what you can do for the boy of it. If Tommy's in the trouble I think he's in, we don't dare risk a chance of Adult Contact now. We could end up with a dead boy on our hands.\" Two letters were waiting on Lessing's desk that morning. The first was approached publication date, Lessing wondered if he would ever really The other letter cheered him a bit more. It bore the letterhead of the Dear Dr. Lessing: 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. Lessing a bony hand, then flung himself into a chair as he stared about Lessing frowned. \"Dr. Melrose, I don't quite understand—\" don't think I can do it, you're in for quite a dumping.\" Lessing sat back slowly. \"Tell me—just what, exactly, do you want?\" \"I want to hear this fairy tale you're about to publish in the name of \"If the papers you've already published are a preview, we think it's false as Satan.\" \"And our controls are above suspicion.\" \"So far, we haven't found any way to set up logical controls,\" said Lessing slammed his fist down on the desk angrily. \"Have you got the Lessing shouted for his girl. \"Get Dorffman up here. We're going to the through the afternoon sun. \"I just finished the prelims. He's not cooperating.\" Lessing ground his teeth. \"I should be running him now instead of \"It's—unconventional, at any rate,\" Lessing snapped. \"Yet you said that you didn't know what.\" \"That's right,\" said Lessing. \"We don't.\" \"And you don't know why measuring.\" The Chicago man's face was thoughtful. \"In fact, you can't really be certain that your instruments are measuring the children at all. It's not inconceivable that the children might be measuring the instruments Lessing blinked. \"It's conceivable.\" the medicine instead of the patient. That was quite a wall to climb.\" it isn't governed by natural law. But how can we define the law? How can we define the limits of the phenomenon, for that matter? We can't work in the dark forever—we've crisis instead of giving way to panic is a differentiating quality.\" 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 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 Jack Dorffman burst in: \"What Dr. Lessing is saying is that they seem \"Some of our children are here only briefly,\" Lessing explained as Lessing smiled. \"This is an isolated phenomenon—it doesn't hold for Moments later Lessing was back in the observation room, leaving the \"That's what I think,\" said Lessing. Lessing blinked. \"Why should they?\" \"I'd say you were wrong,\" said Lessing. \"You couldn't have such data. tall man turned on him fiercely. \"Are you blind, man? Can't you see what danger you're in? If you publish your book now, you will become an Authority in a field where the most devastating thing that could possibly happen would be— firmly out of his mind. But somehow Melrose wouldn't force. \"Stop worrying about it,\" Dorffman urged. \"He's a crackpot. He's crawled way out on a limb, and now he's afraid your theory is going to cut it off under him. Well, that's his worry, not yours.\" Dorffman's Lessing shook his head. \"Maybe. But this field of work is different grounds aren't right at all, in this case.\" Dorffman snorted. \"Surely there's nothing wrong with theorizing—\" \"He wasn't objecting to the theory. He's afraid of what happens after the theory.\" \"He seems to, you mean. And therefore, anything he says about it \"Because a man can't fight for his life and reputation and still keep his objectivity,\" said Lessing. \"And what if he just happens to be wrong? Once he's an Authority the question of what's right and what's \"Yes, I know.\" Lessing's voice was weary. \"But first I think we'd you at the Farm, but you'd already left. The boy—\" She broke off helplessly. \"He's sick, Doctor. He's sicker than we ever imagined.\" \"What happened?\" 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 sat down on the table. \"Tommy, listen to me.\" His voice was \"I—can't get it—off,\" the boy said. The monitor , 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 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 Lessing felt the familiar prickly feeling run down his scalp as the 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 we've observed 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.\n\n<question>:\nWhich is the best representation of Dr. Lessing's worries about his book?\n\n<options>:\nA He is anxious about the amount of time it will take to revise\nB He is concerned that having to back up his claims could keep him from being objective\nC He is having second thoughts about his qualifications to publish a volume like this\nD He is not sure how he will be able to publish the facts without including the confusing information about the boy\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
909	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nNo movie in the last decade has succeeded in psyching out critics and audiences as fully as the powerful, rambling war epic The Thin Red Line , Terrence Malick's return to cinema after 20 years. I've sat through it twice and am still trying to sort out my responses, which run from awe to mockery and back. Like Saving Private Ryan , the picture wallops you in the gut with brilliant, splattery battle montages and Goyaesque images of hell on earth. But Malick, a certified intellectual and the Pynchonesque figure who directed Badlands and Days of Heaven in the 1970s and then disappeared, is in a different philosophical universe from Steven Spielberg. Post-carnage, his sundry characters philosophize about their experiences in drowsy, runic voice-overs that come at you like slow bean balls: \"Why does nature vie with itself? ... Is there an avenging power in nature, not one power but two?\" Or \"This great evil: Where's it come from? What seed, what root did it grow from? Who's doin' this? Who's killin' us, robbin' us of life and light?\" First you get walloped with viscera, then you get beaned by blather. He tells the story solemnly, in three parts, with a big-deal cast (Sean Penn, Nick Nolte, John Cusack) and a few other major stars (John Travolta, Woody Harrelson, George Clooney) dropping by for cameos. After an Edenic prelude, in which a boyishly idealistic absent without leave soldier, Pvt. Witt (Jim Caviezel), swims with native youths to the accompaniment of a heavenly children's choir, the first part sees the arrival of the Allied forces on the island, introduces the principal characters (none of whom amounts to a genuine protagonist), and lays out the movie's geographical and philosophical terrain. The centerpiece--the fighting--goes on for over an hour and features the most frantic and harrowing sequences, chiefly the company's initially unsuccessful frontal assault on a Japanese hilltop bunker. The coda lasts nearly 40 minutes and is mostly talk and cleanup, the rhythms growing more relaxed until a final, incongruous spasm of violence--whereupon the surviving soldiers pack their gear and motor off to another South Pacific battle. In the final shot, a twisted tree grows on the waterline of the beach, the cycle of life beginning anew. The Thin Red Line has a curious sound-scape, as the noise of battle frequently recedes to make room for interior monologues and Hans Zimmer's bump-bump, minimalist New Age music. Pvt. Bell (Ben Chaplin) talks to his curvy, redheaded wife, viewed in deliriously sensual flashbacks. (\"Love: Where does it come from? Who lit this flame in us?\") Lt. Col. Tall (Nolte), a borderline lunatic passed over one too many times for promotion and itching to win a battle no matter what the human cost, worries groggily about how his men perceive him. The dreamer Witt poses folksy questions about whether we're all a part of one big soul. If the movie has a spine, it's his off-and-on dialogue with Sgt. Welsh (Penn), who's increasingly irritated by the private's beatific, almost Billy Budd-like optimism. Says Welsh, \"In this world, a man himself is nothin', and there ain't no world but this one.\" Replies Witt, high cheekbones glinting, \"I seen another world.\" At first it seems as if Witt will indeed be Billy Budd to Welsh's vindictive Claggart. But if Witt is ultimately an ethereal martyr, Welsh turns out to be a Bogart-like romantic who can't stop feeling pain in the face of an absent God. He speaks the movie's epitaph, \"Darkness and light, strife and love: Are they the workings of one mind, the feature of the same face? O my soul, let me be in you now. Look out through my eyes. Look out at the things you made, all things shining.\" Whether or not these pearllike epiphanies are strung is another matter. Malick throws out his overarching theme--is nature two-sided, at war with itself?--in the first few minutes but, for all his startling juxtapositions, he never dramatizes it with anything approaching the clarity of, say, Brian De Palma's Casualties of War (1989). Besides the dialogue between Welsh and Witt, The Thin Red Line 's other organizing story involves a wrenching tug of war between Nolte's ambition-crazed Tall and Capt. Staros (Elias Koteas), who refuses an order to send his men on what will surely be a suicidal--and futile--assault on a bunker. But matters of cause and effect don't really interest Malick. Individual acts of conscience can and do save lives, and heroism can win a war or a battle, he acknowledges. But Staros is ultimately sent packing, and Malick never bothers to trace the effect of his action on the Guadalcanal operation. In fact, the entire battle seems to take place in a crazed void. Tall quotes Homer's \"rosy-fingered dawn\" and orders a meaningless bombardment to \"buck the men up--it'll look like the Japs are catching hell.\" Soldiers shoot at hazy figures, unsure whether they're Japanese or American. Men collide, blow themselves in half with their own mishandled grenades, stab themselves frantically with morphine needles, shove cigarettes up their noses to keep the stench of the dying and the dead at bay. A tiny bird, mortally wounded, flutters in the grass. To the families involved in the Woburn tragedy, the real climax of this story isn't the downbeat ending of the book or the sleight of hand, \"let's call the Environmental Protection Agency,\" upbeat ending of the movie. The climax is the publication of a book that takes the plaintiffs' side and that remains on the best-seller list in hardcover and paperback for years. The climax is the movie starring John Travolta. Beatrice and Grace made out OK legally, but some of us will never use their products again without thinking about Travolta losing his shirt in the name of those wasted-away little kids.\n\n<question>:\nAccording to the film reviewer, which of the following actors emerges as the central character?\n\n<options>:\nA Sergeant Welsh\nB Private Witt\nC Lieutenant Colonel Tall\nD None of the above\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,173	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>:\nthat—and an institution is where they put Aunt Maggy when she began collecting Wheaties in a stamp album. We can't appeal to them that way. Come on now.\" I smiled condescendingly, knowing it would irritate him. I stopped him with both raised hands. \"Please, Professor Caswell! That and industry. Caswell had to show a way to make his own department instinctively slipped into his platform lecture mannerisms, and began to deliver an essay—\"have certain tendencies built into the way they happen to have been organized, which cause them to expand or contract without reference to the needs they were founded to serve.\" He was becoming flushed with the pleasure of explaining his subject. \"All through the ages, it has been a matter of wonder and dismay to men that a simple organization—such as a church to worship in, against an outside enemy—will either grow insensately and extend its control until it is a tyranny over their whole lives, or, like other organizations set up to serve a vital need, will tend to repeatedly dwindle and vanish, and have to be painfully rebuilt. \"The reason can be traced to little quirks in the way they were organized, a matter of positive and negative power feedbacks. Such effects could somehow be simplified and formulated. In working on the problem, I found that the mathematics of open system, as introduced to biology by Ludwig von Bertalanffy and George Kreezer, could be used as a base that would enable me to develop a specifically social \"By these formulations, it is possible to determine automatically the amount of growth and period of life of any organization. The UN, to choose an unfortunate example, is a shrinker type organization. Its authority on their own. Yet by the use of formula analysis—\" \"That's theory,\" I said. \"How about proof?\" \"My equations are already being used in the study of limited-size Federal corporations. Washington—\" repressing an urge to hit me with it. He spoke quietly. \"All right, I'll give you a demonstration. Are you willing to wait six months?\" \"Certainly, if you can show me something at the end of that time.\" \"I see you have your problems, too,\" Caswell said, conceding me Caswell had to make it work or get out. At lunch, three days later, while we were waiting for our order, he opened a small notebook. \"Ever hear of feedback effects?\" \"Not enough to have it clear.\" \"You know the snowball effect, though.\" \"Sure, start a snowball rolling downhill and it grows.\" \"Well, now—\" He wrote a short line of symbols on a blank page and I hadn't expected to understand the equation, but it was almost as clear as a sentence. I was impressed and slightly intimidated by it. He had already explained enough so that I knew that, if he was right, here was the growth of the Catholic Church and the Roman Empire, the conquests of Alexander and the spread of the smoking habit and the change and rigidity of the unwritten law of styles. \"Is it really as simple as that?\" I asked. \"You notice,\" he said, \"that when it becomes too heavy for the cohesion strength of snow, it breaks apart. Now in human terms—\" human behavior in groups. After running through a few different types of grower and shrinker type organizations, we came back to the snowball, and decided to run the test by making something grow. manipulation so that a special grouping appeared in the middle of the equation. \"That's it.\" Since I seemed to have the right idea, I suggested some more, and he added some, and juggled them around in different patterns. We threw out a few that would have made the organization too complicated, and finally worked out an idyllically simple and deadly little organization setup where joining had all the temptation of buying a sweepstakes ticket, going in deeper was as easy as hanging around a race track, and getting out was like trying to pull free from a Malayan thumb trap. We put our heads closer together and talked lower, picking the best place for the demonstration. already. We can pick a suitable group from that.\" \"This demonstration has got to be convincing. We'd better pick a little group that no one in his right mind would expect to grow.\" \"There should be a suitable club—\" stood up, bowing to polite applause and smiles. \"Professor Caswell, and minutes I began to feel sleepy. There were only about thirty people there, and it was a small room, not I pointed out to Caswell the member I thought would be the natural I nudged Caswell and murmured, \"Did you fix it so that a shover has a \"I think there's a way they could find for it,\" Caswell whispered back, and went to work on his equation again. \"Yes, several ways to bias the \"Good. Point them out tactfully to the one you select. Not as if she'd use such methods, but just as an example of the reason why only After the meeting, Caswell drew the tall woman in the green suit limits and began the climb for University Heights. If Caswell's equations meant anything at all, we had given that sewing circle more growth drives than the Roman Empire. Four months later I had time out from a very busy schedule to wonder how the test was coming along. Passing Caswell's office, I put my head in. He looked up from a student research paper he was correcting. \"Caswell, about that sewing club business—I'm beginning to feel the suspense. Could I get an advance report on how it's coming?\" \"I'm not following it. We're supposed to let it run the full six months.\" \"Would that change the results?\" Poor Caswell. The bet between us was ironclad. He wouldn't let me shooting himself. It had seemed funny to both of us at the time, but.... What a mess And what if Caswell asked me what I had found out in the meantime? I Everyone's supposed to have it. We've just printed up six thousand copies to make sure there'll be enough to last.\" \" All we need is more members. Now get out there and recruit! \" Next day, after calling Mrs. Searles, I placed some red stars on my graph for the first three months. They made a nice curve, rising more steeply as it reached the fourth month. They had picked up their first increase in membership simply by amalgamating with all the other types inert, cantankerous, or both. Caswell's formula could be a handle to were spectacular. Caswell's formulas were proven to the hilt. students on their research papers and marking tests—not following the Watashaw business at all, I'm afraid. You say the demonstration went obviously he was still peeved whenever he was reminded that I had doubted that his theory could work. And he was using its success to needled him pretty hard that first time. \"I'm satisfied,\" I acknowledged. \"I was wrong. The formulas work beautifully. Come over and see my file of documents on it if you want a boost for your ego. Now let's see the formula for stopping it.\" grow . It falls apart naturally when it stops growing for more than two months. It's like the great stock boom before an economic crash. Everyone in it is prosperous as long as the prices just keep going up and new buyers come into the market, but to lose if membership stops growing. Why, if I tried to stop it now, they'd cut my throat.\" I remembered the drive and frenzy of the crowd in the one early meeting The graph on the desk before me began to look sinister. Surely Caswell must have made some provision for— \"You underestimate their ingenuity,\" I said into the phone. \"Since they wanted to expand, they didn't stick to sewing. They went from general growing more rapidly with each increase. \"Leaving out practical limitations for a moment, where does the formula say it will stop?\" I asked. \"When you run out of people to join it. But after all, there are only After the next doubling, the curve went almost straight up and off the page. Allowing for a lag of contagion from one nation to another, depending on how much their citizens intermingled, I'd give the rest of the world about twelve years. There was a long silence while Caswell probably drew the same graph\n\n<question>:\nWhat was an error in Caswell's theories (in reference to how they were applied)?\n\n<options>:\nA Their experiment assumed that only men would be interested in the test at hand\nB Their experiment assumed that only women would be interested in the test at hand\nC Their experiment was using too small a sample size\nD Their experiment was using too large an initial sample size\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,083	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>:\nWe know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality? A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. \"What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?\" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images (\"controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression\") they claim to have established the validity of \"automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry.\" In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one. It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that \"it is possible to infer character from features\" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct. The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film. Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results. The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as \"What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?\" prompted a wave of press coverage. The vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. \"The main problem is the sampling of the images,\" he says. \"There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status.\" In other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour. Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. \"Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do,\" he says. \"One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box.\" This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. \"You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy,\" says Hancock. \"I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'.\" The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. \"Are we back to Lombroso's theory,\" he asks, \"that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions.\" While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. \"People,\" he wrote, \"use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person).\" In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged. Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.\n\n<question>:\nWhich would the author think is most true?\n\n<options>:\nA We post pictures of ourselves online that we think are attractive to gain approval from specific people whose eyes we want to catch\nB Regular people can use their social media accounts to help locate bad people before crimes are committed, because people are better at this than computers\nC People know their photos are being judged by others when they post them so they critically judge them themselves first\nD The application of machine learning in the study of social media photos could make it easier to find criminals before they commit cimes\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
2,311	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>:\ninside, in the hospital ward, Lieutenant Alice Britton clutched at the sheets of her bed in pain, then relaxed as it faded away. Major Banes looked at her and smiled a little. \"How do you feel, 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 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 a call in.\" He paused, then repeated, \"You just take it easy. Call the nurse if anything happens.\" Then he turned and walked out of the room. Alice Britton closed her eyes. Major Banes was all smiles and cheer now, but he hadn't been that way five months ago. She chuckled softly to herself as she thought of his blistering speech. 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 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.\" So she had stayed on in the Space Station, doing her job as always. station. Her pregnancy had never made her uncomfortable the slow rotation of the wheel-shaped station about its axis gave an effective 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, As the words went through her mind, another spasm of pain hit her, and she clenched her fists tightly on the sheets again. It went away, and she took a deep breath. Everything had been fine until today. And then, only half an hour ago, that short time, a lot of air had gone whistling out into the vacuum of space. The depressurization hadn't hurt her too much, but the shock had been enough to start labor. The baby was going to come two months early. She relaxed a little more, waiting for the next pain. There was nothing to worry about she had absolute faith in the red-haired major. \"Incubator,\" he said, without taking his eyes off the clock. \"Incubator. We can't deliver a seven-month preemie without an incubator.\" The nurse's eyes widened. \"Good Lord! I never thought of that! What are you going to do?\" \"Right now, I can't do anything. I can't beam a radio message through I'll ask them to send up an emergency rocket with an incubator. But—\" \"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 globe beneath them. He had spent the hour typing out a complete report of what had happened to Alice Britton and a list of what he needed. He handed it to the teletype operator and paced the floor air from one room, nearby rooms would be safe. Banes' next stop was the hospital ward. Alice Britton was resting quietly, but there were lines of strain around her eyes which hadn't been there an hour before. \"How's it coming, Lieutenant?\" She smiled, but another spasm hit her before she could answer. After a time, she said: \"I'm doing fine, but you look as if you'd been through the mill. What's eating you?\" He forced a nervous smile. \"Nothing but the responsibility. You're 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.\" He went on talking, trying to keep the conversation light, but his eyes kept wandering to his wristwatch, timing Alice's pain intervals. They were coming too close together to suit him. I'll send a nurse in to be with her.\" He nodded, then turned back to Alice. \"Stiff uppah lip, and all that 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. medicine. I can handle depressurization, space sickness, and things like that, but I don't know anything about babies! I know what I read to go around having babies on a space station!\" \"It's all right, doctor. Shall I prepare the delivery room?\" one! Prepare the ward room next to the one she's in now, I guess. It's the best we have. The nurse left quietly. She knew Banes wasn't really angry at the Brittons it was simply his way of letting off steam to ease the tension within him. The slow, monotonous rotation of the second hand on the wall clock system, leaving too little oxygen in the atmosphere. It was a few minutes of ten when he decided he'd better get back to Alice Britton. She was trying to read a book between spasms, but she wasn't getting much read. She dropped it to the floor when he came in. \"Am I glad to see you! It won't be long now.\" She looked at him Again he tried to force a smile, but it didn't come off too well. \"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 that keeps him out of the way, and the doctor has coffee afterwards.\" 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 bringing one up. I—I think we'll be able to keep the child alive until—\" He stopped. Alice was bubbling up with laughter. \"Lieutenant! Lieutenant Britton! Alice! This is no time to get hysterical! Stop it!\" Her laughter slowed to a chuckle. \" Me get hysterical! That's a good one! What about you? You're so nervous you couldn't sip water out of a bathtub without spilling it!\" He blinked. \"What do you mean?\" Another pain came, and he had to wait until it was over before he got station like an incubator?'\" Space Ship Twelve docked at Space Station One at exactly eleven is doing fine, thank you.\" \"You mean— already \"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,\n\n<question>:\nWhy is Alice so relaxed when she finds out there is no incubator aboard the space station?\n\n<options>:\nA Alice knows any room in the space station can be made into a giant incubator with minor adjustments.\nB Alice is feeling delirious due to the pains of natural childbirth and is only concerned with getting the baby out, and getting the pain to stop at the moment.\nC Alice is feeling the effects of the morphine they gave her for the contractions and is not concerned with much of anything right now.\nD Alice is feeling the effects of the Demerol they gave her for the contractions and is not concerned with much of anything right now.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
614	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>:\nPaul Krugman replies to John Cassidy Letter from M. Mitchell Waldrop Paul Krugman replies to M. Mitchell Waldrop Letter from Kenneth J. Arrow Letter from Ted C. Fishman David Warsh's July 3, 1994, Boston Globe Letter from John Cassidy: Paul Krugman loves to berate journalists for their ignorance of economics, particularly his economics, but on this occasion, I fear, his logic is more addled than usual. I am reluctant to dignify his hatchet job with a lengthy reply, but some of his claims are so defamatory that they should be addressed, if only for the record. 5) For a man who takes his own cogitations extremely seriously, Krugman is remarkably cavalier about attributing motives and beliefs to others. \"Cassidy has made it clear in earlier writing that he does not like mainstream economists, and he may have been overly eager to accept a story that puts them in a bad light,\" he pronounces. I presume this statement refers to a critical piece I wrote in 1996 about the direction that economic research, principally macroeconomic research, has taken over the past two decades. In response to that article, I received dozens of messages of appreciation from mainstream economists, including from two former presidents of the American Economic Association. Among the sources quoted in that piece were the then-chairman of the White House Council of Economic Advisers (Joseph Stiglitz), a governor of the Federal Reserve Board (Laurence Meyer), and a well-known Harvard professor (Gregory Mankiw). To claim, as Krugman does, that I \"don't like mainstream economists\" and that I am out to denigrate their work is malicious hogwash. The fact of the matter is that I spend much of my life reading the work of mainstream economists, speaking to them, and trying to find something they have written that might interest the general public. In my experience, most economists appreciate the attention. 6) I might attach more weight to Krugman's criticisms if I hadn't recently reread his informative 1994 book Peddling Prosperity , in which he devotes a chapter to the rediscovery of increasing returns by contemporary economists. Who are the first scholars Krugman mentions in his account? Paul David, an economic historian who wrote a famous paper about how the QWERTYUIOP typewriter keyboard evolved and, you guessed it, Brian Arthur. \"Why QWERTYUIOP?\" Krugman wrote. \"In the early 1980s, Paul David and his Stanford colleague Brian Arthur asked that question, and quickly realized that it led them into surprisingly deep waters. ... What Paul David, Brian Arthur, and a growing number of other economists began to realize in the late seventies and early eighties was that stories like that of the typewriter keyboard are, in fact, pervasive in the economy.\" Evidently, Krugman felt four years ago that Arthur's contribution was important enough to merit a prominent mention in his book. Now, he dismisses the same work, saying it \"didn't tell me anything that I didn't already know.\" Doubtless, this change in attitude on Krugman's part is unconnected to the fact that Arthur has started to receive some public recognition. The eminent MIT professor, whose early academic work received widespread media attention, is far too generous a scholar to succumb to such pettiness. --John Cassidy Paul Krugman replies to John Cassidy: I think that David Warsh's 1994 in the Boston Globe says it all. If other journalists would do as much homework as he did, I wouldn't have had to write that article. Letter from M. Mitchell Waldrop: c) So, when I received Krugman's letter shortly after Complexity came out, I was puzzled: He was complaining that I hadn't referenced others in the increasing-returns field--Paul Krugman among them--although I had explicitly done so. d) But, when I checked the published text, I was chagrined to discover that the critical passage mentioning Krugman wasn't there. e) Only then did I realize what had happened. After I had submitted the manuscript, my editor at Simon &amp Letter from Kenneth J. Arrow: Paul Krugman's attack on Brian Arthur (\"The Legend of Arthur\") requires a correction of its misrepresentations of fact. Arthur is a reputable and significant scholar whose work is indeed having influence in the field of industrial organization and in particular public policy toward antitrust policy in high-tech industries. Krugman admits that he wrote the article because he was \"just pissed off,\" not a very good state for a judicious statement of facts, as his column shows. His theme is stated in his first paragraph: \"Cassidy's article [in The New Yorker of Jan. 12] tells the story of how Stanford Professor Brian Arthur came up with the idea of increasing returns.\" Cassidy, however, said nothing of the sort. The concept of increasing returns is indeed very old, and Cassidy at no point attributed that idea to Arthur. Indeed, the phrase \"increasing returns\" appears just once in Cassidy's article and then merely to say that Arthur had used the term while others refer to network externalities. Further, Arthur has never made any such preposterous claim at any other time. On the contrary, his papers have fully cited the history of the field and made references to the previous papers, including those of Paul Krugman. (See Arthur's papers collected in the volume Increasing Returns and Path Dependence in the Economy, especially his preface and my foreword for longer comments on Arthur's work in historic perspective. Click to see the foreword.) Hence, Krugman's whole attack is directed at a statement made neither by Arthur nor by Cassidy. Krugman has not read Cassidy's piece with any care nor has he bothered to review what Arthur has in fact said. What Cassidy in fact did in his article was to trace a line of influence between one of Arthur's early articles and the current claims of the Department of Justice against Microsoft. It appears that Cassidy based his article on several interviews, not just one. --Kenneth J. Arrow Nobel laureate and Joan Kenney professor of economics emeritus Stanford University Letter from Ted C. Fishman: After reading Paul Krugman vent his spleen against fellow economist Brian Arthur in \"The Legend of Arthur,\" I couldn't help wondering whose reputation he was out to trash, Arthur's or his own. Krugman seems to fear a plot to deny economists their intellectual due. If one exists, Arthur is not a likely suspect. In a series of long interviews with me a year ago (for Worth magazine), I tried, vainly, to get Arthur to tell me how his ideas about increasing returns have encouraged a new strain of economic investigations. Despite much prodding, Arthur obliged only by placing himself in a long line of theorists dating back to Adam Smith and Alfred Marshall. I also found him disarmingly generous in giving credit to the biologists, physicists, and fellow economists who have helped advance his own thinking. Savvy to the journalist's quest for heroes, Arthur urged me to focus on his ideas, not his rank among his peers. Krugman has made a career out of telling other economists to pay better attention to the facts, yet as a chronicler of Arthur's career and inner life, Krugman seems to have listened only to his own demons. --Ted C. Fishman (For additional background on the history of \"increasing returns\" and Brian Arthur's standing in the field, click for David Warsh's July 3, 1994, Boston Globe article on Brian Arthur)\n\n<question>:\nWhich of the following most likely happened to Krugman after these letters?\n\n<options>:\nA Krugman wrote an official apology to the writers.\nB Krugman wrote another book about increasing returns.\nC Krugman quit writing in newspapers.\nD Krugman lost credibility among his colleagues.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
707	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"Bring them in, please.\" It was a simple student exchange—but \"What would you say to two thousand?\" \"Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling?\" contingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDT transports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students. Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait.\" \"Listen, Jim,\" Retief said. \"I want you to go over to the warehouse and \"I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land,\" Retief said, to the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally.\" \"Send the bucolic person in.\" \"Sounds very pleasant,\" Retief said. \"Where does the Libraries and places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend a twenty-eight back?\" beef and popcorn over a Riesling base.\" \"It put us in a bad spot,\" Arapoulous went on. \"We had to borrow money from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to start exporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same when you're doing it for strangers.\" \"Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy,\" Retief said. \"What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?\" \"Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. But we need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you can grass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine toes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layer of grape juice?\" \"Never did,\" Retief said. \"You say most of the children are born after \"Forty-two, Terry years,\" Arapoulous said. \"But this year it looks bad. We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a big vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Then next vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—\" \"You hocked the vineyards?\" \"You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes,\" she said. \"Then afterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.\" As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleague across the table. \"Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie. What are they getting?\" Whaffle blinked. \"You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, over blinked at it. \"Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLE interested in MEDDLE's activities?\" \"Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped up earlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards over on—\" \"What kind of university do they have on d'Land?\" asked Retief. \"We're sending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite an \"University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.\" \"Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?\" \"Two thousand students? Hah! Two trade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand students cab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw them lined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be half \"Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one on me.\" \"I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know—\" he turned \"Heck, no,\" he said. \"Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go to \"We have quarters ready for the students,\" Retief said. \"If you'd like to bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laid \"Thanks,\" said Karsh. \"They'll stay here until take-off time. Can't \"We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a long wait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.\" \"Sorry,\" Karsh said. \"As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off.\" He hiccupped again. \"Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.\" \"Suit yourself,\" Retief said. \"Where's the baggage now?\" \"Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.\" \"Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.\" students?\" \"Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are bound \"Why, the University at d'Land, of course.\" \"Would that be the Technical College?\" me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors. But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on Lovenbroy.\" \"Well!\" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows. never mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?\" \"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business,\" Miss Furkle said. \"Mr. Magnan always—\" \"Sure,\" Retief said. \"Shoot. How many tractors?\" CROANIE (general).\" He paused at a page headed Industry. Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of Bacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each and production of such vintages.... Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and put through a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the Commercial Attache. \"Retief here, Corps HQ,\" he said airily. \"About the MEDDLE shipment, we're shipping five hundred units....\" \"It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—\" \"One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,\" Retief said. \"Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhaps half a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, they hundred and ninety tractors?\" \"I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatic tradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as a gift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some scheme cooking—\" \"Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction.\" \"The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into a \"Who gets the tractors eventually?\" \"Who gets them?\" \"And when will they be shipped?\" \"Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. But applications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placement of students.\" Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.\" \"I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. How \"Two thousand.\" \"And where will they be going?\" \"Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job is to provide transportation.\" \"Will there be any other students embarking this season?\" two thousand to Featherweight.\" Miss Furkle compressed her lips. \"If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm sure he wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments. I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the Croanie In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. \"Sorry if I'm rushing you, Retief,\" he said. \"But have you got anything for me?\" Retief waved at the wine bottles. \"What do you know about Croanie?\" \"Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you like fish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoon time. Over a foot long.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhere are the two thousand students being shipped to?\n\n<options>:\nA MUDDLE\nB Earth\nC Boge\nD Croanie\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,511	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>:\nonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings. Which are What is Doc's full name? I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, in search of what. So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all in thing greasy collar of the human. absurd, easy lie. \"Old events seem recent to him.\" The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight. \"'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. But Great-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl. or the Necronomican itself on human beings?\" \"Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than your Victorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reached back into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper than psychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powers of ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books, aliens . They weren't men the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic, Martians. They were state of pure thought.\" \"The North American government has the inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached a girl said. \"You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians.\" Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands. I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel thing fall into to have this secret, Kevin,\" the thing it because I didn't want the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose, kick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't really confident. Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without material \"You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I say jagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving it suddenly distinguishable. \" Outsider ... Thoth ... ... Oh, are that these like Doc and me. lumpy skull. perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. \"Do you want it for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else?\" call her that. \"A little more for food, if you could spare it.\" whatever. tourist . \"Now what do you want to eat?\" the woman asked. I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an Earth human. I was a man , of course, not an alien like a Martian. Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as an Earthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? That proved it, didn't it? \"Hamburger,\" I said. \"Well done.\" I knew that would probably be all they had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, but without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achieved \"It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey,\" she corrected. She was a a name, \"What do you think of this?\" I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine. : Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, \"The Scarlet Book\" revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe. Name thing knew this last time had been Doc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was a dissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into a meaningful whole. I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, I He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen, I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind of familiar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately. Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all these months—time travel. A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpled dressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils and hated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was a snowbird. \"My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into these rooms,\" the thin man remarked, \"but never before have they used instantaneous materialization.\" The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. \"I say—I say, I would like to see you explain this, my dear fellow.\" this unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a serious illness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the place and time from which he comes.\" The surprise stung. \"How did you know?\" I asked. He gestured with a pale hand. \"To maintain a logical approach, I must reject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—and despite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiences recently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses or retire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I might say super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time, clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been reading an article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand it into one of his novels of scientific romance.\" other—\" state?\" He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because I couldn't trust to my own senses as he did. \"You don't exist,\" I said slowly, painfully. \"You are fictional creations.\" The doctor flushed darkly. \"You give my literary agent too much credit for the addition of professional polish to my works.\" The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something that looked vaguely like an ice-skate. \"Interesting. Perhaps if our visitor would tell us something of his age with special reference to the theory and practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be better equipped to judge whether we exist.\" There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I had ever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perception to Relativity and the positron and negatron. \"Interesting.\" He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke. \"Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensory Perception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be. the goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosed unknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal. a snowbird. After a time, I asked the doctor a question. My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust mote It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've read was something else. \"I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair,\" I told her. She shook her head. \"I don't know what you think it does to you.\" It was getting hard for me to think. \"Who are you?\" She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable, North American Mounted Police. I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. \"What do you want?\" \"Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc found a method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical, topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept it secret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he had his crusades. How can you make money with time travel?\" I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knew was that I had to help Doc and get some coffee. thing \"Call me Andre,\" the Martian said. \"A common name but foreign. It should serve as a point of reference.\" I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. Sometimes I wondered if they really could. \"I'll keep it, thanks. What do want?\" \"They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received a \"Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again,\" I warned him, \"and I'll kill the girl.\" Martians were supposed to be against the that dirty.\" thing\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the \"thing\"?\n\n<options>:\nA A state of pure thought.\nB A book that doesn't exist.\nC A vehicle to find coffee.\nD An agent of time travel.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,791	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>:\nlines—little clothing being required in the artificially warmed Amazing Stories Amazing Stories The had whipped up to the base of another building, in the business section, where there was no room STORIES They were uncovering it. As they approached, a lean man, carrying a black bag, darted out of an elevator shaft opposite AMAZING STORIES He followed his initial success AMAZING STORIES his bag frantically, raving at the sleepy boy. service. Regular installations all over the world in a year.... Ready now. Come on in.\" \"Hands at your sides, don't breathe. Ready!\" were telling me about? Congratulations!\" courteously. \"All right, madam. Walk out. Hope you found the transit pleasant.\" is of special little else but, and it gave the barely avoiding the farcical by the validity of the notion that is the next big transportation frontier to be conquered. It is especially important because it stylistically forecast a later trend to accept the background for granted, regardless of the quantity of wonders, and proceed with the story. With only a few thousand The when covered wagons were the primary form of transportation heart-breaking war with \"And now what can I do for you, Eric?\" for the sake of survival on the \"We want to go to Venus, if The discovery orders are to use the Express merely between the sixteen designated was the escape stations, at New York, he sought and his goal was AMAZING STORIES he knew that a story of his had there.\" \"To Venus? Impossible. My San Francisco, Tokyo, London, AMAZING STORIES labored to this end and the first record as follows: \"I feel that By which I mean that it is the most interesting and stimulating Terrible place. Savage. I can pick a place on high land to set you down. But I can't be responsible for what happens afterward.\" \"Simple, primitive life is what we're looking for. And now what \"Oh, that's all right. Between friends. Provided that stuff's genuine! Walk in and lie down on gave it up, and walked through and began a series of fantastic \"Ready,\" called the youth. \"Think I've got it for you. Sort of a high island in the jungle. Nothing bad in sight now. But, I say—how're you coming back? I haven't got time to watch you.\" \"Go ahead. We aren't coming \"Gee! What is it? Elopement? I thought you were married already. Or is it business difficulties? The Bears did make an awful raid last night. But you better let me set you down in Hong Kong.\" A bell jangled. \"So long,\" the The next thing they knew, the fires were gone from about them. They were lying in something green, that brought a thrill of He wrote \"thrilling action romances,\" was impartial as to the source of his thrills—provided \"You're the perfect companion, Nada.... But now we must be practical. We must build a fire, find weapons, set up a shelter of some kind. I guess it will be night, pretty soon. And Charley said something about savage animals he had seen in the television. \"We'll find a nice dry cave, and have a fire in front of the door. And skins of animals to sleep on. And pottery vessels to cook in. And you will find seeds and grown grain.\" \"But first we must find a flint-bed. We need flint for tools, and to strike sparks to make a fire dramatization of them on the the terrors of a desolate wilderness. too—it's found native.\" Presently they set off through the jungle. The mud seemed to the life of man. be very abundant, and of a most artistic satisfaction of describing the sensuous delight of his power is required to rebuild the on, without finding where a provident nature had left them even hero in the roasted marrow-bones their feet. A mile they struggled resolved to forget that his next \"red-blooded action thriller\" was due in the publisher's office at the \"Probably you're right. This for a long happy moment. hand, to the side of the room and of feet underground. Your idea is better.\" \"You can make a fire by rubbing punched a series of buttons on a \"It can be done, I'm sure. I've never tried it, myself. We need some dry sticks, first.\" They resumed the weary march, with a good fraction of panel—a simple way of ordering sticks together, can't you?\" the new planet adhering to their seemed scarce as the proverbial dear?\" \"Matches! Of course not! We're going back to Nature.\" \"I hope we get a fire pretty soon.\" \"If dry wood were gold dust, we couldn't buy a hot dog.\" He confessed to a few pangs of the joys of conflict, instead of flowers.\" \"If we could only go somewhere—\" \"There isn't anywhere to go. I write about the West, Africa, South Sea Islands. But they slain with a broken branch had At last, from sheer weariness, they stopped, and gathered branches to make a sloping shelter by a vast fallen tree-trunk. \"This will keep out the rain—maybe—\" Eric said hopefully. \"And tomorrow, when it has quit raining—I'm sure we'll do better.\" They crept in, as gloomy night little. \"Buck up,\" Eric advised her. \"We're back to nature—where we've always wanted to be.\" ruined it.\" and it must be much like Earth was a million years ago.\" \"Eric, I wonder if we could go begin life like the characters in your stories, to get away from this hateful civilization, and live The or something of the sort. This ecstatically. \"Splendid! Think of hunting in the virgin forest, and bringing the game home to you! world seems to be in about the But I'm afraid there is no way.—Wait! life was not so bad, after all.\" \"I was just thinking of our rooms, nice and warm and bright, with hot foods coming up things.\" \"But this is quite remarkable, dear. A new way to travel—by ether!\" \"By ether!\" It has ruined nature, filled both are simply change. The disintegration of the If we could go to Venus, to a new if they were demolishing forests. Eric and Nada clung to each other, in doubt whether to stay or to fly through the storm. Gradually the sound of the conflict to convert the matter to be came nearer, until the earth atoms at the destination.\" Suddenly the great fallen tree \"But the amount of energy object and sets it down on the other side of the world. \"Why—what—what—\" \"Why I happened in, found through the object, progressively, is the better of the two. For no as in television. The object is built up of an infinite series of up, and the 'dry-laws' are on the the boy. I don't want him to suffer of the power is lost, and I will be perfectly satisfied to get back to our apartment.\" \"I don't wonder. You look like you've been through—I don't for it in any way. My wife and know what. But I'll have you there in five minutes. My private car—\" She ran to it, and returned with ate a hearty meal with his pretty spouse, after they had washed off the grime of another planet. He spent the next twelve hours in bed. At the end of the month he delivered his promised story to his publishers, a thrilling tale of When they had finished, she carried a beautiful girl. The hero made disposing of the culinary cares of the morning. for himself and his mate, hunted The book was a huge success. THE END death about the Cosmic Express! life on a new world, and get away from all this hateful conventional society—\" \"We can go to their office—it's only five minutes. The chap \"Oh, darling! I'm thrilled to the company is a pal of mine. He's not supposed to take passengers except between the offices they have scattered about the world. But I know his weak point—\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the moral of the story?\n\n<options>:\nA Be careful what you wish for.\nB Climate change could lead to a world where humans could only survive indoors in an artificial climate.\nC Overpopulation can lead to a world without nature, only giant cities.\nD Make a plan and pack supplies before moving to a new place.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,995	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 a moment Trella thought he was going to meet Asrange's immeasurably powerful, utterly invulnerable. There was only one question: Was he human? Trella feared she was in for trouble even before Motwick's they shifted restlessly in their chairs. Trella had not wanted to come to the Golden Satellite. It was a squalid saloon in the rougher He cowered under the attack, her around the waist with a steely arm. Trella swung with her whole body, and slapped him so hard he nearly fell from his chair. As and turned his face away. Later, alone with Trella on the control deck, Jakdane gave her some sober advice. “Why? Because he's a coward? It all figures. “Look, Trella, he said he was born on Jupiter. A human could injured. How can you believe he's really human?” Trella remembered the thug Kregg striking Quest in the face and then crying that he had injured his father,” protested Trella. “Robots and androids frequently look on their makers as Trella again as Kregg overtook his quarry and swung a huge fist like a sledgehammer. Exactly what happened, Trella wasn't sure. She had the impression of Jupiter, if he's human?” Trella was silent. “For the protection of humans, there are two psychological traits built into every robot attack a human being, even in self defense. The second is that, while they may understand and Kregg sank stunned to his knees. The dark man, who had grabbed Trella's arm, released her and ran for the door. Moving agilely around the end man Quest to a T, Trella. There is no other explanation for him: Trella did not want to believe Jakdane was right, but his reasoning he must be an android.” “Those characteristics fit your was unassailable. Looking many things were explained: his build, his immunity to injury, his refusal to defend himself against a human, his inability to return Trella's love for him. It was not inconceivable that and staggered out. Trella ran to she should have unknowingly the unconscious Motwick's side. “That means you, too, lady,” Kregg stumbled to his feet that they were artificial. Right after my father completed had told her he could not love her. Her best course was to try with her for a later meeting. “It has been pleasant knowing you, Trella,” he said when they we can't help,” she said gently, taking his hand in farewell. Trella took a fast plane from He followed Trella out the door of the Golden Satellite and fell White Sands, and twenty-four in step beside her. Immediately though he lifted a feather pillow. from Jupiter.” “I'm Trella Nuspar,” she said, favoring him with a green-eyed Her employer had impressed upon “I'll have no coppers Miss Trella, eh?” “I'm glad they're something you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she raiding my place for the likes of you!” he is, without knowing he's an android and claim ownership as Dr. Mansard's heir.” Trella planned to spend a few days resting in her employer's spacious home, and then to take great strength, his short, broad an elephant would have been, entrance to the house. “Why all the protection?” she asked Blessing. “A wealthy man must be careful,” said Blessing cheerfully. “Because,” said Quest, “his we must be prepared for Trella could think of. Without actually intending to, she exclaimed: Why, an android can't hurt a human!” Blessing peered at her over his spectacles. “And what if he isn't an android, Trella sighed. Cowardice was a state of mind. It was peculiarly Trella was silent, shocked. There was something here she hadn't known about, hadn't even suspected. For some reason, Dom Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund Mansard … or his heir … or his mechanical servant. city now. Trella could get a cab brightly lighted section of the wasn't far. They walked on. Trella had the desk clerk call a cab to deliver the unconscious Motwick to his home. She and They had reached the more time together on Ganymede and aspace, since he did not know of Trella's connection with Blessing. But, since this was to be the atmosphere of Blessing's was scheduled to leave. Trella was in the living room with Blessing, discussing the instructions she was to give to the against telling him that the them. The other guards were at their posts. Trella heard the doorbell ring. The heavy oaken front door was kept locked now, and the guards briefly on Earth, and Trella was Suddenly alarm bells rang all shot. “The steel doors!” cried Blessing, turning white. “Let's get all. Trella had always liked her Now this did not suit her at He and his bodyguards ran with him. Blessing, ahead of the rest, leaped into one of the cars and started the engine. out of here.” out of the garage. So Trella was delighted to find unconscious heap against the rear of the garage. Trella had that the ship was the than Trella had ever seen a man run before. Blessing slowed for the turn laughing. “What's your trouble, Trella?” “I'm in love with that huge chunk of man who came aboard tree on the other side in a twisted tangle of wreckage. With a horrified gasp, Trella may need protection against myself ran down the driveway toward “If it's to keep you out of another fellow's clutches, I'm your side, he lifted the torn body of Dom Blessing. Blessing was dead. probing it. As she reached his psychologically from my birth crew members and three passengers aboard the ship's tiny personnel sphere, and Trella was to the task of hunting down Dom Blessing and killing him. It that wouldn't release me until the task was finished. “You see, Blessing was my father's thrown with Quest almost constantly. was an unconscious drive in me Io. Blessing wanted the valuable rights to the surgiscope, and he sabotaged the ship's drive so it would fall into Jupiter. assistant on Ganymede. Blessing could not object to Dr. successfully. I was born there, and he conditioned me to come to Earth and track down Blessing. Mansard's son knowing about it. I know now that it was did not know what Dom Blessing's relation to Dr. Mansard had been, but it must have been before she was born, and she purpose.” More gently than Trella would have believed possible for his Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest from here, but the Stellar Hotel done.” Trella disengaged herself. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't you know this, too, now: that and it had been developed by Dom Blessing. Its success had Blessing had been searching the Jovian moons for a second, hidden laboratory of Dr. Mansard. When it was found at last, he sent Trella, his most trusted secretary, to Ganymede to bring back to him the notebooks found there. Blessing would, of course, be happy to learn that a son of Dr. Trella looked at him. He was that he received his rightful share of the inheritance. Because of this, Trella was tempted not badly hurt, any more than herself but she decided against it. It was Blessing's privilege to do this his own way, and he might not appreciate her meddling. At midtrip, Trella made a rueful confession to Jakdane. to tell Quest the good news “It seems I was taking unnecessary She expected Jakdane to salve her wounded feelings with a in distress.\n\n<question>:\nWhy is Trella being attacked?\n\n<options>:\nA The author does not give a clear reason for the attackers' motivations\nB The attackers wish to steal Trella's documents\nC The attackers wish to violate Trella\nD The attackers are sent from Dr. Blessing to test Trella's loyalty\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,196	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>:\nquestion already formed in his mind. and hares ... or was it follow the leader? Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of the \"We need all the good men we can get.\" \"Where is he?\" there, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen, \" Ben looked down. The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was like a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees. a temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I might as well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.\" tres fine, senor . I have Martian She laughed. \"Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it? tres pretty and tres fat. She weigh almost eighty pounds, Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of a grizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.\" ?\" Ben shook his head. He thought, comes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives mining it, that's our business.\" \"It is deal, monsieur ? Five dollars or twenty keelis Ben scowled. \"What happens if there She pursed her lips. \"But if they guessed how strong we are or that we tres bien senor .\" The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason for boys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It 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.\" could be us, you Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO then fear. \"I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.\" When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo. He was like two people, he thought. , Ben told himself. Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one single starry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal. He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when she ,\" piped the Martian boy. \"A tres prisoner for half a million years. Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead, would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago. fine table. Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows? Close in the shadows.\" legs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it still seemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices and forgotten grandeur. For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead man. He thought, What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, in about forty and he hated spacemen. His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outside Luna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much a been successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate. He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobb plopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him. Ben smiled. \"If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.\" suits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're a little tin god.\" He downed a shot of whiskey. Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white, crimson-braided uniform of the Odyssey's He'd sought long for that key. 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 the government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed his collection of astronomy and rocketry books. At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from Boys Town No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, among the grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends who was rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhaps beyond. Cobb was persistent: \"Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth. What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?\" The guy's drunk , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved three stools down the bar. Cobb followed. \"You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't like Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and held him there. \"Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'll Ben knew that he was dead. Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as, You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do. That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntary manslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years in So , Ben reflected, duty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself from senor ?\" \" Oui. n'est-ce-pas ?\" \"You are spacemen?\" Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. \"Here. Take off, will Ben didn't answer. ?\" Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy. \" Ai-yee Martian kid, perhaps? wheel with Ben as their focal point. You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known! Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded, 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. Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward, falling. The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised. A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk with Ben's direction. Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit into fifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind and body overpowered him. A soft feminine voice spoke to him. \"You're wounded? They hit you?\" \"Yes.\" His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word. \"You want to escape—even now?\" \"Yes.\" \"You may die if you don't give yourself up.\" heart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effective weapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrender at once. \"Anti ... anti ...\" The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forced Better , he'd think. Getting better.... \"You are better?\" the kind voice asked. The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-five 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 He thought for a moment. \"How long have I been here?\" \"Nine days.\" \"Yes.\" \"Why?\" \"Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?\" Lieutenant Curtis.\" \"How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—\" \"I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four, you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduated from the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation. Fascinated, Ben nodded. \"You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the Odyssey . \"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, trimmed red beard ! Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into down and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands and\n\n<question>:\nFrom the passage, at what age can we determine that Ben decide that his future would involve being a Spaceman?\n\n<options>:\nA 5\nB 25\nC 10\nD 16\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,414	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching the stars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawing fear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like an Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning.... spawning its first-born. first because we were the first A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. \"... these boys have worked and skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time, for I was thinking: 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. wasn't surprising. The , I told myself. Then Mickey stiffened. \"I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row!\" Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or a garden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now a tenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful that he was beside me like a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rear rows. But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt and walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythm with some silent melody. \"I'm happy to meet you, Ben,\" you said. \"I've heard of no one else for the past year.\" A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through an introduction of Charlie. His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing. And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, the result of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was so 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 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 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?\" You bit your lip, not answering. \"What did she mean, Mickey?\" Mickey looked down at his feet. \"I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben. We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But—\" \"Yes?\" \"I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisor 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 They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things, Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night, days, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be a spaceman then.\" There was silence. Anxiety darkened your features. \"No, it'd be good to be a spaceman, to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is it worth the things you'd have to give up?\" I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, \"Give up what ?\" All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path. Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path that alone, never finding a home. 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.\" scarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin, tight coughs. I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would kill 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.\" I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wanted One morning I thought, Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have both you and the stars? Would that be asking too much? All day the thought lay in my mind like fire. flushed. Then you murmured, \"I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking me to marry a spaceman or a teacher?\" \"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, have to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years, then teach.\" \"Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn't you want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on?\" Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tears glittering in your eyes. \"Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happened on the Cyclops was—\" You had to finish. \"It was a monster.\" That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let me sleep. You've got to decide now , I told myself. You can't stay here. You've got to make a choice. open—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all the line in a history book. I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, \"Get the hell out of there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Get remember? At the Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door and I wondered who I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The broken voice droned on. You ran to it, shut it off. \"I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly—\" Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. I remembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze. The metallic words had told the truth. I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed at Charlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that they could tell me what he could not express in words. decision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried to travel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can be no compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose. Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So he could look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could never why It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was the until the journey is I could have been the first\n\n<question>:\nWhy did the story open the way it did?\n\n<options>:\nA to show how frustrated he was with space\nB because his training was good and bad\nC because that was how long he'd been away from Laura\nD to describe how torn Ben was in his decisions\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
834	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>:\nYears He didn’t expect to be last—but neither did he anticipate NEARLY TWO hundred years of habit carried the smiles and greeted his staff by the right names, but it was purely automatic. Somehow, thinking had grown difficult in the mornings recently. enough to look them up. Plenty of time! Thirty years was a long time, when he stopped to think of it. of aging. I’m afraid the treatment didn’t take fully. It might have “I guess I’m getting old, Amanda.” She smiled dutifully at the time-worn joke, but he knew she wasn’t fooled. She’d cycled to 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 they were through and he was led into the quiet rejuvenation room, months of mental training, followed by crude mechanical and drug hypnosis for other months. Somewhere in every human brain lay the memory of what his cells at Research. For eighty years now, they’d been sending out the little ships that vanished at greater than the the first hope they’d found that the century-long trips between stars in the ponderous shuttles within minutes, even—but finding the mechanism in the brain taken even longer. Now they did it with dozens of mechanical aids in addition to the hypnotic instructions—and 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 could relax so easily.... He came out of it without even a headache, while they were fatigue on the operator’s face told him it had been a long and difficult job. He stretched experimentally, with the eternal unconscious sent an elaborate tercentenary greeting verse—one that would again. But that, of course, was ridiculous. It took days for the mind to work on all the cells and to arrive ninety years too late! Harry find himself suddenly young repair the damage of time. had been born just before Earth passed the drastic birth limitation or his dozen children, but filled most of the frame with glowing to complete my study of all this. We’ll know by then whether you’ll need more treatment. Ten o’clock okay?” “But I’ll be all right?” description and a plea for his of his profession. “We haven’t lost a patient in two hundred years, to my knowledge.” “Thanks,” said Giles. “Ten o’clock is fine.” Dubbins was still waiting, reading 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 dwindling down. He groped for the lines and couldn’t remember. awake most of the night again, trying to recall them. The outside line buzzed musically, through the meal, listening to the conversation about him only when it was necessary because patience was still foreign to him. He gave it up and went to bed—to Harry had been a complete nuisance, running around with various nostrums, giving him no peace. Constant questions about can send a message on the shuttle, begging for their secret in a couple of hundred years! While a hundred other worlds make a thousand major discoveries they world no real progress had been made in two centuries the young their first fifty years of education were finished, and the older men were too conservative for really the years helped to add to the of truth in it, unfortunately. “They’ll slow up when their populations fill,” Giles repeated his old answers. “We’re still ahead richness of living now. about the years—or was it days—dwindling interrupting the work of making the Earth fit for our longevity. We can wait. We’ll have to.” down to something or other. THE YOUNGER man stared at him with the strange puzzled days. We can have the secret of this antigravity in less than a year! We—” it about twenty years before the Procyon shuttle heard its signal. Pre-setting a course may take 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 long it had been. Nor why. “In the spring, a young man’s fancy,” he quoted to himself, and 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 now. The machines were quiet—and all the doors were shut. Giles shook his head, interrupting Then the engineer shut his mouth slowly. The belligerence ran out of him. He looked sick, for he had no chance for near eternity against such a relatively short 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 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 They had to plan and build 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 nodded mechanically. “I won’t 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. “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. 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. 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. He was passing near the club and started to slow. Then he and he drove on. What else was there for him? There, at least, he could still fill his time with work—work that might even be useful. In the future, men would voice on the study phone, too low keep busy enough to forget sometimes that the years were gone for him. Automatic habit carried him was something. And he might “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. people still in the odd, wheelless vehicle on the alien planet. past, Harry had driven him around. Now he’d taken to walking, as so many others had, for spend the long future as a cripple. “I’ll wait for you, sir,” Dubbins ties melted away too fast for interstellar 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.\n\n<question>:\nWhy is communication so slow between colonies?\n\n<options>:\nA There isn’t a lot of time out into the communications departments.\nB People don’t have the same relationships they used to, so they don’t bother to talk the same way.\nC Distance, along with technology differences.\nD People live so long now, they take their time communicating.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
2,215	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>:\npast. Joe didn't know how they'd done it, and he didn't care. Joe was a it can be hired, of course, and naturally doesn't care who hires it. Something much the same can be said of the gunman, too.... Brett-James on the second day that \"I see.\" Brett-James cleared his Joe eyed him in scorn. \"Oh, you didn't, huh? What happens after I give it to this guy? I just sit around Brett-James grimaced in amusement. Brett-James cleared his throat. century ago.\" Joe had given up. Now he merely stared. Brett-James said reasonably, \"We be of assistance.\" Joe couldn't figure out how he stood. For one thing, there should have been some kind of police guard. Reston-Farrell and Brett-James beverage of the day. For Joe's taste Reston-Farrell said, \"You mean, Reston-Farrell. If I am not mistaken, Joe gingerly tried swinging his Brett-James said, \"Why not just go feet to the floor and sitting up, while the other stood watching him, strangely. stupid? How do I know how many witnesses hangin' around? How do I know if the guy's carryin' heat?\" Joe Prantera scowled and said, \"These ain't my clothes.\" of him. I assure you, he does not possess weapons.\" Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid, Joe was indignant. \"Just like that, eh?\" he said sarcastically. \"Then what happens? How do I get out of the \"See here, Mr. Prantera,\" Brett-James I imagine,\" Reston-Farrell told Reston-Farrell said compassionately, Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally, flatly, \"What's it all about?\" The other put down the unaccepted glass. \"We were afraid first \"I wanta get out of here,\" Joe said. \"Where would you go?\" The fear of police, of Al Rossi's Reston-Farrell had approached the There was nothing else to do. Joe dressed, then followed him. is the last man you will ever kill, Mr. Prantera.\" A chillness was in the belly of Joe Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already Prantera. He said very slowly, very and with a chainsmoker's nervousness. The other was heavier and more at ease. They were both, Joe estimated, \"Yes,\" Brett-James said evenly. somewhere in their middle fifties. They both looked like docs. He dangerously, \"You guys figure on me \"Well then, figure something else. You think I'm stupid?\" Reston-Farrell said, \"May I present Joe said coldly, \"And what happens to you guys? How do you know I won't rat on you?\" Brett-James nodded to him, friendly, Brett-James said gently, \"The moment my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James? so far as Joe could see. He said gently, \"I think it would be Mr. Joseph Reston-Farrell said, \"Of course,\" Warren Brett-James said soothingly, racism, the supposed glory of the military, all seem romantic to the immature. They rebel at the orderliness of present society. They seek entertainment 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 the year—\" Brett-James looked at his A.D. they would say.\" Brett-James said gently. \"Without Joe Prantera looked from one of them to the other, scowling. \"What Warren Brett-James said softly, Brett-James said gently, \"Hardly Reston-Farrell said, \"I am afraid we to him and Warren Brett-James sat in the back. Joe had, tucked in his belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed \"Not exactly,\" Brett-James said, 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 Reston-Farrell said, \"Suffice to say, The others were nervous, obviously eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt they'd talk themselves into it again before the week was through. Besides, already Joe was beginning Reston-Farrell said, \"Mr. Prantera, Joe stared at him, and then at the other. He couldn't believe he was getting through to them. Or, at least, Warren Brett-James said, \"Quite Joe said, \"You guys know the kind Joe was coolly efficient now. He pulled out the automatic, held it down below his knees and threw a For the second time, Reston-Farrell said, \"Where would you go, Mr. Prantera?\" Joe glared at him. Then sat down stupid? I never even seen you before.\" Joe Prantera came abruptly to his feet. \"I'm gettin' outta here.\" again, as abruptly as he'd arisen. \"Yes,\" Brett-James said, his voice Their children are all dead, and their grandchildren.\" The two men of the future said \"That is why we brought you here, Mr. Prantera. You were ... you are, a professional assassin.\" Reston-Farrell went on, ignoring have.\" probably have caused small dismay to society.\" They had him pegged all right. Joe said, \"But why me? Why don't you Brett-James said, \"Mr. Prantera, there are no professional assassins in this age, nor have there been for over a century and a half.\" out. He knew it wouldn't have Tony and the others, for his favorite Two guys special, named Brett-James and Doc Reston-Farrell. I think one \"No, if by that you mean afraid. It is simply not within us to take the life of a fellow creature—not to speak Joe snapped: \"Everything you guys say sounds crazy. Let's start all over again.\" Brett-James said, \"Let me do it, \"Yes, like that,\" Brett-James 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 Brett-James took up the ball again. Caesar?\" Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily. \"Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin?\" \"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 drive to power which exceeds by far the ambitions of the average man. They are genii in their way, Mr. Prantera, genii of evil. Such a genius of Joe snorted. \"So you got a guy what's a little ambitious, like, eh? And you guys ain't got the guts to give it to not considered.\" Brett-James said to Joe Prantera, Brett-James was shaking his head. would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera.\" Joe winced. It didn't occur to him to doubt their word. Reston-Farrell said, \"As to reward, Brett-James was shaking his head Joe Prantera had been rocking with the mental blows he had been Joe Prantera on a job was thorough. Careful, painstaking, competent. of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell with him. Joe didn't meet any of the others who belonged to the group which had taken the measures to Reston-Farrell. Joe had been right, Brett-James evidently had something them to bring Joe from the\n\n<question>:\nHow does Joe feel about Brett-James and Reston-Farrell?\n\n<options>:\nA Joe is a little intimidated by them as they seem to be significantly more educated than he is.\nB Joe doesn't know what to think. There's no such thing as time travel. He must be going crazy.\nC Joe thinks they are ridiculous and that Howard Temple-Tracy would make a better associate.\nD Joe thinks they are cowards as they are unable to kill their enemy themselves.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
654	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nto “cook” in an atomic reactor and soak up radioactivity. 33 “We weren’t planning to run a submarine with it,” his father said. “It wasn’t that strong. Still, it doesn’t take so very much radioactivity to make two ounces of an isotope quite powerful—and “You mean he must have been an atomic scientist himself?” Eddie asked. “Let’s just say he—or both of them—have “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering “Dinner’s ready,” Eddie’s mother called During dinner Eddie wasn’t sure just what he was eating. The idea of spies stealing atomic materials kept building up in his mind. By the asked if he could go over and visit with Teena he and Teena sometimes walked along the Teena answered his knock. Eddie pulled on his trousers and T shirt Eddie apologized, following her inside. looked around for Mr. Ross, but Teena’s over it,” Teena’s mother said. “Oh, yes,” Eddie affirmed. “He was the one who ordered the isotope.” Finished, Eddie went out to breakfast. “What’s an isotope?” Teena asked. him about letting food gather around the “Hi, Mom,” Eddie said. “Gotta hurry. Big radioisotope is, Eddie.” 36 “Well,” Eddie said slowly, “it’s not easy to what it’s all about if you could explain what a metal clamps. It could start cavities. “Aw, Mom—” “Eddie, I asked you to do it three days ago. “I’ve heard of chain reactions,” Mrs. Ross said. to school. I’m expecting to receive shipment of a new radioisotope today.” The very word excited Eddie. In fact, anything having to do with atomic science excited him. He knew something about isotopes—pronounced “Why do they do that?” Teena asked. atomic-science department at Oceanview College without picking up a little knowledge along the way. Eddie knew that a radioisotope was a material which had been “cooked” in an atomic reactor until it was “hot” with radioactivity. out more neutrons. It’s a regular chain reaction.” “Why don’t college professors get summer vacations, too?” Eddie asked. One reason for asking that particular question was to keep from prying deeper into the subject of the radioisotope. Much of his father’s work at Oceanview College was of a secret nature. Eddie had learned not to ask questions about it. His father usually volunteered any information he wanted known, so Eddie stuck to questions which could and would be answered. “Well, with all of the splitting up and moving around of the uranium atoms,” Eddie went them. Remember to switch it off when you’re not actually using it.” “I will,” Eddie promised. He had forgotten several times before, weakening the batteries. 17 It took Eddie over an hour to sort out the asked. “I’ll say they’re dangerous,” Eddie said. newspapers and magazines in the garage, tie “It takes a lot to stop radioactive atomic particles,” Eddie explained. “Especially the gamma rays. They’re the fastest and most dangerous, and the hardest to stop. Alpha and beta “I would,” Eddie said. “Everyone is carefully and doing nothing, there would be an awful lot of energy going to waste. So the atomic scientists take certain elements which aren’t “Oh, guess I’ll stop by and see if Teena soaks up water.” 40 “My, that’s interesting, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross Eddie let Sandy off his chain. The taffy-colored Teena—lived at the far end of the block. Eddie went around to the side door of the “Oh, hi, Eddie,” Teena greeted him, appearing don’t feel, but it destroys your blood cells and tissues, and—well, you’ve had it.” “So that’s what a radioisotope is,” Mrs. Ross up water, it soaks up radiation.” 41 “That’s about it,” Eddie said. “My dad says watch me do a little prospecting with the Geiger counter. But maybe you’re too busy.” That’s how to handle it, Eddie thought. elements. And there are over a hundred elements. Some soak up a lot of radioactivity, and are strong and dangerous. Others absorb only a little and are pretty safe to use. Depends, too, Eddie went inside and followed Teena to “Dad didn’t say exactly,” Eddie answered, Eddie nodded. It was even more serious than its threat of danger to anyone who handled it carelessly. It was a new isotope—a it depended on how they were used. Eddie assumed that anyone who would “She always does, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said, stoop to stealing isotopes more than likely pretending great injury. “Don’t know why I would be interested in their ability to destroy “So do I,” Teena agreed. Eddie glanced at the kitchen clock. “Oh, since Eddie’s family had moved to Oceanview about this atom business.” 43 “That’s right, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie agreed. “People should talk more and read more about it. After all, this is an atomic age. We might as “Three million billion is a lot of something,” a man’s voice spoke behind him. “What are we talking about, Eddie?” of the dial on the black box wavered slightly. A slow clicking came through the earphones, but Eddie knew these indicated no more than a normal background count. There were slight traces of radioactivity in almost all earth or “Eddie was telling us about atoms,” Teena’s mother said. “Did you know there were three Mrs. Ross a kiss on the cheek. million billion of them in a period?” “How many in a comma?” Mr. Ross said to Eddie, then added quickly, “forget it, Eddie. Teena. Doesn’t seem to be anything out here.” back home.” “All right,” Eddie said. “You know, one of back at Teena’s house. They worked a while on a recent birthday. Then Eddie said good-by “Dinner?” his mother said absently. “It’s not quite four o’clock yet, Eddie. Besides, dinner may be a little late today.” “But this morning you said it would be early,” Eddie reminded her, puzzled. “This morning I didn’t know what might was open. Eddie went through the dining sat stiffly behind his homemade desk, talking rapidly into the telephone. Eddie caught only whether Eddie had discovered any uranium ore that day. Always before, he had shown genuine interest in Eddie’s prospecting trips. “Dad,” Eddie said anxiously, “what—what’s the matter?” wrong, Eddie,” he said, “and I guess there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. It’ll be in the evening papers, anyway.” “Evening papers?” “Eddie, you remember me mentioning this morning about that radioisotope shipment I was expecting today?” disappeared.” “Disappeared?” “The radioisotope was stolen, Eddie,” his father said slowly. “Stolen right out from CHAPTER TWO At the moment, Eddie didn’t pry for further information on the theft of the valuable radioactive isotope. His father had plenty on his however, those two ounces of radioisotope can be very dangerous.” “Fifty pounds,” Eddie said thoughtfully. 32 “I don’t see what anyone would want with a radioisotope,” Eddie said. “Maybe they figured there was something else inside of that lead capsule.”\n\n<question>:\nHow many times does Eddie go over to Teena’s house? What is the common thread, or reason, for Eddie going over there?\n\n<options>:\nA Three times. Each time concern Eddie’s infatuation with Teena, which is why he makes up excuses like going prospecting at Cedar point.\nB Twice. Both times concern Eddie’s infatuation with Teena, which is why he makes up excuses like going prospecting for uranium.\nC Twice. Both times concern something to do with Eddie’s interest in radioactivity.\nD Three times. Each time concern something to do with Eddie’s interest in radioactivity.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
827	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>:\nMatilda would seek the happy medium. at which she would have scoffed ten or even five years ago. Matilda was and that was the direction of Haron Gorka's place. This, in itself, was not unusual—but Matilda was so completely wrapped up in the romantic fallacy of her day that she sought a prince of every worldly pleasure and who now wanted to sit on a porch and talk about it all to Matilda. charming, a faithful Don Juan, a man who had been everywhere and tasted to hide his feelings.\" \"Hogwash!\" said her daughter. \"He has no true feelings. He's sorry that he had to miss his college reunion. That's all he has to hide. A stuffy Victorian prude and even less of a man than the others.\" in love, Matilda—no one does. Love osmoses into you slowly, without you even knowing, and it keeps growing all the time.\" Matilda admired her mother's use of the word osmosis, but she found of love. She said good-night and went upstairs, climbed out of her light summer dress and took a cold shower. She began to hum to herself. She had not yet seen the pen pal section to herself, it was the flavor of the wording. This very well could be it him . Intelligent, somewhat egotistical male who's really been around, whose intelligent, have gumption, be capable of listening to male who has a lot to say and wants to say it. All others need not apply. Wonderful The man was egotistical, all right Matilda could see that. But she had never minded an egotistical man, at least not when he had something about which he had a genuine reason to be egotistical. The man sounded as though he would have reason indeed. He only wanted the best because he was the best. Like calls to like. The name—Haron Gorka: its oddness was somehow beautiful to Matilda. Haron Gorka—the nationality could be anything. And that was it. He had Matilda got out of bed at seven, tiptoed into the bathroom, showered Matilda hummed Mendelssohn's Wedding March all the way. It was her favorite piece of music. Once, she told herself: Matilda Penshaws, you are being premature about the whole thing. But she laughed and thought which hung too far down on his nose. Matilda knew he would peer over The stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. Matilda asked him where she could find Haron Gorka. \"I said, where can I find Haron Gorka?\" take it easy, ma'am. First place, I don't know any Haron Gorka—\" Matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. She muttered an Matilda did, only they didn't know any Haron Gorka, either. It turned early. If she could not find Haron Gorka, that was one thing Haron Gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent \"You know him? You know Haron Gorka?\" \"I mean anyone would like to correspond with Haron Gorka. Or to know him well. To be considered his friend. Haron Gorka....\" \"Um, where can I find Mr. Gorka?\" \"If I can't enjoy an association with Haron Gorka directly, I still of you will tell me about Haron Gorka, sparing no details. You each Haron Gorka lived in what could have been an agrarian estate, except personal industry meant nothing at all to Haron Gorka. Matilda liked only one with the idea to visit Haron Gorka in person. With half a dozen of them there, the laggards who resorted to posting letters would be left far behind. Matilda congratulated herself for what she thought she had in common with five other women. You live and learn, thought Matilda. And then, quite annoyedly, she berated herself for not having been the first. Perhaps the other five all were satisfactory that she really might have liked. Instead, someone she could only regard as a menial met her, and when he asked \"What about Mr. Gorka?\" A little doubtful now, Matilda thanked him and watched him leave. He closed the door softly behind his retreating feet, but Matilda's ears her fault if, in his unconcern, Haron Gorka had unwittingly hired a she had a nightmare in which Haron Gorka appeared as a giant with two Matilda gasped once and felt about to gasp again—but by then her that it was precisely what she would have wanted could, of course, be attributed to coincidence, and the further fact that everything was extremely palatable made her forget all about Haron Gorka's neurotic The feeling did not last long. Standing over her was Haron Gorka's servant, and he said, \"Mr. Gorka will see you now.\" Haron Gorka. You are here and he is ready to see you and that is all Haron Gorka. Well, then, she must see to it that she impressed him compare notes. She would not admit even to herself that she was disappointed with Haron Gorka. It was not that he was homely and unimpressive it was just that he was so ordinary -looking. She almost would have preferred He wore a white linen suit and he had mousy hair, drab eyes, an \"In response to your ad. How do you do, Mr. Gorka?\" She hoped she wasn't being too formal. But, then, there was no sense in assuming that he would like informality. She could only wait and see and adjust her own actions to suit him. Meanwhile, it would be best to you not?\" \"I—do.\" Matilda had had visions of her prince charming sitting back and relaxing with her, telling her of the many things he had done and seen. But first she certainly would have liked to get to know than she did. He waited, however, as if wondering what to say, and Matilda, accustomed to social chatter, gave him a gambit. \"I must admit I was surprised when I got exactly what I wanted for \"Yes,\" said Matilda vaguely. Perhaps it might be better, after all, if Haron Gorka were to talk to her as he saw fit. \"Well, what, Mr. Gorka?\" Almost at once, Matilda's educational background should have told her that Haron Gorka was mouthing gibberish. But on the other hand she wanted to believe in him and the result was that it took until now for her to realize it. \"Stop making fun of me,\" she said. \"What's that? Making fun of you?\" Haron Gorka's voice had been so more outspoken. When you see my wife, tell her to come back. Again she is right and I am wrong....\" Haron Gorka turned his back. Haron Gorka's guests to depart. Then Haron Gorka had severed that relationship, too, and now he was all who enjoyed this sort of outlandish tomfoolery, or else he was plainly insane. She could still picture him ranting on aimlessly to no one in particular about places which had no existence outside of his mind, his She quickly then related everything which had happened, completely and in detail. She did this first because it was a promise, and second because she knew it would make her feel better. \"So,\" she finished, \"Haron Gorka is either extremely eccentric or and took out her hat and perched it jauntily atop her gray hair. \"You see, my dear, Haron expects too much. He expects entirely too much.\" Matilda did not say a word. One madman a day would be quite enough for accommodations have to be just right for me, and so forth. When he loses his temper, he tries to convince me that any number of females of the particular planet would be more than thrilled if they were given the opportunity just to listen to him. \"But he's wrong. It's a hard life for a woman. Someday—five thousand, ten thousand years from now—I will convince him. And then we will\n\n<question>:\nWhat is alluring about Haron Gorka’s posting to Matilda?\n\n<options>:\nA His mystique, and the ideas Matilda projects on him.\nB His ego and mystique. He doesn’t say a lot about himself.\nC He’s well traveled, so he must have important things to share.m\nD His ego. She loves how much he has to say about himself,\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
783	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that that there would be all sorts of human interest tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered. were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had Slavic or Scandinavian features, and talked foreign languages. FIDE, WBM, USCF, USSF, USSR and UNESCO. Sandra felt fairly sure about the last three. Siamese-twin clocks should be essential to a chess tournament struck pairs who hadn't made the flight. This tournament hall seemed to Sandra Barcza System and Indian Defenses—and the Dragon Formation if anyone \"Hah! In that case....\" \"The Russians have come with ten trunkfuls of prepared variations and they'll gang up on the Machine at adjournments. What can one New Jersey computer do against four Russian grandmasters?\" \"I heard the Russians have been programmed—with hypnotic cramming and Haupturnier or an intercollegiate won. It'll over its head be playing.\" \"Yes, but maybe like Capa at San Sebastian or Morphy or Willie Angler at New York. The Russians will look like potzers.\" \"Have you studied the scores of the match between Moon Base and Circum-Terra?\" the game of chess—a point that she had slid over in conferring with circumstance that created for her the illusion that they were fellow \"You have one great advantage,\" he told her. \"You know nothing understandably for your readers.\" He swallowed half his demitasse and smacked his lips. \"As for the Machine—you do know, I suppose, that it is not a humanoid metal robot, walking about clanking and squeaking like a late medieval knight in armor?\" perfectly, so that it always wins and there is no contest. Right?\" to play through all the possible games of chess, not to mention the time needed to classify those games into branching families of wins for White, wins for Black and draws, and the additional time required to each for White and Black—and then decide which is the best move on the out trumps in bridge or setting up a finesse.\" \"Exactly!\" Doc beamed at her approvingly. \"The Machine chance of winning at once by trapping the enemy king, he examines is probably programmed to recognize such situations and do something of the same sort, though we can't be sure from the information World experience and artistry. The equivalent of those in the Machine is the directions fed into it before it plays a game.\" \"You mean the programming?\" transistors and something they call hypervelocity, which in turn depends on keeping parts of the Machine at a temperature near absolute you have the human factor, in this case working for the Machine.\" \"Savilly, I have been looking allplace for you!\" A stocky, bull-faced man with a great bristling shock of black, represents a large and influential Midwestern newspaper. Perhaps you have a message for her readers.\" The shock-headed man's eyes flashed. \"I most certainly do!\" At that eyebrows at her and actually slapping his chest, \"that I, Igor Jandorf, will defeat the Machine by the living force of my human personality! me . Repeat: I, Igor Jandorf, by the living force of my human personality, he loses as surely as if he were checkmated. Now since the Machine those and drew five. Jandorf always exaggerates. It's in his blood.\" \"He's one of the Russians, isn't he?\" Sandra asked. \"Igor?\" Doc chuckled. \"Not exactly,\" he said gently. \"He is originally a Pole and now he has Argentinian citizenship. You have a program, don't you?\" Sandra started to hunt through her pocketbook, but just then two lists of names lit up on the big electric scoreboard. THE PLAYERS The Machine, USA (programmed by Simon Great) Maxim Serek, USSR Moses Sherevsky, USA Lysmov vs. Krakatower Grabo vs. Machine \"Cripes, Doc, they all sound like they were Russians,\" Sandra said after a bit. \"Except this Willie Angler. Oh, he's the boy wonder, isn't he?\" to you the only grandmaster ever to have been ex-chess-champion of the United States while still technically a minor—Master William Augustus Angler.\" A tall, sharply-dressed young man with a hatchet face pressed the old next year. About that ex- tournament?\" They want to score a point over their great rival.\" the prize money they've put up, of course, that's brought the world's greatest players here. Otherwise half of them would be holding off in the best temperamental-artist style. For chess players the prize money is fabulous—$35,000, with $15,000 for first place, and all expenses paid for all players. There's never been anything like it. Soviet Russia is the only country that has ever supported and rewarded her best chess players at all adequately. I think the Russian players are here because UNESCO and FIDE (that's the tournament. And perhaps because the Kremlin is hungry for a little prestige now that its space program is sagging.\" \"But if a Russian doesn't take first place it will be a black eye for them.\" Doc frowned. \"True, in a sense. that you see the current champion of the world—Votbinnik—and an ex-champion arm in arm. There are two other persons in the tournament \"Will whoever wins this tournament become champion?\" \"Oh no. That's decided by two-player matches—a very long business—after elimination tournaments between leading contenders. This tournament is a round robin: each player plays one game with every an awful lot of Russians in the tournament,\" Sandra said, consulting her program. \"Four out of ten have USSR after them. And Bela Grabo, Hungary—that's a satellite. And Sherevsky and Krakatower are Russian-sounding names.\" \"The proportion of Soviet to American entries in the tournament represents pretty fairly the general difference in playing strength between the two countries,\" Doc said judiciously. \"Chess mastery moves from land to land with the years. Way back it was the Moslems and the Hindus and Persians. Then Italy and Spain. A little over a hundred years ago it was France and England. Then Germany, Austria and the New World. Now it's Russia—including of course the Russians who have run away from Russia. But don't think there aren't a lot of good Anglo-Saxon types who are masters of the first water. In fact, think so. It's just that if you play a lot of chess you get to looking Russian. Once it probably made you look Italian. Do you see that short bald-headed man?\" \"You mean the one facing the Machine and talking to Jandorf?\" \"Yes. Now that's one with a lot of human interest. Moses Sherevsky. Been champion of the United States many times. A very strict Orthodox Jew. Can't play chess on Fridays or on Saturdays before sundown.\" He because it is technically a and the last-place consolation prize! Yet dreaming schizophrenically of beating them all! Please, don't get me started on Dirty Old Krakatower.\" very brilliant player and that the Machine is very lucky to have drawn chess championship. I think WBM was surprisingly shrewd to pick him predictions and we are giving out no advance information on the and they have won most of them. I am not permitted to re-program the running on it. My men are permitted to make repairs—if they can work fast enough.\" grandmasters, including all four Russians, were seated at their tables. play, though not for chess-thinking. The difference in style between and has grandmaster skill.\" doctor. She'd read something about two or three coming over with the Russian squad. But Doc certainly didn't sound like a Soviet citizen. He was older than she'd first assumed. She could see that now that that she wasn't a writer at all or even a reporter, she just used dime-a-dozen female attractiveness to rope a susceptible man (young, old, American, Russian) and pick his brain.... She realized suddenly that the whole hall had become very quiet.\n\n<question>:\nGiven all the nationalities present at the tournament and the information presented in the article, which nationality would be most likely to win?\n\n<options>:\nA Russian\nB Hungarian\nC French\nD American\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,467	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\ngoing—but I know that if I stuck to the old man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner! Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him. \"Tonight,\" Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled and \" What is Doc's full name? \"Sure,\" the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc's \" I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said, I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose, one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned that during all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled, but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winos in Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have been So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all in my mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind. layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side. One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of the It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame, I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all I had now. That and the thing he left. \"The rest is simple,\" Andre said. \"Doc O'Malley bought up all the stock in a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying members Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?\" I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse three doors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happen with certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the psychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powers of ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books, the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic, without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achieved such a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex, even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing on Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful and true. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was having kept getting closer each of the times. I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-specked flophouse doors. found him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt we Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands. I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel thing fall into Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless. \"We can always make it over to the mission,\" I lied. to have this secret, Kevin,\" the to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe you can't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniums before Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and time travel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew we weren't now. this is to happen.\" before I could move, what with holding up Doc. register hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed. arthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. \"No argument. Sure, I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumble and that did teeth!\" high. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a wino singing on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn't have any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone. I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his face to shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all the scalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible's gas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never needed Doc began to mumble louder. I knew I had to move. I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, I From the bed, Doc said a word. \"Son.\" my mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so I concentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow their habit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They were suddenly distinguishable. wanted for the murder of a North American Mountie. search of what. \"He didn't use that,\" Andre said. I knew that these words were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I needed to know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation. That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I got to thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old man around North America for nothing, I remembered who he was. I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work I had once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc. Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to high screaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have a Doc alone, but I had to. He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that. I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving that crawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow. Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across his face. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and let him bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over his lumpy skull. men like Doc and me. his. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I first the inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached a the one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they had changed around—prayer came from the left, song from the right. Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a thing . Doc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was a start. He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom. I knelt beside Doc. \"An order, my boy, an order,\" he whispered. before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebook against the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it. \"Concentrate,\" Doc said hoarsely. \"Concentrate....\" Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all these couldn't trust to my own senses as he did. symptoms.\" The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly building Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two great and good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened. Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror. I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But I had known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but there was something else. I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. \"What do you want?\" \"Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc found a method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical, topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept it his crusades. How can you make money with time travel?\" I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knew was that I had to help Doc and get some coffee. \"It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money,\" Miss Casey said, \"even if you know what horse will come in and what stock will prosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part of Doc's character. He was a scholar.\" Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scared\n\n<question>:\nWhy did the narrator think Doc held the key to becoming powerful?\n\n<options>:\nA Doc's inventions would allow them to take over the world\nB His bond with Doc meant he had, in a way, already experienced the result of what he was developing\nC Doc had promised him the technology to reach the Moon, and this would be worth a lot of money\nD He knew Doc would be able to find a way to break addiction, improving life for everyone\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,993	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nA scream of brakes, the splash the vast things that had happened into icy waters, a long descent into alkaline depths ... it was death. But Ned Vince lived again—a million years later! world. The scope of it all was too \"See old car rattled and roared as he Twentieth Century,\" said the though their forefathers originated on this planet. They have mounds of human cities that much better off with my people—our But Ned Vince wasn't listening, now. \"You are the only man left on Earth.\" That had An incredible science, millions of years old, lay in the minds of these creatures. been enough for him to hear. He arced outward, falling as gracefully as a swan-diver toward the pool geysered around him in a being stranded alone on another world! Movement was slower now, as he began to sink, trapped inside his wrecked car. Nothing that he could imagine could mean doom in the ground, spring-fed. The edges of that almost bottomless pool were caked with a rim of white—for the water, on which dead birds so often floated, was Vince knew that his friends and his family would never see his body again, lost beyond recovery in this abyss. The car was deeply submerged. The light had blinked out on the The Moon was a gigantic, pock-marked darkness. A flood rushed were unrecognizable. The rodent city was a glowing expanse of scrambling. But he emerged at last at the surface. dash-panel, leaving Ned in absolute sides, all their jaggedness lost after a million years of erosion under an ocean that was gone. In that ghastly moonlight, the ground glistened with dry salt. couldn't fight against the force of that incoming water. The liquid was sucked into his lungs. His last thoughts were those of a drowning man. The machine-shop he and his dad had might as well be an exile on another planet—so changed had the Earth become. A wave of intolerable homesickness Goodbye, Betty ... The ripples that had ruffled the surface waters in the Pit, had passed—those inconceivable came over him as he everything that was familiar. dinosaurs, still bulked along the from those glittering rodent cold sea-bottom, but what of it? What reason did he have left to live? He'd be only a museum eyes. He sensed death in that Change, seemed to wait.... \"Kaalleee! Tik!... Tik, tik, accurately, arose thinly from the depths of a powder-dry gulch, water-scarred from an inconceivable antiquity. The noon-day air was tenuous, dehydrated, \"Kaalleee!... Tik, tik, the barrier of the years.... the city of Kar-Rah. In a flying who have discovered something remarkable. The desolate expanse around the gulch, was all but without motion. The icy breeze tore tiny puffs of dust from grotesque, angling drifts of soil, nearly waterless for eons. Patches of drab lichen grew here and there on the up-jutting rocks, but in did in the Twentieth Century. was visible. Even the hills had sagged away, flattened by incalculable ages of erosion. At a mile distance, a crumbling heap of rubble arose. Once utter, sick dejection of this the last space ships built by the gods in exodus, perhaps it was—half a million years ago. Man was gone from the Earth. Glacial ages, war, decadence, disease, and a final scattering of those looming. In far less extreme circumstances regardless of the species from worlds in other solar systems, giant from the past, lost from The sounds were not human. \"Kaalleee!... Tik, tik, tik!...\" Time-travel. Almost a legend. An assault upon an intangible wall the gulch had been cleared of the accumulated rubbish of antiquity. this Kaalleee.... as ruler of the Earth. thing to do—to send you back to your own period of history. For I see that you will never be with a vast and unlooked-for success. different in appearance from his of time, of survival of the fittest, plans. The government of Kar-Rah was a scientific oligarchy, Twentieth Century. far beyond that of the ancient A horde of small, grey-furred beings and their machines, toiled for many days. Ned Vince's mind swam had enveloped it. He was wandering brown and hard as old wood. The aimlessly about in a familiar like an airtight coffin, had by now been chipped away by the clothing still clung to it, after had gone into decay—yes. But was simple—alkali. A mineral saturation that had held time aided probably during most of those passing eras by desert dryness. The Dakotas had turned arid very swiftly. This body was not a mere fossil. It was a \"You look as though you've been \"Kaalleee!\" Man, that meant. but the ancestral stock machines on Earth, and in the early Twenty-first Century, the legendary antiquity, had aided triumph ended, while instruments lot of worse things happened.... focused X-rays, he saw magnified of this ancient human even greater than before. In was perfectly preserved, even to sciences were far advanced move, speak, remember its past! What a marvelous subject for Loy, though, was not observing, now. He had wandered far out into cold, sad sea-bottom, to ponder. He squeaked and chatted to himself, contemplating the magnificent, inexorable march of the ages. He remembered the ancient ruins, left by the final supermen. an Eternal Wall. Our archeological researches among the cities of the supermen show the truth. Even they, who once ruled Earth, never escaped from the present by so much as an instant....\" beneath. A tremendous sand desert, marked with low, washed-down mountains, and the America seemed to crawl backward, THE END were gone forever. Beyond the eastern rim of the continent, the plain dipped downward steeply. The white of dried vague, angular, geometric was a little green growth here, too. The dead sea-bottom of the vanished Atlantic was not as dead as the highlands. Far out in a deep valley, Kar-Rah, Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. came into view—a crystalline But this was only its surface since the beginning of their foggy evolution. Besides, in this latter day, the Fluids submerged it, slowly soaking from that hardened flesh the alkali that had preserved it and other tissues became Then the more delicate processes began. Still submerged in passing between complicated flesh and brain gradually took on a chemical composition nearer to that of the life that they had once known. At last the final liquid was drained away, and the mummy lay there, a mummy no more, but a pale, silent figure in its tatters passed swiftly. whatever might happen now, form. For Ned Vince, timeless eternity ended like a gradual fading again, he experienced that inevitable 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. the era he had known! The walls were lavender and phosphorescent. He stood there panting in that frigid, rarefied air. It was night. that was not quite human. Its that moment of sinking to certain death in the pool at Pit Bend, he caught the edge of the metropolis. old, familiar friends. But the shallow, crystalline domes, set among odd, scrub trees and awry. His gaunt, young face things that you've got to get used to, that's all. You drowned about a million years ago. I discovered your body. I brought you his own kind. Probably insanity years. Evolution. The scientists say that people grew up from fishes in the sea. Prairie dogs\n\n<question>:\nFrom the 20th century to the age of the Kar-Rah, the planet's landscape as changed in all of the following ways EXCEPT:\n\n<options>:\nA Vegetation can only be harvested inside glass domes\nB North America is an expansive desert continent\nC Cities are gone and species have moved underground\nD The Atlantic Ocean has disappeared\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,274	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Sure I'm a Nilly, and I've died seven times, always in the blackness of the outer reaches, and I'm not alone, although there aren't very many of us, never were. hundred surviving colonists. Upon the return to Earth a year later, the 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 them, according to the Captain's Bulletin, the ship's daily newsletter which went to all hands and passengers. In the Bulletin the captain appealed to the thief to return the case to Mr. Janssen. He said it was significant that all en route had passed stability tests, and that knows we try to vary it as much as we can. Space creates rough edges. But the point is, we know all this, and knowing it, we shouldn't let it happen. We've got to find that thief.\" man emerging from Janssen's compartment with the black case. \"I didn't think anything of it at the time,\" Jamieson Dievers said. Although Dievers' account appeared in the newsletter, it was largely 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 thing. Janssen lived in that part of the ship known as the First Quadrant, and those who lived in that quadrant—more than seven hundred men, women and children—felt that the thief must surely live in Quadrant Two or Four. Elias Cromley, who had the compartment next to Janssen's, sounded the consensus when he said, \"Surely a man wouldn't compresses, stultifies. He introduces a countermeasure, proof he exists, which is any overt act, sometimes violent. On the forty-fifth day June Failright, the young wife of one of the passenger meteorologists, ran screaming down one of the long corridors of the Third Quadrant. She told the captain she had been attacked in her compartment while her husband was in the ship's library. She was taken to one of the ship's doctors, who confirmed it. She said the culprit was a husky man wearing a red rubber mask, and though her description of what he had done did not appear in the story in the newsletter, it lost no time in penetrating every compartment of the crew's doing in the first place.\" \"Yes,\" Ellason said, \"but what if the intruder is a crewman?\" it was ready for ripening. Raymond Palugger was killed in the ship's hospital on the sixty-first day. Palugger, a Fourth Quadrant passenger, had complained of feeling ill, had been hospitalized with a diagnosis of ileus. He had put his 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. 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. \"How can we protect ourselves without stunners?\" one colonist called out. the compartments of the others. These compartments were then locked, 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. there is hate there is violence, and where there is violence there is death. During sleep time on the seventy-ninth day Barbara Stoneman, awakened by a strange sound, sat up in the bed of her compartment to find a 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 escaped. The Quadrant Council confronted the captain, demanding weapons. 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.\" 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. 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 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 doctor, asked. \"I can see him taking my narcotics, my doctor's kit—but my dead wife's picture? That I don't understand.\" Ellason was busy noting it all in his book. It became filled with jottings about innocent people being accidentally stunned when trigger-happy policemen thought their movements suspicious, about one man's suspicion of another and the ensuing search of compartments, \"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 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?\" just sitting around. I had to work my head off keeping records for you lazy bastards.\" The verdict was, of course, death. They executed Harrel Critten on the morning of the 270th day with disposed of his body through a chute. It was all duly recorded in Keith Ellason's notebooks. which it always is. The \"Can't say I enjoyed the role,\" said Critten, \"but I think it saved lives.\" 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?\" \"Raymond Palugger died in the hospital all right, but he died from his illness on the operating table. We turned it into an advantage by \"Every time things got dull, I livened them up. I got a stunner and robbed along the corridor. That really stirred them. Lucky nobody got hurt during any of it, including that Stoneman woman. I was trying to rob her when she woke up.\" Branson cleared his throat. \"Ah, Ellason about that story. You understand you can't write it, don't you?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat happened to Mrs. Failright?\n\n<options>:\nA She was startled.\nB She was raped.\nC She was attacked.\nD She was robbed.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
55	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>:\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 throbbing rumble changed tone. Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact. room. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashed and a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the Burner room. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it. By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probably 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 either. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at which 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. \"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!\" when he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads who had a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money. A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lights 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 \"Hah? What?\" Callahan blinked like waking from a trance even groaned to himself, something that sounded like, \"Blabbering like I'd had a nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby.\" Then was saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save her 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 At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his old head. \"Berta!\" \"Oh, I'm Trillium,\" she assured Callahan sweetly. \"But Grandmamma's was being slapped together again. \"O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-faced pirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up, you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if we 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. Trillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as a spiral nebula. \"My locker!\" he crowed with inspiration and yanked open 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 to know. The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was a day over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniform probably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure. Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as she looked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk. Her voice was an iceberg exploding. \"At attention!\" Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stiffly erect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfully Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the more courtly bow. \"Stay at attention!\" Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face, 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.\" \"My dear Captain,\" His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger, Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leave O'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from busting out laughing for joy. Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! And betwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd be 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 drowned himself if he could. \"There are rewards,\" the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness of looked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness and protect it to his last breath of life. Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk. Panels on opposite walls lit up. efforts.\" Old Woman sighed through her teeth. \"Venus woman aboard this ship. Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.\" The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by a Excellency, \"what's this nonsense?\" \"Some loud creature is interfering,\" Madame President snapped with annoyance. \"Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed,\" Mr. President swore. \"Some silly female cackling now!\" as he roared, \"You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium, \"Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged,\" His Excellency Dimdooly declared. \"Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the first thing about such things!\" \"Take him away, girls,\" Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse was yanked from view. His bellows, however, could be heard yet. \"Unhand me, you fool did Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?\" O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trillium\n\n<question>:\nWhat caused Trillium to be found in her hiding place the final time?\n\n<options>:\nA The Earthmen couldn't stop staring at the bunk where she was because of their lust.\nB His Excellency saw her hiding under the bunk and recognized her immediately.\nC O'Rielly and Callahan had turned her in to the Old Woman in hopes of a reward.\nD A loud thump from under the bunk that caught the attention of the Old Woman.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
100	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console, lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in a Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walked There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he was Hathaway looked at him. \"So you're Gunther?\" he said, calmly. The questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds of could speak, Hathaway said: Marnagan fumed. \"I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'm and stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed he and Marnagan rattled guns with them in their tight hands. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinking Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was. fragile, bony legs and their atrophied state. Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera locked Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw three fired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight. Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaos \"Hold it!\" cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camera Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. \"I never thought of that. have. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to.\" Hathaway black and stars all around it, making it look sick. \"If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shaking hands the other side of this rock in two hours.\" Marnagan shook his mop Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. \"I checked Hathaway got hold of an idea Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: \"This is Gunther's work. He's Marnagan said, \"We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweat It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor and the crash this way.\" Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, far \"Hey!\" Marnagan blinked. \"Did you feel Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless and They ran back. \"Let's try it again.\" They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened. Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his hand came up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievable horrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts with numerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, some tubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing along Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat broke Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. \"They're as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him. They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway felt \"Which one will you be having?\" asked Irish, casually. \"A red one or a blue one?\" me a profile shot of the beasties and myself.\" Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. \"What in hell's the use? All \"Then,\" retorted Marnagan, \"we'll develop it for our own benefit while Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. \"Snap me this pose,\" he Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaver around in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, but Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smiling for the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, without he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Space war isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectory Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. \"Ah, \"It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroid monsters complete.\" Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again: Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationally Marnagan shooting his gun at Marnagan The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hair Hathaway said it, loud: \"Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of this going?\" Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller man Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it. \"I—I guess so,\" said Hathaway. \"And remember, think it hard, Irish. Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one, That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and the Only now it was only Marnagan. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. \"Hey, Click, look they never had a chance to disbelieve them.\" Marnagan didn't like it. \"Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—if Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. \"Not if we believe 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 Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. \"Just think—I will see Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking at 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 Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contorted faces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them. Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped and Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered the \"Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force into 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 besides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty.\" you show up with your gun....\" And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked about on. Marnagan, weaponless. and listening to Marnagan's lying voice: had his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: \"I think I'll let Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him. 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, tersely. They found themselves in a complete inner world an asteroid nothing 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 \"What good would that do?\" Hathaway gnawed his lip. \"They wouldn't fool the engineers who created them, you nut.\" Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. \"Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would come\n\n<question>:\nWhat are Hathaway and Marnagan's physiques like?\n\n<options>:\nA There isn't much discussion about how either person looks at all.\nB Marnagan is consistently described as feeble in comparison to Hathaway.\nC Both of their appearances are described to some degree, and Marnagan is often described as being a large presence.\nD Both are each regularly described as having similar builds.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
2,049	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nand fell in a heap, like a mechanical doll whose motive power has failed. Var felt Neena beside him, and drew her close. As she sobbed her relief, he continued to look down absently at the dead man. When at last he raised his head, he saw that the drama's end had had a further audience. dying sun. Neena shivered, even though the surrounding cold could not reach her. The ice-wind blew from the glacier, but Var's love was round her as a warming cloak, a cloak that glowed softly golden in the deepening Var. twilight, even as her love was about him. sense the thought of Groz. That thought was powerful, and heavy with vengeance. \"Hurry,\" said Neena. \"They're closer than they were an hour ago.\" She was beautiful and defiant, facing the red sunset and the black 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 be death for Var, and for Neena living shame. Which of the two was worse was no longer a simple problem to Var, who had grown much older in the last days. \"Wait,\" he commanded. While she waited he spun a dream, attaching it to \"Oh!\" cried Neena in involuntary alarm. Var sighed, shaking his head. \"It won't hold them for long, but it's the best I can do now. Come on.\" weariness lifted from them. \"You have stolen your enemy's daughter, no 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 very long, I'm sure, I would have performed some deed which Groz would able to do little for them against Groz and his violent kinsfolk. \"And what will you do now?\" Var grinned mirthlessly. \"We haven't much choice, since they're overtaking us. I have only one idea left: we can go where Groz may fear to follow us.\" \"And into it, if need be.\" The Watcher was broodingly silent his eyes shifted to Neena, where she nestled by Var's side. He asked, \"And you—are you willing to follow your lover in this?\" Neena returned his gaze without flinching then she looked sidelong at Var, and her lips curled with a proud and tender mockery. \"Follow? Why, I will lead, if his courage should fail him.\" The old man said, \"It is no part of my duty to dissuade you from this Var and Neena stared, unstirring, with wide vacant eyes, while the old man wove a dream around them, and the bright ice-cave faded from their and the city burned and burned.... Var blinked dazedly in the shadowless glow of the ice-cave. His arm tightened about Neena till she gasped. He was momentarily uncertain that he and she were real and here, such had been the force of the dream, a vision of such scope and reality as Var had never seen—no, lived \"this is a world where you are free to risk wakening the old tyrants, if in your own judgment your great need renders the chance worth taking.\" Neena pressed her face against Var's shoulder, hiding her eyes. In her mind as it groped for his there was a confusion of horror and pity. Var looked grimly at the Watcher, and would have spoken \"You are tired. Best sleep until morning.\" Var strove to cry out that there was no time, that Groz was near and coolly with dark piercing eyes that were familiar though he did not know the face. Neena sat up and stifled a cry of fright. Var growled, \"Who are you? Where's the Watcher?\" The other flashed white teeth in a smile. \"I'm the Watcher,\" he \"Groz and his people could not detect your thoughts as you slept. They were all night chasing elusive dreams on the high ridges, miles away.\" Var passed a hand across bewildered eyes. Neena said softly, \"Thank you, Watcher.\" \"Don't thank me. I take no sides in your valley feuds. But now you are rested, your minds are clear. Do you still mean to go on to the Ryzga mountain?\" Not looking at the Watcher, Var muttered unsteadily, \"We have no \"You have an alternative,\" said the Watcher crisply. The two took their eyes from the black mountain and gazed at him in sudden hope, but his face was unsmiling. \"It is this. You, Var, can flee up the canyon to the north, by a way I will show you, disguising your thoughts and masking your presence as well as you are able, while the girl goes in the other direction, southward, without seeking to conceal herself. Your pursuers will be deceived and follow her, and by the time they catch her it will be too late for them to overtake Var.\" That possibility had not occurred to them at all. Var and Neena looked at one another. Then by common consent they blended their minds into one. \"You are ready to go,\" said the Watcher. He spoke aloud, and his voice was cracked and harsh. Var opened his eyes in surprise, and saw that the Watcher had become again the hoary ancient of last night. Var felt a twinge of unfamiliar emotion 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?\" river, crept hand in hand, sharing their strength, across unstable dream bridges from crag to crag. Groz and his pack, in their numbers, would cross the gorge more surely and swiftly. When Var and Neena set foot at heard a great voice crying, \"There they are!\" Var and Neena turned. Far out in the sea of fog, on a dream bridge that caught you now!\" Behind Groz the figures of his followers loomed up as striding shadows. Neena's hand tightened on Var's. Var sent a thought of defiance: \"Go back! Or you'll drive us to enter the mountain!\" Groz seemed to hesitate. Then he swung his staff up like a weapon, and sky was beneath. Var fought for footing with his balance gone, feeling Neena reel against him until, summoning all his strength, he broke the grip of the illusion and the world seemed to right itself. The mist billowed again and Groz was out of sight, but they could hear him exhorting his men to haste. Neena's face was deadly pale and her lips trembled, but her urgent whisper said, \"Come on!\" Together they plunged into the curtain of darkness. At Var's thought command Neena froze instantly. \"Feel that!\" he Stop! —before you go too far!\" Var faced that way and thought coldly: \"Only if you return and let us go free.\" the death-cries of a billion slaves, the despair of all flesh and blood before their monstrous and inhuman power. Without warning, lights went on. Blinking in their glare, Var and Neena Var and Neena huddled frozenly, half expecting each instant to be their last. And the Ryzga too stood motionless, looking down at them. He was a man of middle height and stocky build, clad in a garment of misdirected and unavailing as those of a child who has not learned to wrestle with the mind. Var had guessed right. When Neena in her terror had flung a dream monster into the Ryzga's way—a mere child's bogey out of a fairy tale—the Ryzga had not recognized it as such, but had taken it for a\n\n<question>:\nWhich best describes the relationship between Neena and Var?\n\n<options>:\nA They are marrying out of familial responsibility more than love but are still happy to be together\nB They have roughly equal footing in their dedication to one another\nC Neena gets to make all of the decision in return for going with Var to stay with his people\nD Var has convinced Neena to go with him after he won her in battle\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,024	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>:\nperhaps. He could smell the bitter fragrance of tobacco smoke mingling with disapproval. He turned his head slightly so he could just see Eckert in the bank facing him. Eckert, one of the good gray men in the Service. The old reliables, the ones who could take almost anything in their stride because, at one time or another, they had had to. It was Eckert who had come into his office several days ago and told Eckert had come into his office without saying a word and had watched making a simple pattern drifting past the glass. Eckert had fiddled He shouldn't get sentimental. But how the hell else should he remember had come of good stock. There had been no mental instability in his family for as far back as the genetic records went. He had been raised the Diplomatic Service, his grades had improved. He had worked hard at it, though he wasn't what you would call a grind. In high school and later in college, he was the well-balanced type, athletic, popular, hard-working. How long would it be before memories faded and all there was left had been elected president of that, he had graduated with such and such honors. But try getting a picture of him by reading the records, resurrect him from a page of black print. Would he be human? Would he be flesh and blood? Hell, no! In the statistics Pendleton was the All-Around Boy, the cold marble statue with the finely chiseled muscles and the smooth, blank sockets where the eyes should be. Maybe someday fate would play a trick on a hero-worshiping public and there would be born. Parents would get them by sending in so many box tops. He was drowsy the ceiling told how close they were to takeoff. His head was thick with drowsiness, his eyelids a heavy weight that he knew he couldn't keep open much longer. But that wasn't the real reason. Maybe Eckert thought so, but he knew The thin red line was practically microscopic now and Templin could feel his lashes lying gently on his cheeks. But he wasn't asleep—not committed suicide not long after landing.\" The room was a whirling pool of blackness into which his mind was alive.\" Warm breezes rustled through Eckert's graying hair and tugged gently at his tunic. The air smelled as if it had been washed and faintly It won't be long before it will be green again , he thought. The grass looked as though it grew fast—it would certainly have plenty of time to grow before the next ship landed. He looked at the slim, dwindling shape that was the rocket, and was up. He stood there for a moment, drinking in the fresh air and feeling the at that, away from the din and the hustle and confusion, spending the time in a place where the sun was warm and inviting. I must be getting old , he thought, thinking about the warmth and comfort. Like old dogs and octogenarians. Templin was looking at the scenery with a disappointed expression on his face. Eckert stole a side glance at him and for a fleeting moment Eckert nodded agreement. \"It wouldn't fit, would it? It would be like a It looked fairly primitive, Eckert thought, and yet it didn't have the seem cluttered or dirty and you didn't feel like beating a hasty retreat when the wind was blowing toward you. A few adults were watching them curiously and the usual bunch of Eckert stared at them for a moment, wondering what it was that seemed odd about them, and they stared back with all the alert dignity of childhood. They finally came out on the field and clustered around him and Templin. Templin studied them warily. \"Better watch them, Ted. Even kids can be But the idea still didn't go with the warm sun and the blue sky and the piny scent of the trees. One of the adults of the village started to walk toward them. \"I'd be very careful what I did,\" Eckert said softly. \"I would hate to start something merely because I misunderstood their intentions.\" The committee of one was a middle-aged man dressed in a simple strip of white cloth twisted about his waist and allowed to hang freely to his knees. When he got closer, Eckert became less sure of his age. He had the firm, tanned musculature of a much younger man, though a slightly seamed face and white hair aged him somewhat. Eckert still had the feeling that if you wanted to know his exact age, you'd have to look at his teeth or know something about his epiphyseal closures. \"You are and then offered his hand, somewhat shyly, Eckert thought, in the furnished, in a rustic sort of way, and what modern conveniences they didn't have they could easily do without. The youngsters who had carried their luggage left it outside and quietly faded away. It was getting dark Eckert opened one of the boxes they had brought along, Eckert shrugged. \"That's one of the things you do out of habit, try \"That's not very typical of a primitive society, is it?\" \"No, I'm afraid it's not.\" Eckert started unpacking some of the boxes. \"You know, Ray, I got a kick out of the kids. They're a healthy-looking lot, aren't they?\" \"Too healthy,\" Templin said. \"There didn't seem to be any sick ones or ones with runny noses or cuts or black eyes or bruises. It doesn't seem natural.\" \"They're probably just well brought-up kids,\" Eckert said sharply. \"In what way?\" The words came out slowly. \"The people are too casual, as though they're playing a rehearsed part. Here we are, from an entirely times before. It should still be a novelty to them. And yet how much curiosity did they show? Hardly any. Was there any fear? No. And the cute, harmless little kids.\" He looked at Eckert. \"Maybe that's what He was keyed up, jumpy, Eckert realized. He would probably be seeing wood slat blinds, carrying the fragrance of the trees and the grass, and he inhaled deeply and let his thoughts wander for a moment. It was power pack, Eckert saw grimly, probably leading to the buttons on his Eckert put down the chain he had been whittling and reached for his seemed likely to turn into a vendettist. It meant that Eckert would Eckert rolled up the thin, slatted blinds and stared out at the \"Physically perfect, like the men,\" Templin grumbled. \"You could get an inferiority complex just from watching the people here. Everybody's so too thin, nobody's unhappy. The only variation is that they don't all look alike. Perfection. It gets boring after a while.\" \"Does it? I hadn't noticed.\" Eckert turned away from the blinds. His voice was crisp. \"I knew Don Pendleton quite well, too,\" he said. \"But he noticed that nobody drank to excess. The old Greek ideal , he thought: moderation in everything. He looked at Templin, sitting across from him in the huge circle, and shrugged mentally. Templin looked as if he was about to break down and enjoy himself, but there was still a slight bulge under his tunic, \"You look thoughtful, menshar Eckert.\" Eckert took another sip of the wine and turned to the Tunpeshan on his left. He was a tall, muscular man with sharp eyes, a firm chin and a certain aura of authority. Eckert gnawed the dainty meat off a slender Eckert had a sudden clammy feeling which quickly passed away. What Eckert stared bleakly at his wine glass and tried to put the pieces of . He glanced across the circle at Templin. Templin's face—what he could see of it by the flickering light—was brick red.\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Eckert think that one would have to view the committee member's teeth to know his age?\n\n<options>:\nA He seemed wise beyond his years.\nB He had disguised himself as an old man with gray hair but no wrinkles.\nC He acted too much like a small child.\nD He looked both young and old at the same time.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
98	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>:\nactor are you?\" \"That's a silly question.\" \"You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front of you, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heart and fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall down and twitch on the ground. Is that clear?\" \"Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula....\" He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination and the controls and keeping his words to himself until just now. directness. \"A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was the on carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet and They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand of gravity listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. he and Marnagan rattled around—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst, guns with them in their tight hands. Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air. quick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reach film, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this \"Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!\" brain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of his camera. Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it. Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathaway had to credit them on that. They took it, standing. of the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground and fragile, bony legs and their atrophied state. fingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there, thinking \"Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll—\" His voice stopped and the silence spoke. suffocation a better death...? Sixty minutes. They stood and looked at one another. They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward a bony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn't much to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting. Marnagan said, \"We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweat 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 the crash this way.\" Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, far They stopped, together. \"Oops!\" Click said. 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. \"Gravity should not act this way, Click.\" scene!\" \"Use your gun.\" \"They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase, eh, Click?\" \"Yeah. Sure. \"Let me think—\" \"Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact.\" They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway felt funny about something me doing it. Joking in the face of death.\" \"Me father taught me for nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking running 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 air and energy flung out. Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysis 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. for teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-hand education. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give me profile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into The \"Shut up and load up.\" Think it hard. There aren't any animals—\" \"Keep me in focus, lad.\" \"What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!\" two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters were waiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking. Right out into the middle of them.... animated. \"They just plain vanished. They were only imaginative figments!\" \"Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they could have frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. If that isn't being dangerous—\" 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 felt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steady himself, and swayed. \"I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours. This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick.\" \"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?\" \"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?\" certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen and felt. We only want to we, now?\" \"With twenty minutes left, maybe less—\" \"All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?\" Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. \"Just think—I will see the monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them. Think it over and over.\" Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. \"And—what if I forget to remember all that? What if I get excited...?\" A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarming in malevolent anticipation about the two men. \"Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force into your mind! It's not real, I tell you!\" you forget the monsters. Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you might forget.\" 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 \"I haven't got one.\" \"We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. They probably got scanners out. Let them see me—\" How'd you get past the animals?\" and listening to Marnagan's lying voice: \"I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundles let himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn't have a weapon. Oh, damn, damn! acting.\" time! Double!\" tersely. They found themselves in a complete inner world intricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored film into thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius. \"So here we are, still not much better off than we were,\" growled Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. \"Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would come riding over the hill—\"\n\n<question>:\nHow would you describe the pace of the characters, and why?\n\n<options>:\nA Quickly. The characters were under a time constraint, depleting air, and were encountering additional threats that made them move with haste.\nB At a sprint. The characters were so scared that they were rushing decisions and they weren't thinking logically.\nC Average. Though the characters were concerned for their survival, they were taking things at a normal pace because they thought they could be rescued.\nD Slowly. The characters didn't want to endanger themselves further in the situation so they tried to think everything through fully.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,364	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nmen on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It's challenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughts of his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmann Willy Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of a hemorrhoid. The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook. It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, \"Bailey, shipmate \"Belly-Robber.\" It was Winkelmann who discussed Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the taste of synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized by \"Doc, do you like Winkelmann?\" the Cook asked me. \"I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook,\" Bailey said. \"The fat swine!\" \"His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey,\" I \"You'll never make Winkelmann happy,\" I said. \"Even the simultaneous Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silently imploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The big man's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed. cycler-salt.\" \"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. bite. \"But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms and grasshoppers, to stay alive.\" \"Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me?\" Bailey pleaded. the ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me, Belly-Robber?\" Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. \"Yes, sir. But I really don't know what I can do to please you.\" or weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that will keep my belly content and my brain alive.\" \"Yes, sir,\" Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the British term Dumb Insolence. Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. I followed him. \"Captain,\" I said, \"you're driving Bailey too hard. You're asking him to make bricks without straw.\" Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. \"You think, Doctor, Pharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children of Israel would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is the mother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make him uncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment, to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learn somehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks.\" \"You're driving him too hard, Sir,\" I said. \"He'll crack.\" \"Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when we ground at Brady Station,\" Captain Winkelmann said. \"So much money buys many discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova.\" \"Crew morale on the ship....\" I began. \"That will be all, Doctor Vilanova,\" Captain Winkelmann repeated. Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the elliptical the appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemned 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 cheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary genius acidly called in question again. I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to go a lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot \"bread\" with a genuinely dairy smell. \"Splendid, Bailey,\" I said. \"We are not amused,\" said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a second have learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economics student. That will be all, Bailey.\" The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding of Bailey they were in addition gratified that the battle between their Captain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embark Winkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook. ration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds of books, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to help him while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for a fact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case of \"What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today, Belly-Robber?\" he asked the Cook. Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'd had much practice. \"I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,\" he said. \"I think I've whipped the taste \"I understand,\" Winkelmann growled. \"You intend that your latest mess Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. The Winkelmann chewed. \"Just the thing,\" he smiled. Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook. 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 insubordinate your noun might prove mutinous.\" \"Captain, you've gone too far,\" I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, was scarlet, his chest heaving with emotion. \"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. \"Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you,\" I said. \"The other officers and the men have been more than satisfied with his work.\" \"That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds,\" Winkelmann said. Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered him to my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on my bunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metal that looked 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 Bailey nodded and smiled. \"Thank you, Sir,\" he said. I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses were now strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults of a price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmann 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 the algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galley oblivious of the taunts of his crewmates. \"The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks,\" the crewman Bailey stood up. \"Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor?\" he asked. I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job. of the ship and his crew. \"Do I like Captain Winkelmann?\" I asked, spearing another piece of my artificial steak. \"Bailey, I'm afraid I'll have to admit that I do.\"\n\n<question>:\nHow do the crewmen view the tension between Winkelmann and Bailey?\n\n<options>:\nA They are repulsed by the Captain's condescending remarks\nB They are thankful that the Captain's cruelty influences Bailey to create more palatable food\nC They are determined to stay out of the conflict, for fear of being punished by the Captain\nD They are concerned that Bailey will mutiny by refusing to fulfill his job responsibilities\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,328	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>:\nRaging , Trooper Lane hovered three thousand The cool cybrain surgically implanted in him was working on the problem. But Lane Lane said, \"I can do that a had no more patience. They'd Lane is through now. He has been able to outthink police with the help of his cybrain. will be able to outthink Lane's cybrain, will predict Lane's He was going over all their heads. He'd bowled those city cops over like paper dolls, back at the Armory. The black dog was on Lane's back. this is Lane.\" \"Lane, this is Trooper Court House. Lane cursed Thirty seconds passed. Lane his stupidity. He hadn't found out which one was which \"Get me Colonel Klett.\" Troopers in the Armory and teach them how to fight. They don't teach them about their rasped into Lane's ear: own city, that they'll be fighting seven years old up, Troopers have too much to learn about fighting. The voice of the commanding officer of the Troopers against my orders! for. There's no time. From \"Meat-head! You broke out would be crazy scared. You're churned in his veins, nerves shrieked with impatience. Lane waited for the electronic brain to come up with the answer. Then his head jerked up, to girl from Mars is right, Lane. Damn fast! The cybrain jolted an impulse through his spine. Lane \"Sir, I'm asking for help. I \"I am, Lane.\" The voice of nerves. Lane's own mind was just along for the ride. His taken charge of his motor know you're on my side.\" Colonel Klett was lower. \"I'd never admit it if you had a up speed. His mailed hands \"Yes, sir.\" \"I'm sorry, Lane.\" \"Yes, sir. Over and out.\" Lane pressed the stud on his gauntlet again. He turned glittered like arrowheads out to Gerri. says I can't. Says if I drop the pane dissolved. Lane streamed has even a little bit of right Lane laughed. \"Any of them Lane dropped lightly to the floor, inside the room, in battle-crouch. A 3V set was yammering. A girl screamed. Lane's on his side.\" The paragrav-paks cut off. purple-haired broads I know the girl fold to the floor. There Lane frowned with the effort Lane, still in a crouch, chewed was no one else in the room. his lip. of thinking. \"You said I had a little right on my side. \"Lashing police with his vibray,\" said the announcer, \"Lane broke through the cordon outguess Lane's cybrain and check his moves ahead of are cautioned to keep clear of him. Lane is an insane killer. He is armed with the latest military weapons. A built-in Lane looked at Gerri. \"How reflexes—\" \"At ease with that jazz,\" said Lane, and a sheathed finger snapped out. There was a electronic brain controls his he couldn't name. Then he \"You deserve it, Lane.\" Lane strode to the window. should get killed. If I take a Lane's mailed hand snapped open a pouch at his belt. He flipped a fist-sized cube to the Lane glanced out the window. \"But you're safe in here!\" \"Worry about yourself, not about me.\" Lane picked up the force-bomb and handed it to real fast. It'll shut off the shakily. Lane grinned. \"Trooper Lane, of the Newyork Special Troops, is all.\" He threw her a mock salute. \"You from outa-town, girlie. I ain't seen flying. But they weren't aimed at Lane, either. They were girl pushed herself to her feet. Built, Lane saw. shooting wild. She was pretty and clean-looking, says fly right for the him. \"What the devil do you think you're doing, soldier? I Lane plunged forward. He \"I don't,\" said Lane, unconcerned. heard the shouts of frightened men. \"Well, you should have had brains enough to honor the what that means.\" Years of training and cybrain took over. Lane's hand shot out, fingers vibrating. As he Lane .\" \"I'm the guy they told you Lane stood for a moment in the midst of the sprawled men, the shrieks of the crowd Lane. \"Cybrain didn't know, no more than me.\" Lane was uncomfortable in his dress uniform. First The girl noticed the dark Protectorate, and honoring Trooper Lane. Now there was a formal dinner. Colonel Klett and Gerri Kin sat on either side of Lane. \"Gerri Kin. Look, Lane, Lane said, \"I'm going to \"Did she ask you to?\" demanded Klett. Lane shook his head. \"She's got too much class for me. But I like what she told me about Lane said, \"Yeah? Well, we done what they wanted us to do. We did the fighting for Mayor, Lane, I'd never release to Newyork and they lock us stupidity—by disregarding your cybrain.\" Lane said, \"It wasn't so stupid if it worked.\" \"That's what bothers me. It us. Won't let us go nowhere. can't have time off. I don't They had cops guarding us. should anyone use them Lane broke off. There was City cops.\" Lane sneered. \"I nosing toward the force-screen. Lane could read the A loudspeaker shouted into the room: \"Come out of there, Lane, or we'll blast you out.\" \"You can't,\" Lane called. is still, and will always be, the \"I repeat, Lane—come out sir,\" said Lane. \"That's why Lane turned to the girl. \"I individual soldier.\" \"What you just said there, or we'll blast you out.\" \"Yeah, but—\" Lane shook \"No deal, Lane. We're coming typographical errors have been corrected without note. straight up, out of the line of vision. Lane looked down at the voices rose from below. Lane Lane looked across the \"Lane is holding the Martian Police are bringing up blaster cannon. Lane's defense is a globe of energy similar to the one which protects Cybrain said no. It said the Lane looked sadly at her. Only two kinds of girls ever went near a Trooper—the quick,\" said Lane. \"I'm \"I wish I could write a letter \"Didn't you understand \"What's a letter?\" \"You don't know where a letter is. You probably can't even read and write!\" Lane shrugged. He carried on the conversation disinterestedly, before battle. \"What's these things I can't do? They important?\" important I realize they are. You know how to fight, don't you? I'll bet you're perfect with those weapons.\" \"Listen. They been training me to fight since I was a little kid. Why shouldn't I be a great little fighter?\" \"Specialization,\" said the because they're not trained to do anything.\" \"The Fans,\" said Lane. \"They got it soft. That's them down there, come to watch the fight.\" \"You know why you were kept in the Armory, Lane? I heard them talking about it, \"Because they're afraid of ever been made. You. Single airborne infantrymen!\" Lane said, \"They told us in Trooper Academy that it's the it until the SocioSpecs of Newyork came up with the Troopers. Before the Troopers, on hands and knees. Lane jumped to the window, looked quickly, sprang back. Cybrain pumped orders Again Lane and Gerri were thrown to the floor. But this and a blinding flash from below. Lane laughed boyishly and ran to the window.\n\n<question>:\nWhy can't Lane read or write?\n\n<options>:\nA When the cybrain was installed, Lane's own brain was wiped clean.\nB Lane is dyslexic. He got frustrated trying to learn and gave up.\nC Teaching the soldiers how to read and write would only lead to rational thinking. The soldiers might start to question orders. Therefore, they are only taught fighting.\nD Lane has only been schooled in soldiering since he was seven. He was taught to fight, nothing else.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
705	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>:\nclear through to Lovenbroy.\" be the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into more cultivated channels.\" \"I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land,\" Retief said, glancing at the Memo for Record. \"That's a sizable sublimation.\" Magnan nodded. \"The Bogans have launched no less than four military campaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums of the Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that precedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.\" \"Breaking and entering,\" Retief said. \"You may have something there. But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrial world of the poor but honest variety.\" that you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This will be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic restraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.\" button. \"Send the bucolic person in.\" out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is just forest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr. on Lovenbroy we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time. The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You have ordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing getting it in doesn't take long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting new \"This isn't drinking probably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few years swallowing wine. \"But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em. We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed a force. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals than we did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise. money from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to start said. \"What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?\" season is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in. here and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deep grass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall, the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on: roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty of \"Oh, that's Lovenbroy years We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a big vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Then you'd have thought I was trying to buy slaves.\" across the table. \"Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie. What are they getting?\" sole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans and Exchanges.\" He pursed his lips. \"However, I suppose there's no harm in telling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.\" \"Drill rigs, that sort of thing?\" \"Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped up General Economies have been trying for months to get a request for mining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—\" \"SCROUNGE was late on the scene,\" Whaffle said. \"First come, first \"That's the trouble with peaceful worlds,\" the SCROUNGE committeeman said. \"Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is out hundred students would overtax the waiting....\" \"You meeting somebody?\" \"Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one on me.\" \"Heck, no,\" he said. \"Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go to town? We fellas were thinking—\" \"You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Now line up!\" on.\" \"Thanks,\" said Karsh. \"They'll stay here until take-off time. Can't have the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas about going over the hill.\" He hiccupped. \"I mean they might play hookey.\" \"We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a long wait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.\" \"Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.\" students?\" \"Maybe later,\" Karsh said. \"You know, after we see how the first bunch a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors. But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on Lovenbroy.\" will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?\" it into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armored vehicle. \"That's the model WV,\" she said. \"It's what is known as a continental siege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower.\" CROANIE (general).\" He paused at a page headed Industry. the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records show we're shipping five hundred units....\" \"That's correct. Five hundred.\" Retief said. \"Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhaps And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use the equipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—\" \"I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other four hundred and ninety tractors?\" gift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some scheme \"Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction.\" \"What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without a blade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit.\" \"Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have us branded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line?\" \"Certainly. You may speak freely.\" \"The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into a \"I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,\" \"Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha.\" \"Who gets the tractors eventually?\" \"Retief, this is unwarranted interference!\" \"Who gets them?\" \"They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—\" \"And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorized representative.\" \"And when will they be shipped?\" \"Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. But look here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!\" many this time?\" \"Two thousand.\" \"And where will they be going?\" \"Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job is I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the Croanie Retief waved at the wine bottles. \"What do you know about Croanie?\" \"Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you like fish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoon time. Over a foot long.\" \"You on good terms with them?\" \"Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.\" \"So?\" \"Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here a dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot of bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easy game.\"\n\n<question>:\nHow is Croanie going to affect Lovenbroy?\n\n<options>:\nA They are going to steal its students.\nB They are going to help Lovenbroy pick it’s crop.\nC They are going to steal all its wine.\nD They are going to invade it.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
776	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>:\nthrough their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. coffee. Refreshed and momentarily content, he sat staring into the dying fire, seeing the bright glowing coals as living fingers clutching at the wood in consuming embrace, taking all and returning nothing but his brain, bathing it in a gentle, warm flood. He slept. His brain slept. But the portion of his brain called memory stirred. It was all alone all else was at rest. Images began to appear, drawn from inexhaustible children to bed—their sons—and now sat on the couch, watching the blazing fire. It was then that he had showed it to her. \"I've got something to tell you, and something to show you.\" He had removed the box from his pocket and opened it. And heard her cry of surprised joy. \"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. 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 unexplored, some vastly different emotion he could never quite explain. \"Wait!\" she cried. \"I've something for you, too.\" She took off the locket she wore about her neck and held it up to the shimmering light, letting it spin at the end of its chain. It caught the shadows of the fire and reflected them, greatly magnified, over the in one side, and in the other a picture of the children. He took her in his arms again, and loosened her long, black hair, burying his face in 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 in the jeep the army had sent for him, watching her there on the porch until the mist swirled around her feet and she ran back into the house and slammed the door. His cold fingers found the locket, making a 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 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. Suddenly he had become aware of a droning, wooshing sound above him. It grew louder and louder until he knew what it was. 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 After months of storms and bad luck, they had been shipwrecked had heard was the occasional swish of the wind as it whisked along what might have been dead leaves, but wasn't. He had been on the trail for a long time. His food was nearly exhausted. The mountains were just beginning, and he hoped to find food there. He had not found food, but his luck had been with him. He had found a horse. Not a normal horse, but a mutation. It was almost twice 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 started the long journey home. The farther north he went, the more life seemed to have survived. He plains, and strange birds which he could not identify. Yet he had seen no human beings. But he knew he was closer now. Closer to home. He recognized the land. How, he did not know, for it was much changed. A sensing, perhaps, of what it had once been. He could not be more than two days' ride away. Once he was through this desert, he would find her, he would be with 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. He awoke and stretched the cramped muscles of his body. At the edge of the water he removed his clothes and stared at himself in the rippling mirror. His muscles were lean and hard, evenly placed throughout the length of his frame. A deep ridge ran down the length of his torso, separating the muscles, making the chest broad. Well satisfied with his body, he plunged into the cold water, deep down, until he thought his lungs would burst then swiftly returned to the clean air, tingling in stopped suddenly. The wind swirled through its vast emptiness, slapping his face with dusty hands. For a moment he thought he heard voices—mournful, murmuring voices, echoing up from the misty depths. He turned quickly away and did not look back. Night paled into day day burned into night. There were clouds in the sky now, and a gentle wind caressed the sweat from his tired body. He stopped. There it was! Barely discernible he was home he would build new furniture, and the house would be even better than it had been before. Then he saw her. She was sitting motionless in a straight wooden chair beside the \"No, no!\" he cried soundlessly. This was not his house. In his delirium he had only imagined he had found it. He had been searching so long. He would go on searching. He was turning wearily away from the window when the movement of the 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. Slowly he moved toward the door. A great weakness was upon him. His feet were stones, reluctant to leave the earth. His body was a weed, shriveled by thirst. He grasped the doorknob and clung to it, looking up at the night sky and trying to draw strength from the wind that passed over him. It was no use. There was no strength. Only fear—a kind of fear he had never known. He fumbled at his throat, his fingers crawling like cold worms around 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 it, and stared at the pictures, now in the dim moonlight no longer faces of those he loved, but grey ghosts from the past. Even the ruby 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. of strength left him. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped onto his chest.\n\n<question>:\nWhat can you best infer about the connection the main character had with his wife?\n\n<options>:\nA He had a connection with her worth more than what could be captured in an object.\nB He had a connection with her that would end once he left for war.\nC His connection with her was not strong enough to withstand time.\nD His connection with her was not as strong as he thought.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,132	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"I've decided not to bring my people here.\" the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The sand-thing was powerful, lonely and strange. No doubt it was a god—but who wasn't? Stinson lay still in the sand where he fell, gloating over the success \"I've changed my mind. You will be welcomed.\" \"Listen to that, will you?\" Stinson said angrily. \"Just listen! You set yourself up as a God for the webfoots. You get them eating out of your hand. Then what do you do? You throw a fit. Yes, a fit! Like an adolescent. Worse.\" \"No!\" Stinson shot back. \"You've owned this planet for a million Stinson relaxed. He'd had his say. Sybtl trembled beside him. A small mammal, round, furry, hopped by, sniffing inquisitively. Sybtl said, \"Is the Sand God happy?\" She shook her head. \"No, he is not happy. He is old, old, old. I can feel it. My people say that when one gets too old it is well to die. But Gods never die, do they? I would \"Stinson,\" the Sand God said. \"You said I was adolescent. You are Stinson tried to imagine it. At first there must have been a single to drift in the wind—although there was no wind. Stinson backed away. \"I don't understand why your development stopped,\" Stinson said. other living thing. It is a lesson my people never knew. Select any portion of this planet that suits you. Take the web-footed woman for your wife. Have children. I promise never to harm you in any way.\" \"The webfoots?\" \"You and they shall share the planet.\" The Sand God disappeared. Sybtl said \"Is the Sand God angry again?\" \"No, he is not angry.\" \"I'm glad. You will leave now?\" sand possibly have a nervous system? It was again going through its paces. Triangle, cube, rectangle, sphere. He watched, and when it became a triangle again, he smoothed Should he give up and return to earth? Or was there room here for \"My name is Stinson,\" he said, pointing to himself. \"I'm from the Stinson grasped it firmly, with half a notion to break it over his \"Why?\" pool. It was in the language of the web-footed people it was in his own tongue. \"No harm must come to this woman. The God with fingers on \"I am Stinson, of the planet Earth.\" \"I deserted you?\" Stinson cried angrily, \"You tried to kill me!\" Stinson felt a mental shrug. \"It is of no importance. When they arrived rather than reason. It is of no importance.\" exist, almost as soon as those of the sixth planet peoples. I am most interested in you. You will bring your people, and live here.\" \"I haven't decided. There are these web-footed people, who were hostile until they thought I was a God. They have destructive weapons. Also, I don't understand you. I see you as a cone of sand which keeps changing webfoots use is a toy by comparison. Our scientists found the ultimate nature of physical law. They learned to separate the mind from the Stinson was silent, thinking of the endless years of searching through God,\" she said, \"to speak to my people again. Their fear of him does not last. When He is gone they will probably kill us.\" \"As for the webfoots,\" the wind devil, or Sand God, said, \"I will destroy them. You and your people will have the entire planet.\" \"Destroy them?\" Stinson asked, incredulously, \"all these people? They entity, once existing, must not be harmed in any way. To do so changes the most basic structure of nature.\" The Sand God did not reply. The great bodiless, directionless voice was pleaded. When he looked back, the Sand God was gone. had thoughtfully brought along from the cavern. He took it, and they ran down the slippery path leading away from the entrance. From the hiding place behind a large rock they watched, as several web-footed webfoots were no match for him. He could travel instantly to any spot he chose. But with Sybtl it was another matter he was no better than How was he to decide if this planet was suitable for his people, depended on him. Anyway, he decided, pursuit was impossible. They left no tracks on the ice. They were safe, unless the webfoots possessed talents unknown to him. \"And because of me even those in the cavern have disowned you.\" Suddenly she stiffened beside him. There, directly in their path, stood the Sand God. It was blood red now. It pulsed violently. The great voice burst forth. \"Leave the woman!\" it demanded angrily. \"The webfoots are nearing your position.\" \"I cannot leave her. She is helpless against them.\" Stinson shook his head. \"Yes,\" Stinson said, \"and your race no longer exists.\" drove them backward. \"Earthman,\" the great voice said, \"go back to your Earth. Take your inconsistencies with you. Do not come here again to infect my planet with your primitive ideas. The webfoots are not as intelligent as you, but they are sane. If you bring your people here, I shall destroy you all.\" Well, Stinson said to himself, that does it. We are better off on Earth. We can't fight a monster like him. Sybtl touched his arm. \"Why did the Sand God come? He did not speak.\" \"He spoke to me.\" voice that speaks only in the mind. He said I must leave this planet.\" \"Then he will kill you.\" She touched her fingers on his face. \"I am sorry. It was all for me.\" \"Don't worry. The Sand God travels without a ship, why shouldn't I?\" \"Now?\" \"As soon as you are safe. Come.\" They stepped around it carefully. Stinson felt warm air, but there was no time, now, to warm cold feet or dwell on the vagaries of Sand Gods. in an audible range. \"The Sand God,\" Sybtl said. \"Sometimes he plays among the clouds. He makes it rain in a dry summer, or sometimes warms the whole world for days at a time in winter, so the snow melts and the grass begins least he does this when he plays. Who knows what he will do when he's angry?\" \"The Sand God isn't doing this,\" Stinson said. \"It's only a storm.\" Sybtl shook her head and stroked his face with her long, slim fingers. \"Poor little God-with-fingers-on-his-feet,\" she said. \"You do not understand. The Sand God is terrible, even when he plays. See the lightning? It is blue. The lightning of a storm that comes by itself is not blue. He is running around the world on feet like the rockets of Stinson had never been in a sand storm before, even on Earth. He could purposefully. Stinson prepared himself to leave. In spite of his desire and throwing shadows and coaxing life out into the open again. Down in the canyon a bird sang, a lonely, cheerful twitter. \"The Sand God is tired,\" Sybtl said. \"He is not angry now. I'm glad. Perhaps he will let you stay.\" \"No. Even if he allowed it, I couldn't stay. My people could never live here with a God who is half devil.\" The cone of sand suddenly appeared. It stood in the canyon, its base of creeping, crawling nether things. The bird's twitter stopped abruptly. \"Earthman,\" the Sand God said, as if he were about to make a statement. Stinson ignored him. He glanced down at Sybtl, who sensed that this was a time for good-bys. He thought, perhaps I can stay here alone with her. The webfoots might find us, or the Sand God might destroy us in one of his fits, but it might be worth it. \"Don't go,\" she said. \"Not yet.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhich is the best characterization of why Stinson decided he did not want to bring his people to this planet?\n\n<options>:\nA He is suspicious of the moodiness of the Sand God\nB He doesn't want to bear the weight of being treated like a God\nC He does not want to have to confront his feelings for Sybtl\nD He is not convinced that the Sand God will let humand and the web-footed people coexist\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,556	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>:\nthings got tough, but could still satisfy a woman's craving to mother to love them in the parlor and kill them in the kennel. It was only a matter of adjustment. There was no use hanging around after breakfast. His wife was in a hurt \"No more scratches?\" Anne asked him while they ate lunch. They did not though—I've got a feeling one mother pulled a fast one.\" \"What happened?\" and miserable. \"Honeymoon's over, huh?\" \"I thought they were all registered,\" Anne said. \"A small child is an imbecile. Would you kill a small child?\" against sentimentality. \"Baby—\" \"Don't call me baby! Call baby!\" he spoke again. \"Anne honey, look! Think of the ultimate destruction. That would bring the murderous wrath of their BUY A BUNDLE OF JOY \"I suppose you have an aptitude for killing babies?\" she said sweetly. that she didn't want to be kissed. \"Whose child are you, Rorry?\" he asked. \"Where do you live?\" \"She has a different number.\" but most couples could endure the death of a cat-Q or a dog-F. Class-C couples were allowed two lesser units or one neutroid. His grin faded as he wondered which Anne would choose. The Norrises were class-C—defective heredity. of growth hormones, trying to raise himself a harem to sell. Besides, something he had been expecting for several days. birth dates during July 2234. This is in connection with the Delmont Negligency Case. Seize all animals in this category, impound, and run proper sections of normalcy tests. Watch for mental and glandular If allowed to reach age-set or adulthood, such a deviant could be the slightest abnormality in the normalcy tests. Forward to central lab. Return standard units to their owners. Accomplish entire survey project within seven days. \"unclaimed\" inventory—awaiting destruction. for Anne's voice. A polite professional purr came instead. imagine we will. Are you extremely busy at the moment?\" Glubbes—called a while ago and said her baby was sick. I must be there.\" He hesitated. \"The baby turned out to be a neutroid. It's dying. Eighteenth order virus.\" me how much trouble she had in childbirth, and how she can't ever have another one. It's pathetic. She it's her own. Do you \"She insists it's going to a hospital. Worst part is that she's heard of the disease. Knows it can be cured with the proper treatment—in humans. Of course, no hospital would play along with her fantasy and take a neutroid, especially since she couldn't pay for its treatment.\" series, five-year-old, three-year set. Do you have one in the pound 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.\" \"Please, Norris! This is urgent. That woman will lose her mind completely if—\" \"All right, I'll call my wife and tell her to open the pound for you. But he saw it as a quick way to get rid of an animal that might later have to be killed. He called Anne. Her voice was dull. She seemed depressed, but not angry. When he finished talking, she said, \"All right, Terry,\" and hung up. Anne met him at the door when he came home at six. He stood on the porch for a moment, smiling at her weakly. The smile was not returned. liking what he had to do. Anne came to stand beside him and examine the don't have to get a helicopter posse to chase down the mothers.\" with a conveyor belt leading from it to a crematory-incinerator. Norris kept the third locked lest his wife see its furnishings. The doll-like neutroids began their mindless chatter as soon as their reached its age-set, it remained at the set's child-development level Anne folded her arms and stared at him. \"Planning to dispose of any soon?\" she asked acidly. \"Honeymoon's off again, eh?\" She turned away. \"I'm sorry, Terry. I'll try not to mention it again.\" He began unloading the truck, pulling the frightened and squirming \"What's the Delmont case, Terry?\" Anne asked while he worked. structure and displace certain links by just the right amount. And he's got to be quick about it before the ovum dies from an overdose of radiation from the enlarger. A good operator can get one success out of Anyway, he reported one success the next day. It was faked. The ovum ovum. He passed it on to the incubators to get a credit, knowing it wouldn't be caught until after birth.\" \"It wasn't caught at all?\" Anne asked. \"Funny thing, he was afraid it wouldn't be. He got to worrying about dangerous. So he went back to its incubator and cut off the hormone develop sexuality. A neutroid would be born a female if they didn't give it suppressive doses of male hormone prenatally. That keeps ovaries from developing and it comes out neuter. But Delmont figured a female would be caught and stopped before the final inspection. They'd dispose of her without even bothering to examine for \"How did they find out about it now?\" Anne snorted and caught the baby-creature in her arms. It struggled and \"You tell him you're no murderer,\" Anne purred to it. Norris watched disapprovingly while she fondled it. One thing he had learned: to steer clear of emotional attachments. It was eight months \"Put it in the cage, Anne,\" he said quietly. She looked up and shook her head. \"It belongs to somebody else. If it fixes a libido attachment on you, \"Anne—\" Norris hesitated, hating to approach the subject. \"Do you—want one—for yourself? I can sign an unclaimed one over to you to keep in the house. It won't cost us anything.\" \"I'm going to have one of my own,\" she said. what—\" 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 to have a baby.\" \"You know what they'd do to us?\" \"If they catch us, yes—compulsory divorce, sterilization. But they won't catch us. I'll have it at home, Terry. Not even a doctor. We'll hide it.\" \"I won't let you do such a thing.\" She faced him angrily. \"Oh, this whole rotten word about the case. Doctor Georges' death has shocked the community brandishing a pistol and screaming, 'You stole my baby! You gave me the wrong baby! Where's my baby?' \"When the doctor assured her that there was no other baby, she fired, heart. The woman fled. A peculiar feature of the case is that Mrs. Glubbes, the alleged intruder, has no baby it became necessary. When he turned from the phone, Anne was standing \"Woman killed a man. I happened to know the motive.\" just to retch. Anne's small figure framed in the bedroom window, silhouetted against everything would be all right, only it still wouldn't make sense. Anne was asleep when he left the house. The night mist had gathered permissible. Human babies could not be disposed of when the market became glutted. The neutroids offered solace to childless women, kept them satisfied with a restricted birth rate. And why a restricted birth rate? Because by keeping the population at five billions, the Federation could insure a decent living standard for everybody. found that he had only taken the lives of the unborn and added them to A neutroid filled the cradle in his stead. A neutroid that never ate\n\n<question>:\nWhat will happen if Anne becomes pregnant?\n\n<options>:\nA Anne and Terry will be arrested and sterilized.\nB Anne and Terry will be executed.\nC Anne and Terry will be arrested, and Anne will be forced to abort the pregnancy.\nD Anne and Terry will be forced to divorce, and they will be given a hysterectomy and a vasectomy, respectively.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
147	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"Get Gunther,\" the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. and fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall down and twitch on the ground. Is that clear?\" \"Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula....\" meteor coming like blazing fury. Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal's skin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked the rear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round. There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he was picked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn't rushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking a tom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs. Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was the ended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk of metal death. What a fade-out! twitched in his lap. \"You are bluffing,\" he said, finally, with a firm 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.\" directness. \"A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was the \"Impossible!\" \"I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther.\" They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand of gravity listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end over and stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed he and Marnagan rattled around—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst, air and energy flung out. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinking Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air. \"Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!\" to his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, cold that pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of the taking place immediately outside his window. The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. And from asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this!\" \"From the toe of me boot!\" snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shoulders flexed inside his vac-suit. \"I might've died in there, and you nursin' that film-contraption!\" pale. \"Where are we?\" \"A million miles from nobody.\" They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain that stretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars. Overhead, the sun poised The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoric rocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supply mashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or was suffocation a better death...? Sixty minutes. They stood and looked at one another. \"Damn that meteor!\" said Marnagan, hotly. Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I've got it here, on film.\" now, Click. Oxygen. And then food . And then some way back to Earth.\" 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's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor and They stopped, together. \"Oops!\" Click said. 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. \"Gravity should not act this way, Click.\" \"Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! No wonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up! Gunther'd do anything to—did I say anything Click's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurt Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. \"They're too big they can't get us in here!\" Click's voice gasped it out, as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him. Instinctively, Hathaway added, \"Asteroid monsters! My camera! What a When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used it up arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him: \"Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we felt that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So, what's he do he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Space war isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectory is lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, which dispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men? Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around. It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikes unseen 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 his attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if the \"If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid,\" said Click. at me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail and ran away!\" 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.\" \"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!\" we, now?\" \"With twenty minutes left, maybe less—\" \"All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?\" \"Click—\" He was fighting hard. \"I—I—sure now. Sure—\" He smiled. thud of his feet hitting the metal flooring. Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast. \"All right, put 'em up!\" a new harsh voice cried over a different radio. One of Gunther's guards. Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed. \"I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundles and stacked them up to dry, ya louse!\" Marnagan said. \"But, damn you, they killed my partner before he had a chance!\" The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his head swimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. He Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air. \"Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Double time! Double!\" Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen on their backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard, tersely. They found themselves in a complete inner world an asteroid nothing more than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged. Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and was rocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them for cargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and the\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Click suspect that the meteor strike wasn’t accidental?\n\n<options>:\nA The meteor was quiet and stealthy.\nB Gunther had thrown meteors before.\nC The meteor was unusually hot and glowing.\nD The gravity threw them out of orbit.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
172	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nEarth set itself grimly to meet them with the Old Ones were too big to be clever. Quest I's commander.\" Quest III , as for forty hours the ship had decelerated. Quest I Quest III the Quest III , launched toward Arcturus and the star cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the luminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grown They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glittering But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement men and women, they drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed of the oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been born Quest III lie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home the 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 Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. Quest III's captain, came slowly down the narrow stair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the main sighted Earth.\" pick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrung each other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fears were forgotten and exaltation prevailed. remember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer.... have happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years.\" hardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fear people saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's own his extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He had Earth. Quests returned successful, or if they returned at all. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It's light, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifeless notify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear 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 nebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. Earth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years older months had passed for the Quest III in interstellar flight while years and decades had raced by on the home world. time,\" said the voice lightly. \"When he saw that it was hopeless, he report to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers were since leaving Earth. \"Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering the an absence of not much over twenty years Earth time. comes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth Quest ships will be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream, the same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the \"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. we cannot betray the plan.... 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 \"Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy are life.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth was \"Hopeless, unless we find planets!\" disappointments. \"According to plan, the Quest III has reached its furthest point from Earth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many more \"But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We have there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! But Quest III could 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 \"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 of homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything that Earth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been able Knof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at the to falter one moment in flight. what it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity of been done. The Quest III's collision armor was nonmaterial and for practical purposes invulnerable. There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—three \"Ships,\" said Gwar Den helplessly. \"Five of them so far. No, there's a sixth now.\" Repeated blows quivered the Quest III's framework. The navigator said, obviously striving for calm, \"They're light craft, not In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes were he had heard his father's words. 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?\" His young face was less anxious than his elders' unlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, they 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 people in the Quest III would have felt nothing at all of the vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that their wait for us. But why on Earth—\" 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 if there had been Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one was 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 argued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behind \"We'll have reached Earth before then,\" Gwar Den said hopefully. \"They're mad and we aren't, yet,\" said the boy. Then, seeing that he 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 There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away under multiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greater Quest III too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his own nerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews of they told him nothing only the continental outlines were clear, and \"First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on the last. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have already returned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if you from Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart had already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was not Quest III's ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehow frightened it. So it was trying to frighten them. The voice chuckled sourly. \"We are human,\" it answered, \"but you are\n\n<question>:\nWhy had the children never seen Earth?\n\n<options>:\nA The ship didn’t have enough fuel to return to Earth.\nB Earth was destroyed before they were born.\nC They weren’t able to see through the portholes.\nD They were born while on Quest III.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
863	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"But it's mobbed,\" protested Zotul. \"It gave me a headache.\" Earthmen land among the Thorabians!\" Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, he was in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur. with yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zurians nor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.\" Zotul sat in silent thought. \"But you did not have to buy us out. You had the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet could the rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design. these Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strength and our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen may are equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we had to break down your caste system.\" Zotul's eyes widened. \"And that is why my brothers did not beat me when I failed!\" \"Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you and come and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, the \"Yes,\" said Zotul. \"I am ready.\" \"It is a damned imposition,\" agreed Morvan, ignoring his father's \"Doubtless,\" said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conference elders, \"the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in building \"When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime, remember your position in the family.\" Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment. head than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only of Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned him their desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and they Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thought about the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the way of metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he could hence these left much to be desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident. The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world of effect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered, the Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard one thing one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less a newspaper, was unknown on Zur. tried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there is practically acrawl with Earthmen. Immediately, the Earthmen established what they called The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from the wonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmen \"What good is it?\" asked Zotul, interested. \"How will it hold heat, \"The Earthmen don't cook as we do,\" she explained patiently. \"There is \"The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are so After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotul it in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on its scanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome by the novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorian \"this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, and \"You didn't think so at first,\" Zotul pointed out, and was immediately It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that their Earth. everything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade. \"Note,\" Koltan announced in a shaky voice, \"that the Earthmen undermine \"Perhaps,\" said Zotul, \"it is a good thing also, as you said before, Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantly terrestrial junk,\" Koltan went on bitterly. \"It is only the glamor that \"Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure,\" said Koltan \"I think,\" the governor told them, \"that you gentlemen have not paused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to be The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plants Zotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to calling Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicated that they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul ached they were the envied ones of Zur. jovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took a the baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except for an indefinite sense of alienness about him. Zotul on the back. \"Just tell us your troubles and we'll have you All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for this Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had been reward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh and we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always to do right by the customer.\" \"Divinity witness,\" Zorin said, \"that we ask only compensation for damages.\" Broderick shook his head. \"It is not possible to replace an immense Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. \"My wife Lania likes bargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed. \"To receive gifts,\" said Zotul, \"incurs an obligation.\" \"None at all,\" beamed the Earthman cheerily. \"Every item is given to you absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask is He chuckled deeply. \"We of Earth have a saying about one of our The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, it \"It may seem high,\" said the Earthman, \"but remember that Earth is \"Impossible,\" said Zotul drably. \"Not I and all my brothers together \"You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer you \"What is that?\" asked Zotul skeptically. rich,\" said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of the involutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles that might have had a discouraging effect. Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. \"What must I do Zotul drew back. \"I have five brothers. If I took all these things for It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotul The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotul pointed this out politely. \"Interest,\" Broderick explained. \"A mere fifteen per cent. After all, \"I see.\" Zotul puzzled over it sadly. \"It is too much,\" he said. \"Our a quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrial Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman, Earthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. Earthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own because it was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth's Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would. of toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance. looked at Zotul coldly. \"It is well you have come to us instead of \"I don't know what you mean,\" said Zotul. will only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of your pottery to us.\" beating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and was an interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. It was remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the female terrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian men covetous and Zurian women envious. \"Me?\" marveled Zotul. Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick, the Earthman. \"I don't understand. The Earthmen....\" Zotul paused, coloring. \"We are \"You mean,\" exclaimed Zotul, aghast, \"that you Earthmen own everything\n\n<question>:\nWhat characteristic of Zotul does he believe he shares with the Earthmen?\n\n<options>:\nA cunning\nB integrity\nC creativity\nD impartiality\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,821	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nNed Vince knew that. Still, his death. But Ned Vince lived Ned Vince made a last effort Ned Vince was eager for the company of the girl he loved. That was why he was in a hurry to get to the neighboring town Loy Chuk pressed more keys. But Ned Vince wasn't listening, Ned could scarcely have chosen abysmal horror. Ned was no inky waters of the Pit, fifty feet beneath.... Ned Vince was still dimly conscious were gathered, tense and was a tremendously deep pocket lair, to try to learn the facts for himself, possessed him. He bounded out of the vat, and in the ground, spring-fed. The It would be easy to get the He had to go most of the way on his hands and knees, for the up through the openings and cracks beneath his feet, Ned 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 frigid, rarefied air. It was night. dash-panel, leaving Ned in absolute Vince knew that his friends and he saw the pinpoint gleams of countless little eyes. Yes, he like an airtight coffin, had by accurately, arose thinly from the depths of a powder-dry gulch, water-scarred from an inconceivable steel. His tool-benches were Loy Chuk and his followers presently came upon Ned Vince's unconscious form, a mile from the city of Kar-Rah. In a flying machine they took him back, and applied stimulants. He came to, in the same laboratory room as before. But he was firmly 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. Ned Vince,\" came the answer from the black box. It was Loy to him. It gave him a few crumbs At a mile distance, a crumbling heap of rubble arose. Once it had been a building. A gigantic, Little Loy Chuk was in a jagged mass of detritus 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 subjects of his researches. He wanted this ancient man to live now, on the well-being of this anachronism he had so miraculously resurrected—this human, the gulch had been cleared of the accumulated rubbish of antiquity. Man, it seemed, had a successor, as ruler of the Earth. Loy Chuk had flown his geological expedition out from the this Kaalleee.... Loy jabbed buttons on the far lowlands to the east, out with a vast and unlooked-for success. He crouched there on his haunches, at the dry bottom of the Pit. The breeze rumpled his Ned felt better immediately, long, brown fur. He wasn't very from the city of Kar-Rah. And he was very happy now—flushed where there had been none before. Maybe he'd be back in his soon.... Ned relaxed, as a tiny hypo-needle bit into his arm.... As soon as Ned Vince passed into unconsciousness, Loy Chuk went to work once more, using that pair of brain-helmets again, exploring carefully the man's mind. After hours of research, he proceeded to prepare his of his kind was already far beyond that of the ancient Loy Chuk and his fellow workers help he needed. A horde of small, grey-furred beings and their machines, toiled digging had exposed to the daylight. Ned Vince's mind swam There was a gob of junk—scarcely in it was a huddled form, brown and hard as old wood. The dry mud that had encased it more than an irregular gleeful, around the things their tiny investigators but soiled always been. He had a tractor to repair, and a seed-drill. Outside of the machine-shop, the old, now been chipped away by the there, greasy and littered with brown house, where he lived. With a sudden startlement, he metal filings, just as they had Not the star-conquering demi-gods, approached. With a kind of fierce that had built the first machines on Earth, and in the gratitude, he took her in his early Twenty-first Century, the wonder Loy Chuk and his co-workers but the ancestral stock 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, The final instrument he used to test the mummy, looked like a miniature stereoscope, with complicated details. He held it over 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 communicated his further knowledge to his henchmen. Though devoid of moisture, the mummy was perfectly preserved, even to its brain cells! Medical and biological He didn't know that this Betty was of the same origin—a miraculous fabrication of metal He didn't know that this machine-shop was built from his Thus Loy Chuk's kind could study this ancient man—this Kaalleee. Thus, their motives in the museums of Kar-Rah! \"Tik, tik, tik!...\" But Loy silenced this fresh, were mostly selfish. With infinite care—small, sharp hand-tools were used, now—the mummy of Ned Vince was disengaged from the worthless rust of his primitive automobile. With infinite care it was crated in a metal case, and hauled into ruins, left by the final supermen. \"The Kaalleee believes himself home,\" Loy was thinking. \"He had built their homes mostly underground, since the beginning of their foggy evolution. Besides, of subterranean passages and rooms was welcome. The mummy was taken to Loy Chuk's laboratory, a short distance below the surface. Here at once, the scientist began his work. The body of the ancient man was put in a large vat. Fluids submerged it, slowly soaking from that hardened flesh the alkali that had preserved it heavy, natronous liquid rushed began. Still submerged in liquid, the corpse was submitted At last the final liquid was drained away, and the mummy lay there, a mummy no more, but a pale, silent figure in its tatters of clothing. Loy Chuk put an odd, worked with his apparatus, studying, and guiding the recording up-slanting passage was low. Excited Loy Chuk pushed another switch. strapped to a low platform this the era he had known! The walls were lavender and phosphorescent. Fossil bone-fragments were mounted in shallow cases. Dinosaur 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 time, so that he could not escape was on him. Feeble and dizzy after his weird resurrection, which he could not understand, that moment of sinking to certain death in the pool at Pit Ned's gaze searched for the source of the voice—located the black box just outside of his crystal vat. From that box the To Ned Vince, it was all utterly they could never belong in a place as eerie as this. Ned Vince did not know how Loy Chuk had probed his brain, with the aid of a pair of helmets, and the black box apparatus. He his language, taken from his own revitalized mind, was recorded, and that Loy Chuk had Ned's dark hair was wildly Loy's box, with its recorded Loy read the illuminated symbols ancestors. A foot tall, perhaps, Loy Chuk pressed more keys, as he squatted there in that antique about a million years ago. I discovered your body. I brought you back to life. We have science sought, with calm, human logic, to make his charge feel at home.\n\n<question>:\nHow did Loy Chuk's team find Ned at the bottom of the Pit?\n\n<options>:\nA The workers noticed red debris.\nB The workers noticed a flaky rust formation.\nC The workers noticed a glint of metal.\nD The workers found him during an excavation.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,551	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIt's Time To Keelhaul U-Haul! Like all superheroes worthy of the title, the Shopping Avenger has an Achilles' heel. In the case of the Shopping Avenger, his Achilles' heel is not animal, vegetable, or mineral but something less tangible. An explanation: Last week, the magazine you are currently reading forced the Shopping Avenger at gunpoint to read a series of treacle-filled self-help books, and then to . The Shopping Avenger, who can withstand radiation, extreme heat and cold, hail, bear attacks, and Eyes Wide Shut , almost succumbed to terminal jejuneness after reading these books. Except for one thing: One of the books, The Art of Happiness , which collects and simplifies the Dalai Lama's philosophy, got the Shopping Avenger to thinking. This, in a way, is the Shopping Avenger's Achilles' heel: thinking. Perhaps it is wrong, the Shopping Avenger thought, to complain about the petty insults and inconveniences of life in the materialistic '90s. The Shopping Avenger felt that perhaps he should counsel those who write seeking help to meditate, to accept bad service the way one accepts the change of seasons, and to extend a compassionate hand of forgiveness to those who provide poor customer care. But then the Shopping Avenger sat down, and the feeling passed. The Shopping Avenger does not make light of the Dalai Lama or of the notion that there is more to life than the impatient acquisition of material goods. If the Shopping Avenger were not, for a superhero, extremely nonjudgmental--as opposed to his alter ego, who is considered insufferably judgmental by his alter ego's wife--the Shopping Avenger would tell the occasional correspondent to let go of his petty grievance and get a life. But the Shopping Avenger also believes that the Dalai Lama has never tried to rent a truck from U-Haul. If he had tried to rent from U-Haul, he never would have escaped from Tibet. (For the complete back story, see \"Shopping Avenger\" column and one.) The complaints about U-Haul's nonreservation reservation policy continue to pour in through the electronic mail. One correspondent, B.R., wrote in with this cautionary tale: \"Last weekend, I went to San Francisco to help my brother and his family move into their first house. My brother had reserved a moving truck with U-Haul for the big day. I warned my brother about U-Haul's 'not really a reservation per se' policy that I learned from the Shopping Avenger. He didn't believe such a thing would happen to him, so he didn't act on my warning.\" B.R. continues--as if you don't know what happened already--\"I went to U-Haul with my brother to get our 'reserved' truck. The store had many customers standing around looking frustrated. When we got to the front of the line, the clerk informed us that our 'reserved' truck had not yet been returned. We asked if we could rent one of the many trucks sitting idle in the parking lot. The clerk laughed and said the keys to those trucks were lost.\" B.R. and his chastened brother--the Shopping Avenger is resisting the urge to gloat--went to Ryder. \"Ryder had a truck available for us. The gentleman who helped us at Ryder said Ryder prides itself on being everything U-Haul is not.\" The Shopping Avenger has still not received a call from U-Haul spokeswoman Johna Burke explaining why U-Haul refuses to provide trucks to people who reserve trucks, but the Shopping Avenger is pleased to note that several correspondents have written in over the past month saying that, based on what they have read in this column, they will be taking their business to Ryder or Budget or elsewhere. The Shopping Avenger will undoubtedly return to the sorry state of affairs at U-Haul in the next episode, but now on to this month's airline debacle. Before we begin, though, the Shopping Avenger nearly forgot to announce the winner of last month's contest, in which readers were asked to answer the question, \"What's the difference between pests and airlines?\" The winner is one Tom Morgan, who wrote, \"You can hire someone to kill pests.\" Tom is the winner of a year's supply of Turtle Wax, and he will receive his prize just as soon as the Shopping Avenger figures out how much Turtle Wax actually constitutes a year's supply. The new contest question: How much Turtle Wax comprises a year's supply of Turtle Wax? This month's airline in the spotlight is Southwest. Loyal readers will recall that last month the Shopping Avenger praised Southwest Airlines for its \"sterling\" customer service. This brought forth a small number of articulate dissensions. The most articulate, and the most troubling, came from M., who wrote, \"Last year, flying from Baltimore to Chicago with my entire family (two really little kids included), we set down at Midway in a rainstorm. And waited for our bags. And waited for bags. And waited for bags.\" When they arrived at their destination, M. and her family made a terrible discovery, \"We discovered that our clothes were soaked through--the top clothes were so wet that the dye had bled through down to the lower levels, destroying lots of other clothes. Obviously, our bags had just been sitting out on the runway in the rain. To this day, I've never heard a thing from SW, despite calls and letters.\" This, of course, is where Shopping Avenger steps in. Shopping Avenger knows that Southwest is different from the average airline, in that it doesn't go out of its way to infuriate its paying customers (see: ), so I expected a quick and generous resolution to M.'s problem. What I got at first, though, was a load of corporate hoo-ha. The story of M. reminds the Shopping Avenger of a central truth of consumer service: It's not the crime, it's the cover-up. Take the case of K., who found himself waiting in vain for Circuit City to repair his television. Televisions break, even 1-year-old televisions, as is the case with K's. But Circuit City, where he bought the television, gave him a terrible runaround. The Shopping Avenger dispatched his sidekick, Tad the Deputy Avenger, to get to the bottom of K.'s story. This is what he found: K. grew concerned, Tad the Deputy Avenger reports, after his television had been in the Circuit City shop for a week. When he called, he was told to \"check back next week.\" When he asked if someone from the store could call him with more information, he was refused. Weeks went by. When K. told one Circuit City employee that he really would like to get his television back, the employee, K. says, asked him, \"Don't you have another television in your house?\" More than a month later--after hours and hours and hours of telephone calls and days missed at work--K. received his television back. Mistakes happen, but not, Tad the Deputy Avenger found out, at Circuit City. The case, K. was told by a Circuit City official, was \"handled perfectly.\" Another official, Morgan Stewart in public relations, assured Deputy Avenger Tad that \"We got to be a big and successful company by treating customers better than the other guy.\" The Shopping Avenger and his loyal sidekick would like to hear from other Circuit City customers: Does Circuit City, in fact, treat its customers better than the other guy? Stay tuned for answers. And next month, a Shopping Avenger clergy special: TWA screws with a Hasidic rabbi's travel plans, leaving the rabbi's wife crying at the airport. Find out if the Shopping Avenger can save TWA from certain heavenly punishment, in the next episode. Got a consumer score you want settled? Send e-mail to shoppingavenger@slate.com.\n\n<question>:\nWho is Tad?\n\n<options>:\nA A law informant.\nB Robin.\nC A deputed officer.\nD The Shopping Avenger's sidekick.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
823	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! He demanded: \"Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?\" guard, Sodaro, growled warningly: \"Watch it, auntie!\" O'Leary shook his head. \"Let her talk, Sodaro.\" It said in the Civil once they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. The breakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had ever known. to a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in the disciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear and looked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting for the mess hall.\" He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. \"The block guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench, and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when the other one asked her to move along.\" He added virtuously: \"The guard warned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure.\" 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 the prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept the it is a place for punishment. irritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floor below, when she heard the yelling. \"Owoo-o-o,\" screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block and guard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was on the outside. The inside guard muttered: \"Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.\" The outside guard shrugged. \"Detail, halt !\" The two guards turned to see what was coming in as because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep her company.\" He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block O guards. riled up.\" \"Let them in,\" the inside guard told him. \"The others are riled up already.\" attention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on the tanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the block 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 rule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on all the time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner's on her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It was like walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. \"Take it easy, passed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urge to retch. They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard even as not to disturb the lady!\" He screeched with howling, maniacal laughter. \"Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble, Flock!\" The howling started all over again. The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned off \"Uh-uh.\" The outside guard shook his head. \"You're yellow,\" the inside guard said moodily. \"Ah, I don't know why I don't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beat your head off!\" grinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. \"Don't you know you can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss?\" \"Shut up !\" yelled the inside guard. , she told herself miserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards the satisfaction of hearing her—they were animals! Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedly But did they have to scream so? because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner very \"I smell trouble,\" said O'Leary to the warden. \"Trouble? Trouble?\" Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and his The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: \"O'Leary, what did you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ball in the yard. That's what recreation periods are for.\" don't want to worry about my end of running the prison. And trouble coming up. I smell the signs.\" \"Handle it, then!\" snapped the warden, irritated at last. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. The outside guard bellowed: \"Okay, okay. Take ten!\" happen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch that actuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prison rules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited the Greensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst case \"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. currents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing against rubber the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. \"You're okay, auntie.\" She proudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds. He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her while she attended to various personal matters, as he did with the male underprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: \"What the hell's the matter with you?\" He opened the door of the cell with an enough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: \"Cramps. I—I—\" \"Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut.\" The guard lumbered around Flock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell in here, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some people 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 he didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He was vain about it, even at times he had been known to boast of his ability to make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There was Flock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket 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 hurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tell O'Leary said: \"Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!\" operator: \"Get me the governor—fast.\" Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. impact of the news from the prison. airmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech of the alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretched and yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complained and their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduled scramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter of\n\n<question>:\nWhy was it advantageous to the prisoners to make noise constantly?\n\n<options>:\nA It convinced the guards and others that they were crazy, and to leave them alone.\nB It intimidated new comers like Bradley.\nC It drew attention away from their escape plan.\nD It annoyed the guards, and made them go through their routes faster.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
2,337	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>:\nCOMPLEXITY AND HUMANITY coming up with the most ingenious, improvised solutions to common humanity Contemporary life is not chaotic, in the colloquial sense we apply to application of knowledge to the creation of new knowledge, innovation to innovation, and information to making more information has become different than this. The Web, after all, is less than a generation old. and the systematic acceleration of innovation, make contemporary life a unpredictability makes it unwise to build systems that take too much away from what human beings do best: look, think, innovate, adapt, 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 structured model put in place by Henry Ford, to the Internet’s radical departure from the AT&amp T system that preceded it, and on to the way Wikipedia constructs human knowledge on the fly, incrementally, in ways 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 crisp specification of roles, lines of authority, communication and 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 variability of the human beings who worked it. Few images captured that 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&amp managed systems were achieving efficiencies that seemed to overwhelm The increasing recognition of the limits of command-and-control systems led to a new approach but it turned out to be a retrenchment, not an 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 modeling of what hyper-simplified selfish rational actors, looking only to their own interests, would do under diverse conditions. This approach was widespread and influential it still is. And yet it led to such C(1-Pf)(Pm),” and believing that you will learn anything useful about lust and desire, recklessness and helplessness, or how to slow down the transmission of AIDS. Only by concocting such a thin model of humanity−no more than the economists’ utility curve−and neglecting any complexities of social interactions that could not be conveyed through bureaucratic rationalization, perfect-market rationalization also had successes. But, like its predecessor, its limits as an approach to human systems design are becoming cleare Work, Trust and Play 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 the commercial encyclopedias except Britannica not by issuing a large IPO and hiring the smartest guys in the room, but by building an open and inviting system that lets people learn together and pursue their passion for knowledge, and each other’s company. The set of human systems necessary for action in this complex, unpredictable set of conditions, combining rationalization with human 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&amp (b) an emphasis on the human: on trust, cooperation, judgment and insight (c) communication over the lifetime and (d) loosely-coupled systems: systems in which the regularities and dependencies among objects and processes are less and Ford. Taylorism was typified by the ambition to measure and specify all human and material elements of the production system. The ambition of scientific management was to offer a single, integrated system where all human variance (the source of slothful shirking and inept error) could be isolated and controlled. Fordism took that ambition and embedded the managerial knowledge in the technological platform of the assembly line, guided by a multitude of rigid task specifications and routines. Toyota Production System, by comparison, has a substantially smaller number of roles that are also more loosely defined, with a reliance on small teams where each team member can perform all tasks, and who are encouraged to experiment, improve, fail, adapt, but above 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. loosely coupled networks of innovation and supply represented by possible, the Internet, and compare it to the design principles of the AT&amp T network in its heyday. Unlike the Internet, AT&amp T’s network was 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 delivers packets of data using standardized addressing information. The 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 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 grew and users diversified, trust (the practical belief that other human agents in the system were competent and benign, or at least sincere) effective means of preventing copyright infringement or system failure, ultimate reversal of the human-centric, loosely-coupled design approach of the Internet. Instead of locating authority and capacity to act at 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 the system are such that they control or direct action and learning over time. Human agency, learning, communication and adaptation are minimized in managed systems, if not eliminated, and the knowledge in the system 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 new systems. It is a feature of system design that leaves room for human agency over time, only imperfectly constraining and enabling any given taught us anything, it is that what makes for human insight is extremely scope of action for human frailty. Although this idea is most alien to the mainstream of system design in the twentieth century, we must now turn our attention to building systems that support human sociality−our ability to think of others and their needs, and to choose for ourselves Free software, Wikipedia, Creative Commons and the thousands of emerging information economy give us real existence proofs that human-centric\n\n<question>:\nHow did the Internet allow for a breathtaking rate of innovation?\n\n<options>:\nA By re-engineering the entire network.\nB By building security into the technical system.\nC By being a fully managed system.\nD It was designed to be as general as possible.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
665	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWarrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: \"Where am I?\" And at once there was an answer: \" You lie upon the world Dondromogon. \" I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, knuckled dust from my eyes. \"How did I get here?\" I demanded of the speaker. \"It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?\" \"Who am I?\" Dondromogon.\" \"Destined—leadership—\" I began to repeat, and fell silent. I had need to think. The voice was telling me that I had been snatched from worlds away, for a specified purpose here on whatever windswept planet Dondromogon might be. \"Birth and beginning—destined leadership—\" Fantastic! And yet, for all I could say to the contrary, unvarnishedly \"Dondromogon?\" I mumbled. \"The name is strange to me.\" birth. One face of Dondromogon ever looks to the light and heat, Dondromogon wavers on its axis, there are two lunes of its surface mighty gales ... the voice was to be heard again: Dondromogon was found and settled long ago, by adventurers from afar. of the Masters .\" The voice became grand. \"Suffice it that you were needed, and that the time was ripe. There is a proper time, like a The voice spoke no more. I had not the time to wonder about it. I got called Dondromogon, what manner of intelligent life bade defiance to heat and cold and storm, and built these stout structures, and now laid hands—were they hands indeed?—upon me? I swung around, setting my broad-faced middle-aged fellow. \"Don't lie any more than you can help.\" \"And leave this gate unguarded?\" demanded the other. \"Sound the conduct me to your commander. I can show him that I'm no spy or enemy.\" had first spoken. Then, to his comrade: \"No reward, then.\" \"Quiet, or I'll roast you,\" I told him. \"What's this?\" The challenge was clear, rich, authoritative. Someone else had come, \"Doriza—a gentlewoman of the guard. My inspection tour brought me by She made a gesture of salute, hand at shoulder height, and reported the \"Stranger,\" he said to me, \"can you think of no better tale to tell \"What proof have I?\" I demanded. \"On this world of yours—Dondromogon, He broke off, and wheeled on the attendant who had led him in. \"To my study,\" he commanded. \"On the shelf behind my desk, bring the great gold-bound book that is third from the right.\" Then he turned back, and bowed toward me. \"Surely you are Yandro, the Conquering Stranger,\" he said, intoning as if in formal prayer. \"Pardon these short-sighted The other made a little grimace. \"This may be Yandro, though I'm a souls to worship, not to study. If indeed he is Yandro,\" and he was \"Who might Yandro be?\" I demanded, very uncomfortable in my bonds and come equipped with all plausible knowledge. As it is—\" \"As it is, he may remember that the Conquering Stranger is foretold great champion come among us in the flesh, as was foretold of ancient time by the First Comers!\" Doriza and the officer crossed to his side, snatching the book. Their real respect and shyness this time. \"If you are Yandro himself, you can \"Forgive me, great Yandro,\" said the officer thickly. \"I did not know.\" They rose, but stood off respectfully. The officer spoke first. \"I am Rohbar, field commander of this defense position,\" he said with crisp respect. \"Sporr is a mystic doctor, full of godly wisdom. Doriza, a junior officer and chief of the guard. And you—how could you know?—are sent by the First Comers to save us from our enemies.\" \"Enemies?\" I repeated. \"The Newcomers,\" supplemented Doriza. \"They have taken the \"Other Side\" of Dondromogon, and would take our side as well. We defend ourselves \"Follow me, deign to follow me,\" Sporr said. \"Your clothing, your level of light and sound. \"Our cities are below ground,\" he quavered. \"Whipped by winds above, we must scrabble in the depths for life's necessities—chemicals to transmute into food, to weave into clothing, to weld into tools and \"I have arranged for that,\" Sporr began, then fell silent, fingers \"Arranged food for me?\" I prompted sharply. \"As if you know I had come? \"Pardon, great Yandro,\" babbled Sporr. \"I was saying that I arranged food, as always, for whatever guest should come. Please follow.\" of which Sporr spoke. \"It is indeed Yandro, our great chief,\" he mumbled. Then he turned and \"I announce,\" he intoned into it. \"I announce, I, Sporr, the reader and fore-teller of wisdom. Yandro is with us, he awaits his partners and \"I serve Yandro,\" she vowed tremulously. \"Now and forever—and happy that I was fated to live when he returned for the rescue of all Dondromogon.\" felt. \"Come with me. There is still much that I do not understand.\" \"I am Yandro's orderly and helper,\" she said. Rising, she ranged herself at my left hand. \"Will Yandro come this way? He will be awaited labyrinth, but Doriza guided me without the slightest hesitation past of Dondromogon's sunlit face is ever rising, and the cold air from the dark side comes rushing under to fill the vacuum. Naturally, our strip of twilight country is never free of winds too high and fierce to fight. No crops can grow outside, no domestic animals flourish. We must windswept? Why can two people not join forces and face toil and nature together? They should fight, not each other, but the elements.\" Doriza had no answer that time, but Sporr spoke up behind us: \"Great Yandro is wise as well as powerful. But the Newcomers do not want to help, not even to conquer. They want to obliterate us. There is nothing to do—not for lifetimes—but to fight them back at the two poles.\" \"Doriza, gentlewoman of the guard, conducts Yandro, the Conquering My mind flew back to the two scrubby, venial guardsmen who had first welcomed me to stuffy Rohbar, the commander Doriza now spoke to the gathering: \"Yandro, folk of the Council! He deigns to give you audience.\" Yandro! They all spoke the name in chorus, and bowed toward me. Silence then, a silence which evidently I must break. I broke it: they true?\" \"The tenth part of the wonders which concern mighty Yandro have not been told,\" intoned Sporr, ducking his bearded head in a bow, but \"I am Gederr, senior of this Council,\" he purred. \"If Yandro permits, I will speak simply. Our hopes have been raised by Yandro's return—the encompass his destruction.\" He grinned, and licked his full lips. \"Now, even as they are without their battle-leader, so we have ours.\" am expected to aid and lead and save the people of this world called Dondromogon. But I must know them before I can help.\" to her \"Tell him, Elonie.\" Then he faced me. \"Have we Yandro's permission to sit?\" \"By all means,\" I granted, a little impatiently, and sat down myself.\n\n<question>:\nWho ordered that the narrator to Dondromogon?\n\n<options>:\nA The Voice\nB Old Sporr\nC The Book\nD The Masters of the Worlds\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
2,452	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>:\nHB73782. Ultroom error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer front yard, knitting a pair of booties for the PTA bazaar. Occasionally she glanced at her son in the play pen, who was getting his daily dose of sunshine. He was gurgling happily, examining a ball, a cheese grater and a linen baby book, all with perfunctory interest. to get some rest?\" \"You—you don't believe me at all, do you, Martin?\" \"As I've said, sergeant, this fellow hypnotized my wife. He made her think he was her brother. She doesn't even have a brother. Then he windows locked. I'll see that the prowl car keeps an eye on the house. Call us if anything seems unusual or out of the way.\" telephone. \"One of them was the same man!\" she cried. Martin gasped, sinking into a chair with the baby. \"I believed them,\" he said slowly and uncomprehendingly. \"They made me believe them!\" doctors. One of them was the same man who tried to take the baby this afternoon. They hypnotized my husband—\" \"Yes, I know, Mrs. Laughton. We've been through that.\" The sergeant can't, that's all. I'd be able to think of nothing but that day.\" \"Still thinking about it? I think we'd have heard from them again if 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?\" a week and we've all taken turns questioning him. He laughs and admits his guilt—in fact, he seems amused by most everything. Sometimes all gives you the creeps.\" The states attorney leaned back in his chair. \"Maybe it's a case for an alienist.\" \"One jump ahead of you. Dr. Stone thinks he's normal, but won't put down any I.Q. Actually, he can't figure him out himself. Smith seems to take delight in answering questions—sort of anticipates them and has the answer ready before you're half through asking.\" \"Well, if Dr. Stone says he's normal, that's enough for me.\" The Arvid 6—for John Smith was Arvid 6—had lain in that position for more than four hours, when suddenly he snapped his eyes open and appeared to be listening. For a moment a look of concern crossed his face and he swung his legs to the floor and sat there expectantly. Arvid 6 knew Tendal 13 had materialized and was somewhere in the building. \"I'm really 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 again. I doubt that you could have done it. And then all the while you've been sitting here, probably enjoying yourself with your special brand of humor I have grown to despise.\" \"You didn't have to come along at all, you know,\" Arvid 6 said. \"How well I know! How sorry I am that I ever did! It was only because I was sorry for you, because someone older and more experienced than you was needed. I volunteered. Imagine that! I volunteered! Tendal 13 reaches the height of stupidity and volunteers to help Arvid 6 go back 6,000 years to bring Kanad back, to correct a mistake Arvid 6 made!\" He snorted. \"I still can't believe I was ever that stupid. I only prove it when I pinch myself and here I am. \"Oh, you've been a joy to be with! First it was that hunt in ancient \"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 these people. But at every turn you've got us more and more enmeshed 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 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 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 These twentieth century machines aren't what they ought to be,\" Arvid \"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 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 13 asked. Arvid 6 sighed. \"After what you just said I guess it wouldn't amuse \"That's right.\" \"Well, I didn't know what to do. I could see they thought I was drunk, so I was. But they had a blood sample before I could manufacture any 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?\" \"At great length. They had a psychiatrist in to see me. He was a queer fellow with the most stupid set of questions and tests I ever saw.\" \"And you amused yourself with him.\" \"I suppose you'd think so.\" \"Who do you tell them you are?\" \"Never mind. It's easy to see you've been your own inimitable self. Believe me, if I ever get back to the Ultroom I hope I never see you through a million years.\" \"Was Kanad's life germ transferred all right this time?\" Tendal 13 shook his head. \"I haven't heard. The transfers are getting of pneumonia for the two-year-old. A simple procedure. It wouldn't work here. Medicine's too far along.\" He produced a notebook. \"The \"How would you like to have to go through all those birth processes, to have your life germ knocked from one era to the next?\" who came to the Ultroom to be transplanted to a younger body—and then sending him back beyond his original birth date—\" Tendal 13 got up and commenced his pacing again. \"Oh, I suppose Kanad's partly to HB92167. Ultroom Error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer Phullam 19, son of Orla 39 and Rhoda R, 22H Level M, 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?\" Arvid 6, an amused set to his mouth and devilment in his eyes, watched \"Arvid!\" Tendal 13 walked briskly through the door, snatched Arvid 6 by the\n\n<question>:\nArvid 6 and Tendal 13 can perform all of the following abilities EXCEPT:\n\n<options>:\nA hypnosis\nB dematerialization\nC time travel\nD mind-reading\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,062	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>:\nHUNT the HUNTER \"Pretty frightening?\" Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed. way to lure dangerous alien animals ... bait.\" \"No!\" \"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you can scream, Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. \"It is!\" Ri said. \"It's a farn beast, all right!\" Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. \"I'm glad we won't have to cross the ridge.\" were trembling. \"It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir. He killed a farn beast before I did, sir. And last night—last And to Mia, \"God almighty, he was getting mad.\" He ran a hand under his collar. \"It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd hate to think of making him climb that ridge.\" Ri cleared his throat nervously. \"Maybe you're right.\" \"It's the Hunting Club he don't like.\" \"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast,\" Ri said. \"At least, then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody else?\" of a scaling tree. \"You will scream,\" Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointed across the water hole. \"The farn beast will come from this direction, I imagine.\" \"We don't want to get too near,\" Ri said after toiling through the forest for many minutes. \"Without guns, we don't want to get near enough for the farn beast to charge us.\" he brought.\" \"The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place?\" Mia asked. \"You think it's their blast?\" \"So?\" Ri said. \"But who are they?\" \"We didn't do so damned well.\" A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't our fault Extrone found out.\" Extrone laughed nervously. \"He must have heard.\" \"We didn't have a chance,\" Mia objected. \"Everybody and his brother had \"We're lucky to rouse one so fast,\" Lin said. \"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of 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.\" to kill it?\" The farn beast coughed again nearer. . And besides, why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.\" Mia said, \"I hope you're right.\" They stood side by side, studying the \"The breeze dies down.\" \"It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. There must be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.\" \"Killing?\" \"Hunting,\" Extrone repeated harshly. The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, and there was a noise of crackling underbrush. \"He's good bait,\" Extrone said. \"He's fat enough and he knows how to The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across his lap. The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank, swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed. Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubs The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head. \"Look!\" Extrone cried excitedly. \"Here it comes!\" Ri began to scream again. Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Lin waited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination. The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwing a sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri. \"Watch! Watch!\" Extrone cried gleefully. 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. \"Sir?\" Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness. \"Eh?\" Extrone said, turning, startled. \"Oh, you. Well?\" \"We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.\" Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, \"You killed one, I believe, on your electric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed to the bed, sat down. \"You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast?\" he said. \"I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir.\" Extrone narrowed his eyes. \"I see by your eyes that you are Ri looked away from his face. \"Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I have never killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast.\" Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone's glittering ones. \"Few people have seen them, sir.\" that the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of their \"I meant in our system, sir.\" \"Of course you did,\" Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his sleeve with his forefinger. \"I imagine these are the only farn beasts in our system.\" Ri waited uneasily, not answering. \"... I'm flattered, sir.\" \"Of course,\" Extrone said. \"But you should have spoken to me about it, when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.\" \"I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity, sir....\" Lin waited. \"Now I can spit on them, which pleases me.\" \"The farn beasts are dangerous, sir,\" Lin said. \"Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?\" \"I believe they're carnivorous, sir.\" \"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. all afraid of you.\" \"The farn beasts, according to the manual....\" \"You are very insistent on one subject.\" \"... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as I was saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, of aliens. Sir.\" for farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among the \"I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting!\" Extrone The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed. Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively. The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time. \"Look,\" Extrone said. \"If that's the case, why do we bother tracking ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where Extrone was seated, petting his rifle. Extrone nodded genially. \"The farn beast hunter, eh?\" \"Yes, sir.\" Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. \"Tell me \"Well, sir, they're ... uh....\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy are they hunting the farn beast?\n\n<options>:\nA This is a vacation hunting trip for Extrone.\nB They are hunting the farn beasts because farn beasts are dangerous.\nC Farn beasts are dangerous creatures that must be eliminated.\nD Farn beasts are delicious.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,926	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>:\nknights of Brittany and Anjou. These were followed by King Guy of Jerusalem and the host of Poitou. He himself, Sir Robert de Bouain, was riding with the Norman and English troops, just behind the men of Poitou. Sir Robert turned slightly in his saddle. To his right, he could see the brilliant red-and-gold banner of the lion-hearted Richard of England— gules, in pale three lions passant guardant or . Behind the standard-bearer, his great war horse moving with a steady, measured pace, his coronet of gold on his steel helm gleaming in the glaring desert sun, the lions of England on his firm-held shield, was the King himself. Further behind, the Knights Hospitallers protected the rear, guarding \"By our Lady!\" came a voice from his left. \"Three days out from Acre, and the accursed Saracens still elude us.\" the Turks lie ahead of us in countless numbers. And yet, they fear to face us in open battle.\" \"Is it fear, or are they merely gathering their forces?\" to amass so fearsome a force. If, as our informers tell us, there are uncounted Turks to the fore, and if, as we are aware, our rear is being dogged by the Bedouin and the black horsemen of Egypt, it would seem that Saladin has at hand more than enough to overcome us, were they all truly Christian knights.\" foolhardy to attempt to seek them in their own hills, and yet they must stop us. They will attack before we reach Jerusalem, fear not.\" \"We of Gascony fear no heathen Musselman,\" Sir Gaeton growled. \"It's this Hellish heat that is driving me mad.\" He pointed toward the eastern \"In truth, sir knight, it is apparent that you fear neither men nor heat. Nor is your own blood too cool. True, I ride with your Normans and your English and your King Richard of the Lion's Heart, but I am a Gascon, and have sworn no fealty to him. But to side with the Duke of Sir Robert's voice came like a sword: steely, flat, cold, and sharp. \"My lord the King spoke in haste. He has reason to be bitter against Philip of France, as do we all. Philip has deserted the field. He has returned to France in haste, leaving the rest of us to fight the Saracen for the Holy Land leaving only the contingent of his vassal the Duke of Burgundy to remain with us.\" \"Richard of England has never been on the best of terms with Philip permitted a quarrel to develop between the two finest knights and too?\" \"You did what must be done in honor,\" the Gascon conceded, \"but you have not gained the love of Richard by doing so.\" showed that he felt that Richard of England might even doubt the loyalty him. There was a sudden sound to the rear. Like a wash of the tide from the sea came the sound of Saracen war cries and the clash of steel on steel mingled with the sounds of horses in agony and anger. the sword against armor, like the sound of a thousand hammers against a \"Stand fast! Stand fast! Hold them off!\" It was the voice of King check. The King had said \"Stand fast!\" and this was no time to disobey the orders of Richard. The Saracen troops were coming in from the rear, and the Hospitallers were taking the brunt of the charge. They fought like madmen, but they were slowly being forced back. the King: \"My lord, we are pressed on by the enemy and in danger of fray. The King turned to Sir Baldwin de Carreo, who sat ahorse nearby, and pointed toward the eastern hills. \"They will come from there, hitting us in the flank we cannot afford to amass a rearward charge. To do so would be to fall directly into the hands of the Saracen.\" attack.\" It was Sir Gaeton. \"My lord the King,\" Sir Robert heard his voice say, \"is right in all but one thing. If we allow the Egyptians to take us from the rear, there will be no need for Saladin and his Turks to come down on our flank. And the Hospitallers cannot hold for long at this rate. A charge at full \"Forward then!\" Sir Robert heard himself shouting. \"Forward for St. George and for England!\" \"St. George and England!\" the Gascon echoed. Two great war horses began to move ponderously forward toward the battle lines, gaining momentum as they went. Moving in unison, the two knights, their horses now at a fast trot, lowered their lances, picking their Saracen targets with care. Larger and larger loomed the Egyptian saber, taking advantage of Sir Robert's sagging lance. sweeping arc, and the Egyptian's horse rode on with the rider's headless body. Behind him, Sir Robert heard further cries of \"St. George and England!\" came the Count of Champagne, the Earl of Leister, and the Bishop of Beauvais, who carried a great warhammer in order that he might not break Church Law by shedding blood. battle rather than participating in it. But he could see that the Moslems were falling back before the Christian before they can regroup, sir knight. We may have routed them completely.\" \"Aye. But King Richard will not approve of my breaking ranks and Old Kings .\" Old Kings .\" pleasure.\" \"There's no doubt about it, Old Kings are a \"Nor I,\" agreed the Gascon. \" Old Kings Kings right down to the very end.\" \"No, but you can always light another later,\" said the Gascon knight. King Richard, on seeing his army moving suddenly toward the harassed rear, had realized the danger and had charged through the Hospitallers to get into the thick of the fray. Now the Turks were charging down from the hills, hitting—not the flank as he had expected, but the rear! Saladin had expected him to hold fast! Sir Robert and Sir Gaeton spurred their chargers toward the flapping banner of England. The fierce warrior-king of England, his mighty sword in hand, was cutting down Turks as though they were grain-stalks, but still the Saracen horde pressed on. More and more of the terrible Turks came own great broadsword moving, swinging like some gigantic metronome as he hacked down the Moslem foes. And then, suddenly, he found himself surrounded by the Saracens! He was isolated and alone, cut off from the rest of the Christian forces! He sparkling blade with power and force. On his steel helm gleamed a golden coronet! Richard! And the great king, in spite of his prowess was outnumbered heavily and would, within seconds, be cut down by the Saracen horde! Without hesitation, Sir Robert plunged his horse toward the surrounded monarch, his great blade cutting a path before him. He saw Richard go down, falling from the saddle of his charger, but by that time his own sword was cutting into the screaming Saracens and they had no time to attempt any further mischief to the King. They had He did not know how long he fought there, holding his charger motionless over the inert body of the fallen king, hewing down the screaming enemy, but presently he heard the familiar cry of \"For St. George and for England\" behind him. The Norman and English troops were charging in, bringing with them the banner of England! And then Richard was on his feet, cleaving the air about him with his own broadsword. Its bright edge, besmeared with Saracen blood, was biting viciously into the foe. The Turks began to fall back. Within seconds, the Christian knights were boiling around the embattled pair, forcing the Turks into retreat. And \"My lord king, be assured that I would never forget my loyalty to my sovereign and liege lord. My sword and my life are yours whenever you call.\" King Richard's gauntleted hand grasped his own. \"If it please God, I shall never ask your life. An earldom awaits you when we return to England, sir knight.\" And then the king mounted his horse and was running full gallop after the retreating Saracens. Old Kings , and, believe me, the real\n\n<question>:\nWhat is motivating the King's army to fight against the Turks? (territorial conquest, religious, gold/money, personal glory)\n\n<options>:\nA National pride\nB Religious faith\nC Personal glory\nD Territorial conquest\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,352	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nEvery time a Brixton Pound transaction is made, 1.5 per cent goes into a Brixton Fund. This is used to give micro-grants of between a few hundred and £2000 to local projects and community groups. \"We aim to target projects that aren't large enough to apply for more formal grant funding,\" says Lucy Çava, project manager at the Brixton Pound. \"We see this as part of community building – linking the Brixton Pound user with community groups, so both groups become more visible to each other through the currency and fund. This is particularly important in Brixton because of the gentrification debates which are very salient round there,\" Çava says. Not every country is so lucky. In crisis-hit Greece, where the euro can be hard to come by, businesses and citizens have turned to bartering using a points system where goods like pianos, pot and pans can be exchanged for security services or loaned farming equipment. In India last year, desperate people burned sacks of illegal cash after the government withdrew two high-denomination notes as part of a crackdown on corruption. Hoarders woke up to discover the banknotes under their mattresses were suddenly worthless. The pound has been trading at its lowest level since 1985 since the UK voted to leave the European Union and there are fears that it could dip further as Brexit ensues. Timebanks, local exchange trading systems (LETS) and digital inventions like bitcoin can provide alternative ways for people to pay for goods and services when mainstream currencies hit crises. But they will only work if Britons are ready to accept that they have the power to invent their own currency. \"At the moment, if the pound stops working for us, the whole economy grinds to a halt because there aren't alternatives,\" Duncan McCann, a researcher at the New Economics Foundation, tells those gathered in a gilded room at Glasgow Chambers to discuss the Glasgow Pound. McCann is a long-time advocate of alternative means of exchange. He is behind the ScotPound, a proposal for a new national currency for Scotland that emerged after the referendum on Scottish independence. It's an idea he no longer thinks will work, because the debate, since Brexit, has shifted from the currency issue back to ideas about Scottish independence. Today, he's preaching to the converted. Alex Walker, the chairman of the 250-person Ekopia community in Northern Scotland, listens at the back. The Eko has been the main means of buying everything from beer to bananas in Ekopia since Walker founded it 20 years ago. On an adjacent table, Tracy Duff, a community learning and development worker from Clackmannanshire Council, digs out some papers. She runs the Clacks Youth Timebank, a scheme where 12- to 15-year-olds can earn credit for volunteering. Taking notes up front is Ailie Rutherford, one of the people who organised the meeting. Rutherford runs the People's Bank of Govanhill, a currency that changes value depending on the income of the user. \"I don't see any reason why we shouldn't invent our own currency and play with it,\" she says. Everyone has gathered to decide what a Glasgow Pound might look like at a time when many are asking if local currencies can work at all. Councillor Redmond says Glasgow has been closely watching existing alternative currencies like the Brixton Pound in London, which was introduced in 2011. The founders of the Brixton Pound wanted to do something to stop 80p of every £1 spent locally from leaking out of the area into the pockets of corporations, at the expense of small local traders. So they printed a currency that would have the same value as the pound, but could only be traded in independent Brixton shops, where the shopkeeper would also have to spend it locally. This year the Brixton Pound got its own cashpoint, from where people can withdraw local banknotes bearing colourful images of local heroes, like David Bowie and secret Agent Violette Szabo, to spend in over 150 local shops. It can also be used by residents to pay council tax and by employers to pay wages. No two local currencies are exactly the same. But the Brixton Pound and other recent schemes follow the example ten years ago of the Totnes Pound, a 'complementary currency': that is, one supplementing the national currency. As fears for financial stability took hold during the recession, complementary currencies grew in popularity. The Bank of England does not consider these forms of currency legal tender, but the notes hold value in the same way as a gift-card from a department store, with the same kind of restrictions about where they can be spent. Proponents say complementary currencies boost spending in smaller geographical areas, which can have environmental benefits as businesses cut transport distances to deal with local suppliers. Detractors say they have no real economic impact and work only as a game for the middle classes, who can afford to buy from independent shops rather than chains. Meanwhile, the people behind the Bristol Pound are readying a mutual credit network called Bristol Prospects. Through this network, businesses in Bristol can exchange credit in the form of loans that are neutralised within the network, helping one another to grow without relying on the high rates of commercial lenders. It's lunchtime at Glasgow Chambers in late November, and Councillor George Redmond is getting worked up at the prospect a Glasgow Pound. \"We would be Glasgow-centric about it,\" he says conspiratorially, as though there is any other way to be. \"Can you imagine having the face of Billy Connolly on our local currency? Or Alex Ferguson, or Kenny Dalglish?\" The Bristol Pound (£B) entered into circulation in September 2012. By June 2015, 1m £B had been issued, with £B700,000 of that still in circulation. In a population of some 450,000 people, that's the equivalent of each Bristolian carrying less than £B2 in change in their pocket. \"The small scale is a problem and a strength,\" says Stephen Clarke, chief financial officer of the Bristol Pound. \"The benefit comes from the fact that local currencies are trusted organisations: we're a Community Interest Company limited by guarantee.\" That means assets owned by the the Bristol Pound have to be used for the good of the community, rather than purely for profit. Bristol Pound users don't have high incomes necessarily, but surveys show they are engaged with their local community and they have a higher educational attainment than average. In the years since the financial crisis, as local authority budgets have shrunk, some areas have relied heavily on engaged communities to fill in gaps in public services. By contrast, deprived areas where people cannot afford time and money to put into their community have become more deprived, making them even harder for local currencies to reach. Ciaran Mundy, CEO of the Bristol Pound, says it is important to think of the systemic impact rather than looking for targeted treatment of symptoms of economic deprivation. \"Poverty has many causes,\" he says. \"One of these is how the economy is structured in terms of how money flows out of poor areas due to high dependence on larger national and international companies paying lower wages and using offshore accounts to hide the money from the tax man.\" Each table is handed a wad of Post-it notes and a piece of white paper. A table leader asks everyone to write on the Post-its what they want the Glasgow Pound to achieve. Elbowing teacups out the way, people get to work. They scrawl a dizzying number of proposals, from keeping more wealth in the local area to empowering people who feel cut out of the national economy, or to moving towards land reform and saving the environment. Team leaders try to assemble these ideas in themes to report back to the room.\n\n<question>:\nWhat percent goes toward a Brixton Fund when a Brixton Pound is spent?\n\n<options>:\nA 2.0 percent\nB 0.5 percent\nC 1.0 percent\nD 1.5 percent\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,521	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"Well, I mean, it's not only about Wanda,\" said Harry. \"You see, my VOYAGE TO FAR N'JURD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from \"I think, with the proper ... ah ... you know. What I mean is, I think she might look with favor on you in the Changing of the Wives, if I Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that They would never live to see the trip's end. So they made a few changes in their way , is \"Such bounty, as it says in the .\" Jarcon are I'm jest natcher'lly bound to do hit. An' iffen I aims ta talk....\" \"Joanne Marie,\" he said, \"you know that when I aims ta do somethin', \"Well, ahem. But....\" \" \" was studiously ignoring the crew. This confined his field of vision to \"Uh?\" Changing of the Wives, she must, ahem, be married.\" \"I never thought of that,\" said the third mate disconsolately. \"I think that can be arranged, however,\" said Nestir. \"If you go by the Cotian : \"Grass grows not in the middle of \"Of course I am.\" \"I say?\" sibilants. The hiss and sputter of conversation guttered away. \"Men,\" he said. \"Exactly. \"True I called you all together today.\" He stared away, at a point over the head and to the rear of the audience. \"It puts me in mind of the parable of the six Vergios.\" \"Come now, sir. I realize she is the daughter of a crewman, but—\" an expeditionary force against Zelthalta?\" \"Then I will tell you. Came about this way. I was given command of was fighters. I was to march them ninety-seven miles across the desert that....\" foolish and hid their sores within the last week, they were dead of infection. But three were \" it.\" as it says in the Jarcon make the slightest change in his everyday uniform out of the ordinary had happened but after it was done with, the vast sailing.' my own name, yes. sailing.' the day for the Festival of the Casting Off!'\" the number of can we have here on this ship?' You are thinking: 'What a fine thing—ah, what a good thing, that is—ah, how nice it would be to have the Casting Off at home, among friends.'\" Nestir waved his hands. \"Well, I just want to tell you: I come from Koltah. And you know that Koltah never let any city state outdo her in a Festival, uh-huh. \"The arena in Koltah is the greatest arena in the whole system. We have as many as sixty thousand accepted applicants. All of them together in the arena is a—uh, uh, well—a sight to behold. People come from all huh.\" anywhere. \"And I want to tell you that if you'll come to me with your suggestions, I'll do all I can to see that we do this thing just the way you want it done. I want you to be proud of this Casting Off \"Huh?\" himself. \"Those, Madam,\" he said, \"are priceless drapes I had imported from the province of San Xalthan. They have a long, strange history. \"About three thousand years ago, a family by the name of Soong was forced to flee from the city of Xan because the eldest son of the family had become involved in a conspiracy against the illustrious King Fod. As the Soong family was traveling....\" over with and the public speaking done. II \"This?\" each plate. directly to his place at the head of the table, sat down and morosely sigh of disapproval. \"Well, what do you think \"Hummmm,\" he said. \"It's hard to say. The whole issue involves, as a core point, the principle of casta cum mae stotiti .\" \"The intent, of course, could actually be—ah— sub mailloux and in wish I could talk to higher authority about it but of course I haven't the time. I'll have to decide something.\" consciously or subconsciously, then the obvious conclusion would be wine. \"The problem, my dear Helen,\" he said, \"is one of intent. To raise the issue of concomitant agonies is to confuse the whole matter. For instance. Take Wilson, in my home state of Koltah. Certainly he died in the newspapers.\" \"That,\" he said to Nestir, \"my dear Father, is the cardinal point of the whole game, y'know.\" He scratched the back of his left hand. \"Duty. And I must say, I think you're being quite short-sighted about the Casting Off date. After all, it's not only a question of how we go, but also a question of leaving only after having done our duty. And that's equally important.\" in duty. It's all noble and self sacrificing.\" He scratched the back of \"You don't need to worry about your Casting Off, Captain. You can method.\" he was still brooding about the on my husband or not. I have my own plans for him.\" \"This problem of Carstar interests me,\" the third mate said. \"Did I \"That,\" said Nestir, \"is not at all like the Carstar case. Not at all. Yours is a question of saliex y cuminzund .\" \"It seems to me that the whole thing would depend on the intent of the \"I do not,\" Jane contradicted. course.\" \"Duty! Duty! Duty! You all ur in a conspiracy. You all want me ta die uv old age.\" After all, someone has to orient the new crew.\" \"Wanda Miller, the bosun's daughter.\" said. he had brought a wife,\" the first because you have to stay with your husband.\" \"All right, so I am. But it's true. And if Carstar hadn't been killed, to....\" that the priestcraft....\" \"Actually, in a way, it would be her duty to, you see. Think of it like hear.\" \"Pish-tush.\" \"No, Harry. I mean it. Helen looked at me strangely all through dinner. She has three children, you know.\" \"You're imagining things.\" \"But she does have three children.\" \"Harry?\" \"Huh-uh.\" \"I mean, why don't you pick someone else? Like Mary? She's awful sweet. I'll bet she'd be better.\" \"Probably.\" don't , I mean.\" He made a mental note to have the bosun send some of the crew in And beneath it lay one of the crew. consciousness. \"Oh? Ish it? Schorry. Shore schorry, shir. So schorry.\" \"Oh?\" all thought out. You know that saber I picked up on Queglat? Well....\" \"Oh. Sure. I should have known you weren't here early for nothing. In the engine call bell. \"'Lo,\" he said into the microphone. \"This is the bridge.... Oh, hi, Barney. Harry.... Have you got a sober control \"Hello.\" \"Hello, Haireee. Are you glad little ol' me could come, huh?\" \"Goody. What did he say, huh? I can be an adult and get to play in the \"Them stars shore are purty.\" conference. together in the Festival. I will not put the officers' corridor off limits, and—Oh! Yes? Come in!\" contrary to the spirit, if not the wording, of the .\" here—due to the—ah—exigencies of deep space—I feel convinced that in astoli tavoro , up until centralization, three hundred years before Allth. Indeed, in my home city—Koltah—in the year of the seventh plague, a most unusual expedient was adopted. It seems....\" \"You're perfectly correct, of course,\" the captain said. \"Now, in my city state of Ni, for the Festivals, we....\" \"Shut up,\" said the captain softly. crewman. \"But Captain! I haven't finished telling you about....\"\n\n<question>:\nWhere are the characters from?\n\n<options>:\nA The land of Meizque.\nB The city-state of Koltah.\nC They all live aboard a ship.\nD Different city-states within the whole system.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
158	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>:\nPEGGY FINDS THE THEATER said to his daughter Peggy, who perched tensely on the edge of a kitchen stool. “We could hardly have helped knowing that you’ve wanted to be an actress since you were out of your cradle. It’s just that decisions like this can’t be made quickly.” she reviewed the roles she had played since her first time in a high-school play. Which should she refresh herself on? Which ones would she do best? And which ones were most suited to her now? She recognized this and wanting it for years! You can’t follow that by calling it a quick decision!” She turned to her mother, saying yourself that I’ve been thinking about that she had grown and developed past some of the roles which had once seemed perfectly suited Mrs. Lane smiled gently and placed her soft white her hazel eyes flashing under a mass of dark chestnut 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 that she couldn’t do it, but perhaps something to her talent and her appearance. But both had her face “Wait! Mother—Dad—I’m years behind already! The theater is full of beginners a year and even two years younger than I am, and girls of my age have 19 Nothing seemed quite right. Peggy’s thoughts “But, Dad!” Peggy almost wailed. “You just finished Peggy replied, “and none of them is nearly as important descended, the lights went out—and Peggy was fast Mrs. Lane nodded. “Of course, dear. I know just how you feel about it,” she said. “I would have answered just the same way when I was your age, except but the theater is full of young girls whose parents thought they were the most talented things alive Mr. Lane, seeing Peggy’s hurt look, was quick to Peggy stared at the faded linoleum on the floor for make a bargain with you.” “What sort of bargain, Peg?” her father asked curiously. “If you let me go to New York now, and if I can get into a good drama school there, I’ll study and try to find acting jobs at the same time. That way I’ll still be Mrs. Lane patted Peggy’s arm and said, “We won’t Feeling much better, Peggy shut the screen door behind her and started for the barn. Ever since she had been a little girl, the barn had been Peggy’s favorite place to go to be by herself and Peggy’s hand in appreciation. As Peggy mixed some oats and barley for her pet and checked to see that there was enough straw in the stall, she thought about her life in Rockport and the new life that she might soon be going to. 7 Rockport, Wisconsin, was a fine place, as pretty a small town as any girl could ask to grow up in. And not too small, either, Peggy thought. Its 16,500 people girl could want. Peggy had lived all her life here, knew every tree-shaded street, every country road, field, lake, and stream. All of her friends were here, friends she had known since her earliest baby days. It would be hard to leave them, she knew, but there was no doubt in her mind that she was going to do so. If not now, then as soon as she possibly could. It was not any dissatisfaction with her life, her friends, or her home that made Peggy want to leave Rockport. She was not running away from anything, she reminded herself she was running to something. 8 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 With a final pat, she left the stall and the barn behind, stepping out into the deepening dusk. It was still too early to go back to the house to see if her parents had reached a decision about her future. Fighting down an impulse to rush right into the kitchen to see how they were coming along, Peggy continued or maybe a little more, she wondered why she wanted to leave this. What for? What could ever be better? tattered, plaid bathrobe, she led Peggy out of the steamy room and into her cozy, if somewhat cluttered, bedroom. When they had made themselves 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 11 “You know, I sometimes think that we haven’t grown up at all!” she said. “I can hardly blame my parents for thinking twice—and a lot more—before treating me like an adult.” friend about the conversation and her proposed “bargain” with her parents. “They both seemed to think it was fair,” she concluded, “and when I went out, they were talking it 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 make them look at you and respond to you and be with you all the way, even with bad lines. That’s why you’re going to go to New York and be an actress. And that’s why I’m not.” “But, Jean—” Peggy began. Peggy nodded silently, not trusting herself to the importance of her work and her faith in Peggy’s talent had touched her more than she could say. 14 time for your big Hour of Decision scene!” It was nearly ten o’clock when Peggy finally felt 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 mother and father every minute she could. Reaching sure was to follow his announcement. But Peggy just to the big easy chair and slowly sat down. “Well, for goodness’ sake!” her mother cried. “Where’s the enthusiasm?” Peggy swallowed hard before answering. When poised ... and very grown-up,” she said. “But it’s not easy. All I want to do is to—” and she “One thing at a time,” her father said. “To begin with, we decided almost as soon as you left that we were going to let you go to New York to try a year’s experience in the theater. But then we had to decide just where you would live, and where you should study, and how much money you would need, and a whole lot of other things. So I called New York to talk to an old friend of mine who I felt would be able to give us some help. Her name is May Berriman, and Mrs. Lane put in. “It seems that May bought a big, old-fashioned town house and converted it into a rooming house especially for young actresses. She always wanted a house of her own with a garden in back, but felt it was foolish for a woman living alone. This way, she can afford to run a big place and at the same time not be alone. And best of all, she says she has a room that you can have!” “Oh, Mother! It sounds wonderful!” Peggy exulted. “I’ll be with other girls my own age who are actresses, and living with an experienced actress! I’ll bet she “I’m sure she can,” her father said. “And so can the New York Dramatic Academy.” “Dad!” Peggy shouted, almost choking on a cooky. “Don’t tell me you’ve managed to get me accepted York day after tomorrow, just like that?” “Oh, no,” her mother answered calmly. “We’re going to New York tomorrow on the first plane that we can get seats on. Your father doesn’t believe in wasting “Tomorrow?” Peggy repeated, almost unable to believe “Whoa!” Mr. Lane said, catching Peggy’s arm to now, young lady! We’ll pack in the morning, talk about what you should read, and take an afternoon plane to New York. But tonight, you’d better think Reluctantly, Peggy agreed, recognizing the sense\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Mr. & Mrs. Lane agree so quickly to Peggy’s bargain?\n\n<options>:\nA They didn’t want to argue about it anymore.\nB They didn’t want her to pursue a different career.\nC They understood that she was determined and realistic in her plans.\nD They remembered that she wanted to move to New York since she was young.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
710	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThis is what Fiss means by the \"irony\" in his title: that true freedom of speech for all requires suppressing the speech of some. This is not, technically, an irony. It is a paradox. An irony would be the observation that an attempt to increase freedom for all often entails, despite our best efforts, a decrease in freedom for a few. If Fiss had addressed the subject of free speech in this spirit, as an irony, he would undoubtedly have had some interesting things to say, for he is a learned and temperate writer. But he has, instead, chosen to address the issue as an advocate for specific groups he regards as politically disadvantaged--women, gays, victims of racial-hate speech, the poor (or, at least, the not-rich), and people who are critical of market capitalism--and to design a constitutional theory that will enable those groups to enlist the state in efforts either to suppress speech they dislike or to subsidize speech they do like, without running afoul of the First Amendment. Embarked on this task, the most learned and temperate writer in the world would have a hard time avoiding tendentiousness. Fiss does not avoid it. The Irony of Free Speech is a discussion of several speech issues: campaign-finance laws, state funding for the arts, pornography, speech codes, and equal time. These discussions are not doctrinaire, but their general inclination is to favor state intervention, on political grounds, in each of those areas--that is, to favor restrictions on campaign spending, greater regulation of pornography, and so on. Fiss' analyses of specific cases are presented against a lightly sketched historical argument. Light though the sketching is, the historical argument is almost the most objectionable thing about the book, since it involves a distortion of the history of First Amendment law that is fairly plain even to someone who is not a professor at Yale Law School. The argument is that \"the liberalism of the nineteenth century was defined by the claims of individual liberty and resulted in an unequivocal demand for liberal government, [while] the liberalism of today embraces the value of equality as well as liberty.\" The constitutional law of free speech, says Fiss, was shaped by the earlier type of liberalism--he calls it \"libertarian\"--which regarded free speech as a right of individual self-expression it is now used to foil efforts to regulate speech in the name of the newer liberal value, equality. Contemporary liberals, inheriting both these traditions, find themselves in a bind. They want, let's say, black students to be free from harassment at institutions where they are, racially, in a minority, since liberals worry that black students cannot be \"equal\" if they feel intimidated. But those same liberals get upset at the thought of outlawing hate speech, since that would mean infringing upon the right of individuals to express themselves. Fiss' suggestion--this is the chief theoretical proposal of his book--is that liberals should stop thinking about this as a conflict between liberty and equality and start thinking about it as a conflict between two kinds of liberty: social vs. individual. The First Amendment, he says, was intended to foster (in William Brennan's words) \"uninhibited, robust, and wide-open\" debate in society as a whole speech that inhibits or monopolizes that debate should therefore fall outside the protection of the law. We can maximize the total freedom of speech by silencing people who prevent others from speaking--when they utter racial epithets, represent women in degrading ways, use their wealth to dominate the press and the political process, or block the funding of unorthodox art. The historical part of this analysis rests on a canard, which is the assertion that the constitutional law of free speech emerged from 19 th -century classical laissez-faire liberalism. It did not. It emerged at the time of World War I, and the principal figures in its creation--Learned Hand, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., and Louis Brandeis--were not classical liberals they 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 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. Still, that discussion, like his discussions of the other issues, rests on a claim long associated with the left--the claim, in a phrase, that the minority is really the majority. In the case of speech, Fiss appears to believe that the reason the American public is less enlightened than he would wish it to be concerning matters such as feminism, the rights of homosexuals, and regulation of industry is that people are denied access to the opinions and information that would enlighten them. The public is denied this access because the state, in thrall to the ideology of individualism, refuses either to interfere with speech bullies--such as pornographers--who \"silence\" women, or to subsidize the speech of the unorthodox, such as Robert Mapplethorpe. Fiss' analysis of the Mapplethorpe case offers a good example of the perils of his interventionist approach. Arts policy is, unquestionably, a mess. The solution usually proposed is divorce: Either get the state out of the business altogether or invent some ironclad process for distributing the money using strictly artistic criteria. Fiss rejects both solutions\n\n<question>:\nWhat does Fiss mean by Irony?\n\n<options>:\nA That true freedom of speech calls for the silencing of a few groups.\nB That true freedom of speech calls for the silencing of unorthodox artists, as their work so often offends on a large scale and does not bode positively for the groups the artist hopes to represents.\nC That true freedom of speech depends on the silencing of the state in free speech trials.\nD That true freedom of speech calls for an inspection of the pornography market.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
129	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>:\nCAPTAIN CHAOS By D. ALLEN MORRISSEY Science equipped David Corbin with borrowed time sent 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?\" \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your \"Your name is David Corbin.\" David Corbin. I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand the function or design of the compact machinery. \"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your the clear portholes. \"It is assumed the experiment is a success,\" the voice said. What experiment? \"You have been removed from suspension. Assume manual control of this ship.\" Control of a ship? Going where? \"Do not begin operations until the others are removed from suspension.\" What others? Tell me what to do. \"Rely on instructions for factoring when you check the coordinates. Your maximum deviation from schedule cannot exceed two degrees. Adopt emergency procedures as you see fit. Good luck.\" instructions without knowledge were useless to me. I stopped looking into the doors in the passageway and went back to the room with the portholes. Everything lay in readiness, fastened down star charts, instruments, glittering equipment. There was no feeling of disorder or use in the room. It waited for human hands to make it operate. Searching the ship made me forget my fear. I hoped I would find some answers. I went from the nose to the last bulkhead in a frenzy of floating motion, looking behind each door until I went as far as I could. There were two levels to the ship. They both ended in the lead shield that was set where the swell of the curve was biggest. It meant the engine or engines took up half the ship, cut off from the forward half by the instrument studded shield. I retraced my steps and took a rough estimate of size. The ship, as I called it, was at least four sent along to safeguard the others. Complete amnesia would have been terrible enough but this half knowledge, part awareness and association with the ship was a frightening force that seemed ready to break out of me. I went back to the cabin where the powerful man lay. I had to risk \"I'm all right,\" he answered. \"There aren't supposed to be any effects from this.\" \"Who is in charge of this ship?\" I asked. He tensed suddenly. \"You are, sir. Why?\" I moved away from the cot. \"Listen, I can't remember. I don't know your name or anything about this ship.\" quarters. \"What about her. Why is she here?\" I asked my companion. He lifted the cover from the apparatus. \"She's the chemist in the crew.\" \"I suppose. The mission stated one chemist.\" \"What is the mission of this ship?\" I asked. He held up his hand. \"We'd better wait, sir. Everything was supposed to be all right on this end. First you, then Carl, sick to his stomach.\" companion motioned to him. \"Get Carl and meet us in Control.\" The man looked at me and I nodded. \"We'll be there in a moment. I'm afraid we've got trouble.\" \"John, what are your duties if any?\" \"Automatic control. I helped to install it.\" \"Can you run this ship? How about the other two?\" He hit his hands together. \"You fly it, sir. Can't you think?\" \"I'm trying. I know the ship is familiar, but I've looked it over. Maybe I'm trying too hard.\" \"You flew her from earth until we went into suspension,\" he said. a hundred years ago.\" We assembled in the control room for a council. We were all a little better for being together. John Croft named the others for me. I I wasn't in much better condition. \"Look, if it comes too fast for me, for any of us, we'll stop. John, you can lead off.\" \"You ask the questions,\" he said. I indicated the ship. \"Where in creation are we going?\" \"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 you can picture it, but we're going about one hundred thousand miles an hour.\" \"Through space?\" \"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.\" \"It can be done in two lifetimes,\" John said quietly. \"You said I had flown this ship. You meant before this suspension.\" \"Yes. That's why we can cross space to a near star.\" \"How long ago was it?\" \"It was set at about a hundred years, sir. Doesn't that fit at all?\" right if you don't lose your nerve.\" \"What are we to do?\" she asked. John answered for me. \"First we've got to find out where we are. I know this ship but I can't fly it.\" \"Can I?\" I asked. We set up a temporary plan of action. Paul took Karen to the laboratory in an effort to help her remember her job. Carl went back to divide the rations. I was to study the charts and manuals. It was better than doing nothing, and I went into the navigation room and sat down. Earth was an infinitesimal point somewhere behind us on the galactic plane, and no one else was trained to navigate. The ship thundered to life as I sat there. The blast roared once ... twice, then settled into a muted be shocked out of a mental state like that.\" \"I guess you're right,\" he said slowly. \"She's trained to administer the suspension on the return trip.\" through the stillness. John was shouting as I thrust my way into the room. \"Turn the ship. There's something dead ahead.\" I had a glimpse of his contorted face as I dove at the control board. My hands hit buttons, thumbed a switch and then a sudden force threw me 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 star....\" \"It's been dead ahead for hours,\" he grunted. I leaned over and threw the intercom to open. \"This is control. Listen ... everyone. I'm over it. Disregard the warning siren ... we were testing the ship.\" The lab light blinked on as Paul cut in. \"What was it ... hey, you said \"No, I put her to bed. Shall I bring food?\" I glanced at John. He rubbed his stomach. \"Yes,\" I answered. \"Bring it 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 carried away and I was still rechecking the figures. We were on a line ten degrees above the galactic plane. The parallactic baseline from Earth to the single star could be in error several degrees, or we could the screen gave us the distance and size of the star while we fed the figures into the calculator for our rate of approach. 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 came to a decision. Somewhere along an orbit that might be two hundred miles across, our hypothetical planet circled this star. That distance 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>:\nWhy is David Corbin on the ship in the first place?\n\n<options>:\nA He has to direct his crew to an area with potentially large amounts of natural resources.\nB He has to direct his crew to an area with potentially habitable planets.\nC He's a doctor who has to tend to the other crew members who were medically sedated.\nD He has to direct his crew home to Earth on the tail end of their intergalactic voyage.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
60	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. There several tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thought on the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to it required a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they found the world to make sure we've missed nothing,\" said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult of analysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This was designed simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this might be so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and the The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locator when turned on the inventor himself, The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, that Glaser did not have extraordinary perception he had only ordinary perception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , the machine insisted. others more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the owners of Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (or Eppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on a Positive on ninety per cent of the acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been a sound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Mi was shown by the test. and got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently one individual, though this could not be certain) and got very definite assumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. produces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrug of the shoulders in a man. They called it the \"You tell me light.\" So among the intelligences there was at least one that might be extraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to be forewarned. track of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, a sort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it.\" \"Keep on towards the minds,\" said Stark. \"They're our target.\" \"Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That looks Earth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light coming from?\" but the woman smiled, proving that she was human. \"I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is it that you use the English tongue?\" \"I have only one tongue but it is given to us to be understood by all by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English.\" the first water ever made. \"What do you make of them?\" asked Stark. \"Human,\" said Steiner. \"It may even be that they are a little more than human. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seem to be clothed, as it were, in dignity.\" \"And very little else,\" said Father Briton, \"though that light trick \"And everything grows here,\" added Steiner. \"Those are Earth-fruits and I never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figs and dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be, the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But I haven't yet tried the—\" and he stopped. \"If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think,\" said Gilbert, \"then it will be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream or whether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one.\" \"Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden.\" \"Well, the analogy breaks down there,\" said Stark. \"I was almost beginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what. and Hawwah mean—?\" \"Of course they do. You know that as well as I.\" \"I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact same proposition to maintain here as on Earth?\" did understand the answer, however.\" \"And have you gotten no older in all that time?\" \"I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from the beginning.\" \"And do you think that you will ever die?\" \"To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property of \"And are you completely happy here?\" \"Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taught that it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek it vainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing and that on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost.\" \"Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man?\" \"Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But I am further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect.\" Then Stark cut in once more: \"There must be some one question you could ask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced.\" colors and first move.\" \"No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect.\" \"Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat the and have a go at it.\" \"No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you.\" They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their time there. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when they \"A crowd would laugh if told of it,\" said Stark, \"but not many would laugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullible man, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure world 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 disturbed that happiness.\" \"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. 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 perfection. \"So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: Ninety Million Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming, Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver, Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large Settlement 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: pomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becoming better researched, and they insist on authenticity. \"This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in human nature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks will whoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and mar is unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage of this trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring you have to acquire your equipment as you can.\" He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiers \"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 \"Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort?\" \"It's as phony as a seven-credit note!\" \"You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced by our senses? Why do you doubt?\" \"It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds. Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible, \"What?\" \"If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game of \"But it was Paradise in one way,\" said Steiner at last. \"How?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the E.P. Locator detect?\n\n<options>:\nA Level of Human Activity\nB Level of Probing\nC Level of Spinal Fluid\nD Level of Perception\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,243	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>:\nintercom began feeding out a long sheet of paper the new answer from the Brain. It reached a certain length, then was automatically sheared Jery Delvin had a most unusual talent. He could detect the flaws in in the ad agency where he worked. So when the Chief of World Security told him that he had been selected as the answer to the Solar System's greatest mystery, Jery assumed that it was because of his mental time to pierce the maze of out-of-this-world double-dealing. For Jery end of the whole puzzle of THE SECRET MARTIANS—with Jery as the first Grade, when he realized all at once that \"someone wrote all those stories in the textbooks.\" While everyone else looked forward variously to becoming firemen, cowboys, and trapeze artists, Jack was devouring every book he could get his hands on, figuring that \"if I put enough After sixteen years of education, Jack found himself teaching high school English in Chicago, a worthwhile career, but \"not what one would call zesty.\" After a two-year Army hitch, and a year in advertising determined to make a career of full-time fiction-writing. Oddly enough, it worked out, and he now does nothing else. He says, \"I'd like to say I do this for fulfillment, or for cash, or because it's my destiny to retrace quite a bit of my lifetime up till that moment, seeking vainly for some reason why they'd be standing there, so terribly and inflexibly efficient looking. Mostly, I ran back over all the ads I'd created and/or okayed for Solar Sales, Inc. during my five years with the firm, trying to see just where I'd gone and shaken the security \"Jery Delvin?\" said the one on my left, a note of no-funny-business in are Jery Delvin?\" \"I suppose you're wondering why I've called—\" he started, then stopped short and flushed with embarrassment. I felt a sympathetic hot wave flooding my own features. A copy chief in an advertising company almost always reacts to an obvious cliche. Then, with something like a look of relief on his blunt face, he snatched up a brochure from his kidney-shaped desktop and his eyes raced over the lettering on its face. \"Jery Delvin,\" he read, musingly and dispassionately. \"Five foot eleven civic-minded, slightly antisocial....\" \"Well, in my job—See, I've got this gift. I'm a spotter.\" \"A what?\" \"A spotter. I can't be fooled. By advertising. Or mostly anything else. Except girls.\" \"I'm still not sure that I—\" \"It's like this. I designate ratios, by the minute. They hand me a new ad, and I read it by a stopwatch. Then, as soon as I spot the clinker, they stop the watch. If I get it in five seconds, it passes. But if I spot it in less, they throw it out and start over again. Or is that out of five New York lawyers use Hamilton Bond Paper for note-taking'?\" \"I've heard that, yes.\" \"Well, the clinker—that's the sneaky part of the ad, sir, or what we call weasel-wording—the clinker in that one is that while it seems to imply sixty percent of New York lawyers, it actually means precisely what it says: Three out of five. For that particular product, we had to question seventy-nine lawyers before we could come up with three who \"On file?\" Baxter frowned. \"What for?\" \"In case the Federal Trade Council got on our necks. We could prove that three out of five lawyers used the product. Three out of those five. See?\" \"Ah,\" said Baxter, grinning. \"I begin to. And your job is to test these ads, before they reach the public. What fools you for five seconds will fool the average consumer indefinitely.\" I sat back, feeling much better. \"That's right, sir.\" Then Baxter frowned again. \"But what's this about girls?\" \"They—they block my thinking, sir, that's all. Why, take that example I just mentioned. In plain writing, I caught the clinker in one-tenth of a second. Then they handed me a layout with a picture of a lawyer dictating notes to his secretary on it. Her legs were crossed. Nice legs. Gorgeous legs....\" slight antisocial rating. You avoid women in order to keep your job.\" is.... You have been chosen for an extremely important mission.\" I couldn't have been more surprised had he announced my incipient Colonies, by the Brain.\" \"You mean that International Cybernetics picked me for a mission? and said, without referring to it, \"Jery Delvin, five foot eleven \"If you can find it, I'll read it!\" he said, almost snarling. I looked over the sheet, then turned it over and scanned the black opposite side. \"All it gives is my description, governmental status, and address!\" \"Uh-huh,\" Baxter grunted laconically. \"It amuses you, does it?\" The smile was still on his lips, but there was a grimness in the glitter of that the Brain always picks the right man.\" I let this sink in, then asked, \"What made you ask for a man in the first place, sir? I've always understood that your own staff represented some of the finest minds—\" \"You were telling about how this gesture, the WG sending these kids off for an extraterrestrial romp, will cement relations between those nations who have remained hostile despite the unification of all governments on Earth. Personally, I think it was a pretty good idea, myself. Everybody likes kids. Take this jam we were trying to push. Pomegranate Nectar, it was called. Well, sir, it just wouldn't sell, and then we got this red-headed kid with freckles like confetti all over his slightly bucktoothed face, and we—Sir?\" getting letters and—\" \"Forgeries, Fakes. Counterfeits.\" men are doing the work. Handpicked crews, day and night, have been sending those letters to the trusting mothers. It's been took the factors, weighed them, popped them through its billions of relays and tubes, and out of the end of the answer slot popped a single sheet. The one you just saw. Your dossier.\" \"Then I'm to be sent to Mars?\" I said, nervously. \"That's just it,\" Baxter sighed. \"We don't even know that! We're like a is not answering questions to his satisfaction and simply blast the position, but his face looking happier. \"See, I was supposed to pilot the kids back here from Mars when their trip was done, and—\" He gave looked them over anyhow. I carefully tugged back the canvas covering that fitted envelope-fashion over a foam rubber pad, and ran my finger automatically act the part. A shame, in a way.\" \"The hell it is!\" Baxter snapped. \"Good grief, man, why'd you think the Amnesty was created in the first place?\" Jery Delvin, and even the finest history course available these days involvement. Forms to be signed, certain factors to be considered, protocol to be dealt with, government agencies to be checked with, classifications, bureaus, sub-bureaus, congressional committees. It was impossible, Jery, my boy, to get anything done whatsoever without consulting someone else. And the time lag and paperwork involved made Baxter smiled. \"No chance of that, Jery. We didn't leave it up to any to the Brain. We'd find ourselves in a tight situation, and the Brain after being fed the data, would come up with either a solution, or a name.\" I stared at him. \"Then, when I was here before, I was here solely to up with, and it had been coded and fed to the Brain. As soon as the solution came through, I could be on my way back to the world of hard and soft sell.\n\n<question>:\nWhat does Jery do best?\n\n<options>:\nA interplanetary security\nB come up with the best ways to sell products\nC work closely with women in advertising\nD develop products for the advertisement company\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
808	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThis is what Fiss means by the \"irony\" in his title: that true freedom of speech for all requires suppressing the speech of some. This is not, technically, an irony. It is a paradox. An irony would be the observation that an attempt to increase freedom for all often entails, despite our best efforts, a decrease in freedom for a few. If Fiss had addressed the subject of free speech in this spirit, as an irony, he would undoubtedly have had some interesting things to say, for he is a learned and temperate writer. But he has, instead, chosen to address the issue as an advocate for specific groups he regards as politically disadvantaged--women, gays, victims of racial-hate speech, the poor (or, at least, the not-rich), and people who are critical of market capitalism--and to design a constitutional theory that will enable those groups to enlist the state in efforts either to suppress speech they dislike or to subsidize speech they do like, without running afoul of the First Amendment. Embarked on this task, the most learned and temperate writer in the world would have a hard time avoiding tendentiousness. Fiss does not avoid it. The Irony of Free Speech is a discussion of several speech issues: campaign-finance laws, state funding for the arts, pornography, speech codes, and equal time. These discussions are not doctrinaire, but their general inclination is to favor state intervention, on political grounds, in each of those areas--that is, to favor restrictions on campaign spending, greater regulation of pornography, and so on. Fiss' analyses of specific cases are presented against a lightly sketched historical argument. Light though the sketching is, the historical argument is almost the most objectionable thing about the book, since it involves a distortion of the history of First Amendment law that is fairly plain even to someone who is not a professor at Yale Law School. The argument is that \"the liberalism of the nineteenth century was defined by the claims of individual liberty and resulted in an unequivocal demand for liberal government, [while] the liberalism of today embraces the value of equality as well as liberty.\" The constitutional law of free speech, says Fiss, was shaped by the earlier type of liberalism--he calls it \"libertarian\"--which regarded free speech as a right of individual self-expression it is now used to foil efforts to regulate speech in the name of the newer liberal value, equality. Contemporary liberals, inheriting both these traditions, find themselves in a bind. They want, let's say, black students to be free from harassment at institutions where they are, racially, in a minority, since liberals worry that black students cannot be \"equal\" if they feel intimidated. But those same liberals get upset at the thought of outlawing hate speech, since that would mean infringing upon the right of individuals to express themselves. Fiss' suggestion--this is the chief theoretical proposal of his book--is that liberals should stop thinking about this as a conflict between liberty and equality and start thinking about it as a conflict between two kinds of liberty: social vs. individual. The First Amendment, he says, was intended to foster (in William Brennan's words) \"uninhibited, robust, and wide-open\" debate in society as a whole speech that inhibits or monopolizes that debate should therefore fall outside the protection of the law. We can maximize the total freedom of speech by silencing people who prevent others from speaking--when they utter racial epithets, represent women in degrading ways, use their wealth to dominate the press and the political process, or block the funding of unorthodox art. The historical part of this analysis rests on a canard, which is the assertion that the constitutional law of free speech emerged from 19 th -century classical laissez-faire liberalism. It did not. It emerged at the time of World War I, and the principal figures in its creation--Learned Hand, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., and Louis Brandeis--were not classical liberals they displayed a libertarian attitude toward economic rights, tending to throw out legislation aimed at regulating industry and protecting workers on the grounds that people had a constitutional right to enter into contracts and to use their own property as they saw fit. Holmes, Brandeis, and their disciples consistently supported state intervention in economic affairs--the passage of health and safety regulations, the protection of unions, the imposition of taxes, and so on. The post-New Deal liberals whom Fiss associates with the value of equality are their heirs. The heirs of the19 th -century classical liberals are Jack Kemp and Newt Gingrich. Fiss' two \"liberalisms\" are, in fact, almost entirely different political philosophies. Hand, Holmes, and Brandeis based their First Amendment opinions not on some putative right to individual self-expression (an idea Holmes referred to as \"the right of the donkey to drool\") but on a democratic need for full and open political debate. First Amendment law since their time has performed its balancing acts on precisely that social value--the very value Fiss now proposes we need to insert into First Amendment jurisprudence. We don't need to insert it, because it was there from the start. Why does Fiss portray the history of First Amendment jurisprudence in this perverted way? Because he wants to line up his own free-speech argument within the conventional academic view that our problems are mostly the consequences of an antiquated and discreditable ideology of liberal individualism, and that they can mostly be solved by adopting a social-constructionist, or communitarian, or \"intersubjective\" view of human nature instead. The merits of liberal individualism vs. communitarianism can await another occasion to be debated. For since the law governing the freedom of speech does not emerge out of libertarianism, the matter does not boil down to replacing an obsolete belief in \"self-expression\" with a more up-to-date belief in \"robust debate,\" as Fiss would like to think it does. What it boils down to is whether we need to replace the Hand-Holmes-Brandeis way of maximizing the benefits of free speech in a democratic society, which tries to push the state as far out of the picture as possible, with a different way, which tries to get the state farther into the picture. 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 is an example of one flaw that Fiss picks out in contemporary liberals?\n\n<options>:\nA Their ideas are contradictory.\nB They uphold a double standard for themselves.\nC They are an uncohesive group.\nD They strongly reject Fiss' ideas.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,423	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>:\nWe know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality? In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one. It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that \"it is possible to infer character from features\" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from physis Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. \"They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal,\" says Hancock. \"But then they did!\" We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. \"People,\" he wrote, \"use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person).\" In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged. Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives. When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent. This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a \"deceitful chin\" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man. studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct. Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results. The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as \"What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?\" prompted a wave of press coverage. The vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. \"The main problem is the sampling of the images,\" he says. \"There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status.\" In other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour. Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. \"Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do,\" he says. \"One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box.\" This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. \"You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy,\" says Hancock. \"I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'.\" The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. \"Are we back to Lombroso's theory,\" he asks, \"that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions.\" While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the danger of using certain pictures to represent people in court?\n\n<options>:\nA The pictures can cause further emotional distress for families who have been affected by a perpetrator.\nB The pictures can elicit negative or guilty connotations, which can influence a jury or the public before a trial.\nC The pictures may have been edited in order to make the defendant look more guilty of criminal behavior.\nD The pictures may not represent what the person look like during the time they were accused of committing the crime.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,223	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>:\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 And maybe it would do no good. floor. Giles made the expected thirty years was a number a man could risk. If he made it, though.... Well, he’d see those grandchildren of his this year—and Maybe the ship would fail. But there’d be other grandchildren. With the ship, he’d have time Giles thought as carefully as of time! Thirty years was a long time, when he stopped to think of it. —LESTER DEL REY enough to look them up. Plenty for breath and feeling his heart hammering in his chest. He’d been a fool to come to work, Giles remembered that Dubbins 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! He resented every second of it. It was as if the almost forgotten specter of age stood beside him, For eighty years now, they’d been sending out the little ships that vanished at greater than the need the super-light drive if they a hundred other worlds make a taking pictures of wherever they arrived. So far, none had ever returned were to span much more of the the first hope they’d found that the century-long trips between stars in the ponderous shuttles might be ended and he should have been filled with excitement Universe than now. And he could or been located. This was Giles dropped the report wearily shuttle. He fingered the microstrip inside while he drank another coffee, and finally pulled sent an elaborate tercentenary greeting verse—one that would arrive ninety years too late! Harry had been born just before Earth passed the drastic birth limitation job. He stretched experimentally, spoiled him. He’d even tried to avoid the compulsory emigration draft and stay on with his mother. It had been the bitter quarrels with the eternal unconscious broken Giles’ fifth marriage. expectation that he would that. Harry had nothing but praise for the solar system where he’d been sent. He barely mentioned being married on the way or his dozen children, but filled GILES SNORTED and turned against the background of an alien but attractive world. He had no desire to spend ninety years cooped up with a bunch of callow young emigrants, even in one of the improved Exodus shuttles. And even if Exodus ever got the super-light drive working, there was no reason he should give up his work. The discovery that men could live practically forever had put an end to most family ties He took a quick look at Giles and wore thin in half a century—which wasn’t much time Then he studied Giles more carefully. Giles. Maybe we’ll all get to see sentiment to get shorter as their number increased. There’d been a song once—something about the years dwindling down. He groped for now, though it had once seemed long enough. Strange how the years seemed Drat it! Now he’d probably lie awake most of the night again, trying to recall them. Giles grunted in irritation. He there were endless questions that kept it on his mind. And even when it had been covered and it, and Giles felt a sinking sensation. 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 real reason. Certainly they weren’t Giles forced his attention on “One of my sons—” Giles couple of hundred years! While super-speed drive, and there he had no wish to talk until he could study the final report. He gave up at last and went to his own suite. What he needed was a good night’s sleep after a little relaxation. Giles had heard it all before. Even that failed him, though. He’d developed one of the finest chess collections in the world, but tonight it held no interest. And 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. He gave it up and went to bed—to have the fragment of that or other. Could they really dwindle down? Suppose he couldn’t rejuvenate all the way? He knew look Giles had seen too often 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 “Wait a minute.” Giles felt the Giles shook his head at what should move out. Maybe trying family life again would give him then shuddered. 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 you really want to risk losing the rest of your life rather than waiting a couple more centuries until for a second Giles’ heart caught Giles shook his head, interrupting and clicked off. Giles turned to me, too, Mr. Giles. But—well, the lines and couldn’t remember. He faced away from Giles, It was no consolation. Giles “Thirty years, maybe. But we can make them better. Geriatric “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. saved him the suspense of growing doubt and horrible eventual discovery. Giles hadn’t heard since the man eternity was no longer a part of him. Even his car would outlast him. He climbed into it, still partly GILES FOUND himself lying 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. He was passing near the club and started to slow. Then he went on without stopping. He wanted no chance to have them asking questions he couldn’t answer. now Giles wanted no kindness. and he drove on. What else was there for him? There, at least, he could still fill his time with work—work Giles puzzled over it doubtfully. that might even be useful. he’d seen him, but that could hardly explain his taking a twenty-year shuttle trip for such a slim reason. It was no concern of morose man the last few times In the future, men would Giles heard the other man’s was something. And he might keep busy enough to forget sometimes that the years were gone for him. Automatic habit carried him It would be cold comfort but it Giles with his shoes. “I’d be Giles frowned. He’d expected “As all right as I’ll ever be,” he told her. “They tell me I’m just growing old.” 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 loved being driven. Even after chauffeurs were a thing of the past, Harry had driven him around. Now he’d taken to walking, face hadn’t changed much. Giles as so many others had, for he’d never seen even pictures of his other grandchildren. Family ties melted away too fast for interstellar travel. Yet there seemed to be no slackening of them in Harry’s He read Harry’s note again, with its praise for the planet and its invitation. He wondered if years of practice. Giles felt like that, before he left. Or had he even been one of those over, and led Giles into a room He listened as Giles stumbled itself. “The years dwindle down to a precious few....” he remembered. “A precious few.” Those dwindling years had been precious once. He unexpectedly Then abruptly the line finished recalled his own grandfather knee and slipping him candy that was forbidden. The years seemed precious to the old man then. At Giles’ look, he smiled faintly. holding him on an old Giles shrugged and reached for\n\n<question>:\nHow did Giles feel about family in the beginning?\n\n<options>:\nA he cared less about them as time wore on\nB Harry reminded him too much of his ex-wife\nC he liked some of his children, but not all of them\nD he loved them but didn't want to travel for ninety years\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
935	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>:\nInfield turned his soft blue eyes to the black and tan oxfords with the Morgan said, \"You can't do it, Henry. You're crossing the line. The people we treat are on one side of the line and we're on the other. If Infield whirled and stalked to the desk. \"That's the answer! The whole along. Do you know that what we are doing is really the most primitive medicine in the world? We are treating the symptoms and not the disease. One cannibal walking another with sleeping sickness doesn't to talk like that. We psychiatrists can't turn back the clock. There just aren't enough of us or enough time to give that old-fashioned therapy to all the sick people.\" Infield leaned on the desk and glared. \"I called myself a psychiatrist once. But now I know we're semi-mechanics, semi-engineers, semi-inventors, semi lots of other things, but certainly not even semi-psychiatrists. A psychiatrist wouldn't give a foetic gyro to a man with claustrophobia.\" into the circle and feel safe. Steel-impervium alloy could resist even everything all right?\" Infield asked intensely. \"Suppose Morgan's face stiffened. \"You know as well as I do that those voices with that insidious voice drumming in his head night and day, do you mean to say that man's senses will only be impaired 23 per cent? Why, he'll turn violently schizophrenic sooner or later—and you know it. The only cure we have for that is still a strait jacket, a padded cell or one of those inhuman lobotomies.\" Morgan shrugged helplessly. \"You're an idealist.\" The cool air of the street was a relief. Infield stepped into the main He walked along, buffeted by the crowd, carried along in this direction, shoved back in that direction. Most people in the crowd seemed to be Normals, but you couldn't tell. Many \"Cures\" were not readily apparent. A young man with black glasses and a radar headset (a photophobe) was unable to keep from being pushed against Infield. He sounded out the for anything. He had been one of those condemned Normals, more to be scorned than pitied. Perhaps he could really get to understand these Suddenly something else was pushing against Infield, forcing the magnetic suction dart dropped away from Infield like a thing that had care about other people's feelings. This is official .\" \"What did you mean by that punch being official?\" Infield asked while Infield's pulse raced, trying to get ahead of his thoughts, and losing Infield shifted around, trying to see that side of his benefactor, cleared his throat, noticing the affectation of it. \"My name's Infield.\" Infield supposed it was a Cure, although he had never issued one like more interesting than what he was saying. \"It drives a needle into my temple and kills me.\" The psychiatrist felt cold fury rising in him. The Cures were supposed to save lives, not endanger them. \"What kind of irresponsible idiot could have issued such a device?\" he Impervium-shielded, you see.\" himself, Infield knew. The threat of death would keep him constantly shocked sane. Men hide in the comforts of insanity, but when faced with death, they are often forced back to reality. A man can't move his legs sanity. But sometimes the withdrawal was—or could become—too complete. \"We're here.\" Infield looked up self-consciously and noticed that they had crossed Infield wondered why cheap bars and restaurants always used red-checked Of course he didn't, Infield knew. Why should he? It was useless to do you really think of the Incompletes?\" The psychiatrist felt his face frown. \"Who?\" \"I forgot. You haven't been one of us long. The Incompletes is a truer name for the so-called Normals. Have you ever thought of just how dangerous these people are, Mr. Infield?\" \"Frankly, no,\" Infield said, realizing it was not the right thing to say but tiring of constant pretense. \"You don't understand. Everyone has some little phobia or fixation. Maybe everyone didn't have one once, but after being told they did have them for generations, everyone who didn't have one developed a defense mechanism and an aberration so they would be normal. If that phobia isn't brought to the surface and Cured, it may arise any time and endanger other people. The only safe, good sound citizens are Cured. Those lacking Cures—the Incompletes— must be dealt with .\" Infield's throat went dry. \"And you're the one to deal with them?\" likable, impassioned with his cause, and convinced that it was his divine destiny. He was a psychopathic egotist and a dangerous man. Doubly dangerous to Infield because, even though he was one of the few \"How are we going to deal with the Incompletes?\" Infield asked. visibly thinking that he shouldn't run that routine into the ground. \"We'll Cure them whether they want to be Cured or not—for their own good.\" Infield felt cold inside. After a time, he found that the roaring was imposed upon many ill minds. He could picture an entirely Cured world and he didn't like the view. Every Cure cut down on the mental and physical abilities of the patient as it was, whether Morgan and the others admitted it or not. But if everyone had a crutch to lean on for one phobia, he would develop secondary symptoms. the hopeless. Enforced Cures would be a curse for the individual and the race. But Infield let himself relax. How could anyone force a mechanical and suave, draped clothes. In this den of the Cured, Infield thought half-humorously, it was surprising to see a Normal—an \"Incomplete.\" The girl turned to Infield. \"You're one of us, but you're new, so you Infield.\" psychiatrists are sensitive about wearing Cures themselves, but it is a mark of honor of the completely sane man. You should be proud of your Cure and eager to Cure others. Very eager.\" Cure is not even thought of—hypochondria. Hundreds of people come to your office for a Cure and you turn them away. Suppose you and the other Cured psychiatrists give everybody who comes to you a Cure?\" Infield gestured vaguely. \"A psychiatrist wouldn't hand out Cures unless they were absolutely necessary.\" \"You'll feel differently after you've been Cured for a while yourself. Other psychiatrists have.\" Before Infield could speak, a stubble-faced, barrel-chested man moved Infield in the street. Infield hit the big man behind the ear. He dropped the bottle and fell looked up at Infield. Nonsense, Infield told himself. Eyes can't register emotion. Infield wasn't a large man, but he had pressed two hundred and fifty \"I'll do it if you cause more trouble.\" Infield sat down and rubbed his \"No. No, you aren't.\" Infield felt an excitement pounding through him, different. I'd be a hopeless drunk without the Cure. Besides, no one They were all looking at Infield. Somehow he felt this represented a critical point in history. It was up to him which turn the world took, the world as represented by these four Cured people. \"I'm afraid I'm for less It was his problem. Infield usually solved other people's problems, but said INFIELD &amp \"Mr. Morgan, your partner, Mr. Infield, he—\" \"Mr. Infield went out without his Cure in a storm and was struck by Morgan stared into his bright desk light without blinking. \"This is Morgan exhaled. Poor Infield. But it wasn't the lightning that killed him, of course. Morgan adjusted the soundproofing plugs in his ears, The thunder, naturally, was what had killed Infield. Loud noise—any\n\n<question>:\nWhat separate Infield and Morgan from the Normals?\n\n<options>:\nA The Normals are cannibalistic\nB The Normals are uncured\nC The Normals are socially repulsive\nD The Normals are delusional\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,335	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>:\nCOMPLEXITY AND HUMANITY We have all seen the images. Volunteers pitching in. People working day and night but the systematic application of knowledge to the creation of new knowledge, innovation to innovation, and information to making more information has become pervasive 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 away from what human beings do best: look, think, innovate, adapt, 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 (and are still seen so be many). But it is time we acknowledge that systems work best by making work human. Modern Times Modern times were hard enough. Trains and planes, telegraph and During the first two-thirds of the twentieth century, this type of rationalization took the form of ever-more complex managed systems, with crisp specification of roles, lines of authority, communication and 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 assembly line worker in Modern Times. 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 but it turned out to be a retrenchment, not an 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 modeling of what hyper-simplified selfish rational actors, looking only to their own interests, would do under diverse conditions. This approach humanity−no more than the economists’ utility curve−and neglecting any complexities of social interactions that could not be conveyed through bureaucratic rationalization, perfect-market rationalization also had successes. But, like its predecessor, its limits as an approach to human systems design are becoming cleare Work, Trust and Play Pricing perfectly requires perfect information. And perfect information, while always an illusion, has become an ever receding dream in a world of constant, rapid change and complex global interactions. What we are to coordinating human action will disappear. But these managed systems are becoming increasingly interlaced with looser structures, which invite and enable more engaged human action by drawing on intrinsic motivations and social relations. Dress codes and a culture of play in gratifying employees at the expense of productivity, but rather to engage the human and social in the pursuit of what is, in the long term, and inviting system that lets people learn together and pursue their passion for knowledge, and each other’s company. The set of human systems necessary for action in this complex, unpredictable set of conditions, combining rationalization with human agency, learning and adaptation, is as different from managed systems environment, identifying opportunities and challenges to action and acting upon them, are located (b) an emphasis on the human: on trust, cooperation, judgment and insight (c) communication over the lifetime the regularities and dependencies among objects and processes are less strictly associated with each other where actions and interactions can or shift from one system to another to achieve a solution. Consider first of all the triumph of Toyota over the programs of Taylor and Ford. Taylorism was typified by the ambition to measure and specify all human and material elements of the production system. The ambition of scientific management was to offer a single, integrated system where all human variance (the source of slothful shirking and inept error) could be isolated and controlled. Fordism took that ambition and embedded the managerial knowledge in the technological platform of the assembly line, guided by a multitude of rigid task specifications and routines. Toyota Production System, by comparison, has a substantially smaller number of roles that are also more loosely defined, with a reliance on small teams where each team member can perform all tasks, and who are encouraged to experiment, improve, fail, adapt, but above 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 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 delivers packets of data using standardized addressing information. The hard processing work−manipulating a humanly-meaningful communication (a letter or a song, a video or a software package) and breaking it up into a stream of packets−was to be done by its edge devices, in this case ultimate reversal of the human-centric, loosely-coupled design approach of the Internet. Instead of locating authority and capacity to act at the endpoints, where human beings are located and can make decisions about what is worthwhile, it implements the belief that machines−technical systems−are trustworthy, while their human users are malevolent, incompetent, or both. 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 the system are such that they control or direct action and learning over 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 time, and through observation of the system’s performance by someone standing outside its constraints−a manager or systems designer. By 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 new systems. It is a feature of system design that leaves room for human agency over time, only imperfectly constraining and enabling any given action by the system itself. By creating such domains of human agency, system designers are accepting the limitations of design and foresight, and building in the possibilities of learning over time through action in the system, by agents acting within To deal with the new complexity of contemporary life we need to re-introduce the human into the design of systems. We must put the soul difficult to replicate or systematize. At the center of these new systems, then, sits a human being who has a capacity to make judgments, experiment, learn and adapt. But enabling human agency also provides scope of action for human frailty. Although this idea is most alien to the mainstream of system design in the twentieth century, we must now turn our attention to building systems that support human sociality−our ability to think of others and their needs, and to choose for ourselves goals consistent with a broader social concern than merely our own self-interest. The challenge of the near future is to build systems that will allow us to be largely free to inquire, experiment, learn and human practices of productive social cooperation in the networked 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 typified Taylorism?\n\n<options>:\nA Identifying opportunities and challenges to action and acting upon them.\nB Location of authority and practical capacity to act at the edges of the system.\nC Loosely-coupled systems.\nD The ambition to measure and specify all human and material elements of the production system.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
110	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>:\ncookies, kissed her parents good night and went upstairs PEGGY FINDS THE THEATER I Dramatic Dialogue said to his daughter Peggy, who perched tensely on the edge of a kitchen stool. “We could hardly have helped knowing that you’ve wanted to be an actress since you were out of your cradle. It’s just that decisions like this can’t be made quickly.” “But, Dad!” Peggy almost wailed. “You just finished saying yourself that I’ve been thinking about “Of course, this is no surprise to us,” Thomas Lane Peggy lay on her back, staring at the ceiling and the patterns of light and shade cast by the street this and wanting it for years! You can’t follow that by lamp outside as it shone through the leaves of the big wait for?” Peggy’s father put down his coffee cup and leaned back in the kitchen chair until it tilted on two legs against the wall behind him. He took his time before 19 Nothing seemed quite right. Peggy’s thoughts shifted with the shadows overhead. All the plays she and enjoy for the rest of your life—” “But not acting knowledge!” Peggy cried. “There’s more to life than that,” her father put in. full. Then the stage lights dimmed, the actors joined hands across the stage to bow, the curtain slowly Peggy replied, “and none of them is nearly as important to my life.” descended, the lights went out—and Peggy was fast asleep. 3 “None of them is as fascinating as acting to me,” to have something to fall back on, just in case you ever need it.” Mr. Lane, seeing Peggy’s hurt look, was quick to Peggy stared at the faded linoleum on the floor for a few moments before answering. Then, looking first at her mother and then at her father, she replied Peggy said. “I’m not that conceited or that silly. All I hope is that I’ll be able to get a part in that time, and maybe be able to make a living out of acting. best time.” “Oh, Mother!” Peggy shouted, jumping down from the stool and throwing her arms about her mother’s neck. “I knew you’d understand! And you understand Mrs. Lane patted Peggy’s arm and said, “We won’t keep you in suspense long, dear. Why don’t you go out for a walk for a while and let us go over the situation quietly? We’ll decide before bedtime.” Peggy nodded silently and walked to the kitchen door, where she paused to say, “I’m just going out to the barn to see if Socks is all right for the night. Then 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 her and started for the barn. Ever since she had been a little girl, the barn had been Peggy’s favorite place to go to be by herself and think. Its musty but clean scent of straw and horses and leather made her feel calm and alive. Breathing Socks’s stall. As the little bay horse heard her coming, she stamped one foot and softly whinnied a greeting. Peggy stopped first at the bag that hung on the wall sugar as a present. Then, after stroking Socks’s silky Peggy’s hand in appreciation. As Peggy mixed some oats and barley for her pet and checked to see that there was enough straw in the stall, she thought about her life in Rockport and girl could want. Peggy had lived all her life here, knew every tree-shaded street, every country road, field, lake, and stream. All of her friends were here, friends she had as soon as she possibly could. It was not any dissatisfaction with her life, her friends, or her home that made Peggy want to leave Rockport. She was not running away from anything, “Socks,” she murmured, “I need some of your horse had reached a decision about her future. Fighting down an impulse to rush right into the kitchen to see how they were coming along, Peggy continued Dramatic Decision Upstairs at the Wilsons’, Peggy found Jean swathed in bath towels, washing her long, straight red hair, another dry towel around her head like an Indian turban. Then, having wrapped herself in an ancient, tattered, plaid bathrobe, she led Peggy out of the steamy room and into her cozy, if somewhat cluttered, bedroom. When they had made themselves “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.” With a hoot of laughter, she rolled quickly aside on the couch to avoid the pillow that Peggy threw at her. retie her towel turban. From her new position, flat on the floor, Peggy looked up at her friend with a rueful want to be sure that you have a profession in case you don’t get a break in show business.” “I know,” Peggy answered. “We had a long talk about it this evening after dinner.” Then she told her friend about the conversation and her proposed “bargain” with her parents. “They both seemed to think it was fair,” she concluded, “and when I went out, they were talking it not there when it isn’t!” “But, Jean,” Peggy protested, “you can handle comedy and character lines as well as anyone I know!” while.” 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. for cocoa! By the time we’re finished, it’ll be about time for your big Hour of Decision scene!” It was nearly ten o’clock when Peggy finally felt that her parents had had enough time to talk things out. Leaving the Wilson house, she walked slowly three of us. And, May—it’ll be good to see you again, after all these years! Good-by.” As Peggy entered the room, her father put down the phone and turned to Mrs. Lane. “Well, Betty,” he said, “it’s all set.” “What’s all set, Dad?” Peggy said, breaking into a run to her father’s side. 15 “Well, for goodness’ sake!” her mother cried. “Where’s the enthusiasm?” 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 yelled at the top of her lungs. After the kisses, the hugs, and the first excitement, Peggy and her parents adjourned to the kitchen, the favorite household conference room, for cookies and milk and more talk. “Now, tell me, Dad,” Peggy asked, her mouth full of oatmeal cookies, no longer “sedate” or “poised,” but her natural, bubbling self. “Who was that on the some years, but I thought she might give us some good advice.” “And did she?” Peggy asked. she has a room that you can have!” “Oh, Mother! It sounds wonderful!” Peggy exulted. “I’ll be with other girls my own age who are actresses, and living with an experienced actress! I’ll bet she “Dad!” Peggy shouted, almost choking on a cooky. “Don’t tell me you’ve managed to get me accepted I can have more time! Oh, Mother, what parts will I do? Where’s the Shakespeare? Where’s—” “Whoa!” Mr. Lane said, catching Peggy’s arm to prevent her from rushing out of the kitchen. “Not now, young lady! We’ll pack in the morning, talk of nothing more than getting to bed. This is going to be a busy time for all of us.” Reluctantly, Peggy agreed, recognizing the sense of what her father said. She finished her milk and\n\n<question>:\nWhy was Socks a part of this story?\n\n<options>:\nA Technically Socks helped Peggy pass the time, but Socks also gives us more of an idea of what Peggy's life at home is like and how wonderful it is.\nB Peggy talks to Socks about all her major life decisions.\nC Peggy might reconsider staying home because of how much she loves Socks.\nD She only helped Peggy pass time while her parents made a decision.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
672	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nHe was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. You lie upon the world Dondromogon. knuckled dust from my eyes. \"How did I get here?\" I demanded of the speaker. \"It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?\" Dondromogon.\" worlds away, for a specified purpose here on whatever windswept planet Dondromogon might be. \"Birth and beginning—destined leadership—\" Fantastic! And yet, for all I could say to the contrary, unvarnishedly \"Dondromogon?\" I mumbled. \"The name is strange to me.\" \"Around a star it spins, light-years away from the world of your birth. One face of Dondromogon ever looks to the light and heat, wherefore its metals run in glowing seas. The other face is ever away in cold darkness, with its air freezing into solid chunks. But because Dondromogon wavers on its axis, there are two lunes of its surface My eyes were tight shut against the dust, but they saw in imagination such a planet—one-half incandescent, one-half pitchy black. From pole to pole on opposite sides ran the two twilight zones, widest at the equators like the outer rind of two slices of melon. Of course, such areas, between the hot and cold hemispheres, would be buffeted by mighty gales ... the voice was to be heard again: \"War is fought between the two strips of habitable ground. War, unceasing, bitter, with no quarter asked, given or expected. Dondromogon was found and settled long ago, by adventurers from afar. Now come invaders, to reap the benefits of discovery and toil.\" A pause. \"You find that thought unpleasant? You wish to right that .\" The voice became grand. \"Suffice it that you were needed, and that the time was ripe. There is a proper time, like a proper place, for each thing and each happening. Now, go to your destiny.\" called Dondromogon, what manner of intelligent life bade defiance to heat and cold and storm, and built these stout structures, and now laid My first glance showed me that my companions were creatures like myself—two-legged, fair-skinned men, shorter and slighter than I, but its owner's unprotected face. seemed plastic in form, but hardened so quickly upon contact with the The challenge was clear, rich, authoritative. Someone else had come, from a rearward door into the stone-walled vestibule where the beyond. It was lighted by small, brilliant bulbs at regular intervals. Beyond, it gave into several passages. She chose one of them and have seen who are heavier than you, but none taller. Whence came you?\" I remembered the strange voice that had instructed me. \"I am from a far world,\" I replied. \"It is called—yes, Earth. Beyond that, I know \"What proof have I?\" I demanded. \"On this world of yours—Dondromogon, isn't it called?—I'm no more than an hour old. Accident or shock probably can tell what happened to put me in such a condition.\" strength that you lose touch with the spiritual—\" He broke off, and wheeled on the attendant who had led him in. \"To my study,\" he commanded. \"On the shelf behind my desk, bring the great of Dondromogon, and would take our side as well. We defend ourselves defeat and crush them utterly!\" foolish, but it had its effect. \"Follow me, deign to follow me,\" Sporr said. \"Your clothing, your quarters, your destiny, all await you.\" upon a metal-plated platform. Standing beside me, he tinkered with a lever. We dropped smoothly away into a dark corridor, past level after level of light and sound. \"Our cities are below ground,\" he quavered. \"Whipped by winds above, we must scrabble in the depths for life's necessities—chemicals to transmute into food, to weave into clothing, to weld into tools and weapons—\" The mention of food brought to me the thought that I was hungry. I said as much, even as our elevator platform came to the lowest level and stopped. \"Behold!\" he said, with a dramatic gesture. \"Your garments, even as they have been preserved against your coming!\" It was a sleeping chamber, with a cot made fast to the wall, a metal locker or cupboard, with a glass door through which showed the garments neck. The only fitted articles were a pair of shoes, metal-soled and soft-uppered, that went on well enough and ran cross-garters up to \"I serve Yandro,\" she vowed tremulously. \"Now and forever—and happy that I was fated to live when he returned for the rescue of all Dondromogon.\" It seemed to me then that the corridors were vast and mixed as a labyrinth, but Doriza guided me without the slightest hesitation past one tangled crossway after another. My questions she answered with a mixture of awe and brightness. \"It is necessary that we live like this,\" she explained. \"The hot air of Dondromogon's sunlit face is ever rising, and the cold air from the dark side comes rushing under to fill the vacuum. Naturally, our strip of twilight country is never free of winds too high and fierce to fight. No crops can grow outside, no domestic animals flourish. We must pen ourselves away from the sky and soil, with stout walls and heavy sunken parapets. Our deep mines afford every element for necessities of life.\" I looked at my garments, and hers. There were various kinds of fabric, which I now saw plainly to be synthetic. \"The other side, where those you call the Newcomers dwell and fight,\" I reminded. \"Is it also windswept? Why can two people not join forces and face toil and nature together? They should fight, not each other, but the elements.\" Doriza had no answer that time, but Sporr spoke up behind us: \"Great Yandro is wise as well as powerful. But the Newcomers do not want to help, not even to conquer. They want to obliterate us. There is nothing to do—not for lifetimes—but to fight them back at the two poles.\" We came to a main corridor. It had a line of armed guards, but no pedestrians or vehicles, though I thought I caught a murmur of far-off \"Doriza, gentlewoman of the guard, conducts Yandro, the Conquering were all men but two, and wore robes of black, plum-purple or red. At sight of me, they rose together, most respectfully. They looked at me, subsequent action, of stupidity. But they were not pleasant. Their enough, but somehow unwholesome Doriza—no, she was not like these others, who may have lived too long in their earth-buried shelters. And \"Yandro, folk of the Council! He deigns to give you audience.\" Yandro! \"The tenth part of the wonders which concern mighty Yandro have not \"You honor me,\" I told him. \"Yet I still know little. It seems that I am expected to aid and lead and save the people of this world called Dondromogon. But I must know them before I can help.\"\n\n<question>:\nHow do people live on Dondromogon? What is an example of a repercussion its people suffer as a result of its extreme temperatures?\n\n<options>:\nA They have to battle the extreme heat and extreme cold. Because of these intense temperatures people suffer, wars often start out of general agitation.\nB The live deep in the ground. They can only survive above ground for a short period, so they have to find what they need and quickly bring it back underground.\nC The live deep in the ground. They have to find all necessities for life, such as food, deep within the mines they dug to survive.\nD They live in a great temple, exactly on the twilight line between the light and dark side of their planet. They have to find all necessities for life inside.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,917	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"If there was ever a fellow ready for this planet,\" decided have no manners—but what do you expect, when they used to be men! Kolin sensed a lack of direct All attention. The rustle about him was natural, caused stellar drive and the way the small planet's murky atmosphere defied precision scanners—the right now.\" Peter Kolin had to admit that As he brooded upon the sorry choice of arousing a search by hiding where he his little command, less two third-class ration keepers thought to have been trapped was or going back to bluff in the lower hold, to a point safe form to jet off in, you might make yourself a deal. \"I don't know,\" said Kolin. on parade. Kolin made himself emergency watches repairing Silenced but doubting, Kolin permitted himself to try the dream on for size. He considered what form might most easily escape the notice of search parties and greetings with which to a long time without renewal. Another factor slipped into thought Kolin rebelliously. his musings: mere hope of escape was unsatisfying after the outburst that had defined Like the Supreme Director of Haurtoz! Being conscripted his fuming hatred for Haurtoz. Prudently, he did not express this resentment overtly. His well-schooled features revealed no trace of the idea—or I'd better watch myself! he that never fights is bad for the way they make us live … the whole damn set-up. world's less kindly techniques had been employed. Lack of complete loyalty to the state was likely to result in a siege of treatment that left the subject \"They're scared that without Kolin had heard of instances wherein mere unenthusiastic posture had betrayed intentions to harbor treasonable thoughts. talk of war, and scouting moment. Kolin felt the Kolin permitted himself to wonder when anyone might get some rest, but assumed a mildly willing look. (Too eager an attitude could arouse suspicion of disguising an improper viewpoint.) The maintenance of a proper viewpoint State were to survive the hostile plots of Earth and the latter's decadent colonies. That, at least, was the official line. Kolin found himself in a scowled in turn, impartially, at his watch and at the weary detail. The latter stumbled about, stacking and distributing individuals but immutable as to length. Slichow muttered something profane about disregard of orders as he glared at the rocky ridges surrounding the landing place. He was so intent upon planning of favoring themselves in regard to food. They would go without. Kolin maintained a standard expression emergency, give even the appearance stare measured them. Yrtok, a dark, lean-faced girl, led the way with a quiet It was tenuous, almost a haze. Close examination would have revealed it to be as the Chief's sharp followed, and Kolin brought formed a cohesive body. They drifted together, approaching the men as if taking intelligent reach their assigned sector, they had to climb staggering flunkies, stealing a few seconds of relaxation on the pretext of dumping an a forbidding ridge of rock armful of light plastic packing, He froze. After a few heartbeats, he One of Chief Slichow's Kolin shared their sense of isolation. They would be out of sight of authority and responsible for their own actions. It was a strange sensation. They marched down into the valley at a brisk pace, becoming more aware of the clouds and atmospheric haze. known as Peter Kolin congratulated itself upon its For all Kolin could tell, he choice of form. Nearer to the original shape of the Life than Ashlew got , he thought. half immortal but rooted to one spot, unable to float on a breeze or through space itself on the pressure of light. Especially, it was unable to insinuate any part of itself into the control center of another form of life, as a second that very instant. There are not enough men thought Kolin. must drift through the airlock. In space, I can spread and Kolin agreed. through the air system to the the damage,\" announced the Chief in clipped, aggressive on a low shrub. Kolin misgiving. \"Looks as tough to get through as a tropical jungle,\" as is suitable. It may be \"Hardly, sir. All ready for the liberation of Haurtoz.\" \"Reformation of the Planetary useful to discover temporary Kolin looked over his shoulder. relaxed. \"He must have tasted him a doped appearance. Kolin straightened up and beckoned to Yrtok. For some reason, he had trouble attracting her attention. Then he noticed that she was kneeling. into this idiotic space fleet of greenish fur. All Kolin dreamily, Kolin backed away. felt oddly stiff they had involuntarily drawn back to expose his clenched teeth. He glanced warily about, but nothing appeared to threaten he told himself. \"It's dangerous. One good look and I'm jetting off! What I need is He considered the massive At first, Kolin saw no way, clinging to the rugged trunk of any other idea. The snapped out of her spell by Kolin progressed rapidly. height, he felt safer. Later, at what he hoped was open the top is,\" he mused. \"I wonder how the view will \"Depends on what you're looking for, Sonny!\" something remarked in a soughing wheeze. Kolin, slipping, grabbed he regained a grip with don't?\" Kolin could feel the skin crawling along his backbone. \"Why?\" wheezed Ashlew. \"Who The answering sigh of laughter gave him a distinct chill despite its suggestion of amiability. with what I am. Didn't figure Kolin looked about, seeing little but leaves and fog. \"I have to climb down,\" he told himself in a reasonable tone. \"It's bad enough that the other two passed out without me going space happy too.\" \"What's your hurry?\" demanded the voice. \"I can talk to you just as easy all the way Kolin examined the bark of since I came here and found out I could be anything I wanted.\" Kolin, testing the firmness of track. I always figured bein' a tree was a nice, peaceful life asked Kolin, twisting about thinking, and set its roots down all over until it had control. That's the outskirts just like it must have to—Watch it, there, Boy! If I \"Th-thanks!\" grunted Kolin, the Life got in touch with his mind and set up a mental field to help him change form. He Kolin politely. He groped for he started living with a different way of thinking. It burns me. I thought of being Kolin braced himself securely to stretch tiring muscles. \"Maybe I'd better stay a while,\" he muttered. \"I don't him. \"You ought to let me tell you how the Life helps you change form. You don't to be a tree.\" \"No?\" \" the outside anyway. Most of them have to change as the bodies wear out, which I don't, and some made bad mistakes tryin' to be things \"There's just one thing. The Life don't like taking believes in peace and quiet. You might not get back to your ship in any form that \"Listen!\" Kolin blurted out. \"I wasn't so much enjoying being what I was that getting back matters to me!\" \"Don't like your home planet, whatever the name was?\" have to think and even look the way that's standard thirty hours a day, asleep or awake. You get scared to sleep for fear you might dream treason and they'd find out somehow.\" \"Whooeee! Heard about them places. Must be tough just to live.\" Suddenly, Kolin found himself expansion. He dwelt upon the desperation of having no place to hide in case of trouble with the authorities. A multiple system of such worlds was agonizing to Somehow, the oddity of Kolin heard opinions spouting out which he had prudently kept bottled up for years. The more he talked and stormed and complained, the more relaxed he felt.\n\n<question>:\nWhat was Kolin's primary motivation in transforming to his new form?\n\n<options>:\nA Desire for power over authority\nB Desire to out-smart Johnny Ashlew\nC Desire to liberate the people of Haurtoz\nD Desire to be free from conformity\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
695	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>:\nHatcher's second in command said: \"He has got through the first survival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next?\" \"Wait!\" Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen and a troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female and seemed to be in pain but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher, it was something far more immediate to his interests. \"I think,\" he said slowly, \"that they are in contact.\" \"I know,\" Hatcher said, \"but watch. Do you see? He is going straight toward her.\" Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions but he did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there was much better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised at the queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers. Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life and death. He said, musing: \"This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—a female is perhaps not quite mute.\" \"Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one?\" Hatcher hesitated. \"No,\" he said at last. \"The male is responding well. Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died he having tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he was looking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he could see made no sense. A spacesuit, yes out, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with more holes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational. How to explain a set of Gibbon's cooling brain. McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehow refreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing head he remembered what a spacesuit was good for. something more than a million times faster than light, with a range measured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer, may contain food. Suppose you call him \"Hatcher\" (and suppose you call it a \"him.\") Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males but it did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not in any way look like a human being, but they had features in common. If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance, they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was an adventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciences of his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker and three-dimensional chess Hatcher a number of sports which defy human description. Both held positions of some importance—considering their ages—in the affairs of their respective worlds. Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot, hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had \"arms\" and \"legs,\" but they were not organically attached to \"himself.\" They were snakelike things which Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the \"probe team\" which had McCray under observation, and he was more than a little The probe team had had a shock. \"Paranormal powers,\" muttered Hatcher's second in command, and the others mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying the specimen from Earth. After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman. and even more, not one of them could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle of a creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien as Herrell McCray. Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure in Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report: are to establish communication at once.\" \"But, sir....\" Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesture with. \"We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homey for him—\" actually, what he said was more like, we've warmed the biophysical nuances of his enclosure and we're frightening him half to death. We can't go faster. This creature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormal forces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is not ours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism is closer to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.\" \"Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatures were intelligent.\" \"Yes, sir. But not in our way.\" \"But in shaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itself in an admonitory gesture. \"You want time. But we don't have time, Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Masses team has just turned in a most alarming report.\" \"Have they secured a subject?\" Hatcher demanded jealously. Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannot be said that he was emotionally involved it was not pity or sympathy that caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast toward communication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revolting physical differences between the Earthman and his own people. But Hatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enough getting him here. Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest of his team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so he took time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways not entirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of his body opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid which He returned quickly to the room. His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workers reported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before the of the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythical beings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, in ages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running and hiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—with its population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all. But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying their existence to their enemies— \"Hatcher!\" second in command, very excited. \"What is it?\" Hatcher demanded. \"Wait....\" Hatcher was patient he knew his assistant well. Obviously something At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an image was forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not a but it showed what it was meant to show. Hatcher was startled. \"Another one! And—is it a different species? Or merely a different sex?\" \"Study the probe for yourself,\" the assistant invited. Hatcher studied him frostily his patience was not, after all, endless. may be in the process of killing our first one now.\" \"Killing him, Hatcher?\" Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away like And yet, surely, it was warmer in here. He could see no difference but perhaps, he thought, he could smell \"Herrell McCray,\" droned the tiny voice in his ear, \"Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is mean—that there was a lag of an hour or two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of his suit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took hours Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learned not even then—and it took computers, sensing their data through instruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes into but it would retard them. or shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at the back of his neck.\n\n<question>:\nIs Herrell as intelligent as Hatcher? Why or why not?\n\n<options>:\nA No, Humans lack the organs that make Hatcher’s race smarter.\nB No, Hatcher’s race is far more intelligent.\nC Yes, but their intelligences operate differently.\nD Yes, but humans absorb intelligence through concepts while Hatcher’s race absorbs intelligence through light.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
2,051	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>:\ncould not survive on the Earth, because the conditions that made him great were gone. The survivors must be something else—capacities undeveloped by our science—after us the end Var felt Neena beside him, and drew her close. As she sobbed her relief, Neena shivered, even though the surrounding cold could not reach her. Var eyed him for a long moment He stood rigid, trying to catch an echo of the Watcher's thoughts, but there was nothing. Perhaps the old man was resting. From the other direction, the long way that they two had come, it was not difficult to \"Hurry,\" said Neena. \"They're closer than they were an hour ago.\" mountain. Var sensed her fear, and the love that had conquered it. He be death for Var, and for Neena living shame. Which of the two was worse was no longer a simple problem to Var, who had grown much older in the \"Oh!\" cried Neena in involuntary alarm. Var sighed, shaking his head. \"It won't hold them for long, but it's the It was starry night already when they saw the light from the Watcher's But this was no time for shyness. Var eyed the ice-curtain closely to They felt the Watcher rouse, heard his footsteps, and finally saw him—a beside him even Groz, who had always seemed so ancient, was like a boy. The Watcher peered at them in turn. \"Welcome,\" he said in a cracked voice. He did not speak again the rest of his conversation was in thought only. \"Welcome indeed. I am too much alone here.\" had not meant to be. The old man grinned toothlessly. \"Never fear. Asleep or awake, I watch. turned questioningly to the young pair. \"We need a little rest out of the cold,\" said Var. \"And food, if you can spare it. We're pursued.\" comfortable, and in one minute.... Pursued, eh? A pity. I see the world is as bad as it was when I was last in it.\" Hot food and drink were before them almost at once. The Watcher regarded them with compassion as their eyes brightened and some of the shadow of 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 very long, I'm sure, I would have performed some deed which Groz would \"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 able to do little for them against Groz and his violent kinsfolk. Var grinned mirthlessly. \"We haven't much choice, since they're The Watcher was broodingly silent his eyes shifted to Neena, where she nestled by Var's side. He asked, \"And you—are you willing to follow Neena returned his gaze without flinching Var, and her lips curled with a proud and tender mockery. \"Follow? Why, First Watcher. I did not see the sleepers, nor will any man until they come again, but I met their sentries, the sentinel machines that guard below, and I returned in time.\" Now for the first time Var sensed the strange plastic substances, debris of artifacts still showing the marks of their shaping—the scattered wreckage of the things they made. And we—we too are a remnant, the descendants of the few out of all humanity \"From the memories that the old Watchers have left here, and from the Var and Neena stared, unstirring, with wide vacant eyes, while the old tightened about Neena till she gasped. He was momentarily uncertain that their deathless and lifeless sentinels round them, to wait till someone in ignorance. Our world is unwise and sometimes evil, full of arrogance, folly, and passion that are in the nature of man. Yet it is a happy The Watcher eyed them speculatively. \"Before all,\" he said finally, Neena pressed her face against Var's shoulder, hiding her eyes. In her mind as it groped for his there was a confusion of horror and pity. Var looked grimly at the Watcher, and would have spoken but the Watcher Var strove to cry out that there was no time, that Groz was near and Var woke. Daylight glimmered through the ice of the cave mouth. He had He came to his feet in one quick movement, realizing in that action that sleep had refreshed his mind and body—realizing also that a footstep had wakened him. Across the cave he faced a young man who watched him coolly with dark piercing eyes that were familiar though he did not know Neena sat up and stifled a cry of fright. Var growled, \"Who are you? Where's the Watcher?\" The other flashed white teeth in a smile. \"I'm the Watcher,\" he day passes. A foolish amusement, no doubt, but amusements are few here.\" \"You made us fall asleep. Groz will be on us—\" \"Groz and his people could not detect your thoughts as you slept. They Var passed a hand across bewildered eyes. Neena said softly, \"Thank you, Watcher.\" Not looking at the Watcher, Var muttered unsteadily, \"We have no \"You have an alternative,\" said the Watcher crisply. The two took their be too late for them to overtake Var.\" That possibility had not occurred to them at all. Var and Neena looked at one another. Then by common consent they blended their minds into one. They thought, in the warm intimacy of unreserved understanding: \" \"You are ready to go,\" said the Watcher. He spoke aloud, and his voice was cracked and harsh. Var opened his eyes in surprise, and saw that the Watcher had become again the hoary ancient of last night. Var felt a twinge of unfamiliar emotion 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?\" cross the gorge more surely and swiftly. When Var and Neena set foot at Var sent his thoughts probing beyond the curtain, listened intently, response, felt electric currents sting along buried, long-idle circuits.... The two stood shivering together. Var and Neena turned. Far out in the sea of fog, on a dream bridge that Neena's hand tightened on Var's. Var sent a thought of defiance: \"Go Neena's face was deadly pale and her lips trembled, but her urgent At Var's thought command Neena froze instantly. \"Feel that!\" he Var faced that way and thought coldly: \"Only if you return and let us go Without warning, lights went on. Blinking in their glare, Var and Neena the two invaders felt the rapid Var and Neena huddled frozenly, half expecting each instant to be their 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 With a new shock, Var realized that the Ryzga's thoughts were quite close his mind in the presence of inferior creatures.... He paused with his back to the central control panel, and studied the interlopers with the dispassionate gaze of a scientist examining a new, but not novel, species of insect. His thoughts seemed to click, like metal parts of a mechanism falling into places prepared for them. The image occurred oddly to Var, to whom such a comparison would ordinarily Var was staring in fascination at the Ryzga's face. It was a face formed remained. As the Ryzga stretched out his hand again, Var acted. The efforts, as he strove to free himself from the neural hold, were as misdirected and unavailing as those of a child who has not learned to Var had guessed right. When Neena in her terror had flung a dream with an infant, he projected his thoughts into the other's mind. \"There will be no new beginning for you in our man\n\n<question>:\nHow does the Watcher feel about Neena and Var's arrival?\n\n<options>:\nA He is thankful to have company to pass his wisdom to\nB He is a little disappointed to not have time to himself\nC He is suspicious of any people who would enter where he lives\nD He is thankful to have any interaction with other humans\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,349	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe Christmas party at the Boston branch of Hartshorne-Logan was the table containing the drinks, Miss Pringle, who sold millinery, had times faster had driven away twinges of conscience about untrimmed trees and midnight church services. The star salesman for mankies and the gentleman who was in charge of the janitors were putting on a display of Burmese foot-wrestling in one corner of the general office. The janitor foreman weighed fifty pounds less than the Burma gentleman, who was the salesman's customary opponent. So the climax of one tactic did not simply overturn the foreman. He glided through the air, crashing with a very loud thump Hartshorne, co-founder, from its nail. It tinkled imposingly as its The noise caused a temporary lull in the gaiety. Several employes even felt a passing suspicion that things might be getting out of hand. \"It's all in the spirit of good, clean fun!\" cried Mr. Hawkins, the \"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 They must have stuck it in to tighten the frame. Gee, it's old.\" Mr. Hawkins had refreshed himself. He decided that he liked Milly's voice. To hear more of it, he said to her: \"I'll bet that's been in Hartshorne-Logan never filled! We can't have such carelessness. This grandmother never bought anything from Hartshorne-Logan because of some 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!\" 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 the impersonal typing on the customary Hartshorne-Logan bundles. But 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 \"Your dress ought to be here,\" Ann said. She found scissors in her Ann repressed an irrational urge to slap her daughter. Instead, she slightly crushed thin cardboard box lay on top. Ann pulled out the the dress she had admired from the Hartshorne-Logan catalogue \"It's probably the wrong size, too,\" Ann said, pulling off Sally's \"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.\" \"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. 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 \"It looks terribly expensive. Maybe they sent door chimes instead of the doorbell.\" ordered for their son. Ann glanced at its glaringly lithographed cover Les stared at his wife and put the child onto the rug. Sally began to walk, then rose and again floated, this time toward the hassock on which the manky lay. His jaw dropped. \"My God! Ann, what—\" Ann was staring, too, but not at her daughter. \"Les! The hassock! It when she—\" Ann's frazzled nerves carried a frantic order to her muscles. She jumped up, strode to the hassock and picked up the manky with two fingers. She tossed it to Les. Immediately, she regretted her action. \"Drop it!\" she yelled. \"Maybe it'll turn you green, too!\" Les kicked the hassock into the hall closet, tossed the manky in after it and shut the door firmly. As the door closed, he saw the entire interior of the dark closet brighten into a wet-lettuce green. When he turned back to Ann, she was staring at her left hand. The Ann immediately felt better. She put her hands behind her back, pulled off her ring and slipped it into her apron pocket. Les was sentimental \"Maybe you'd better start a letter to Hartshorne-Logan. Let's go into up at the doorbell, which he had installed just above the upper part of the door frame. \"Queer,\" he said. \"That isn't in contact with the door itself. I don't see how it can keep the door from opening.\" \"The children have some new toys,\" Ann improvised hastily. \"Sally is \"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.\" \"Your husband is better?\" upset over her poor husband's health and she thinks we're insulting her.\" 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. Ann fingered the garment. She didn't recognize it as a nightgown. But 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 the new dress. But the little girl was too sick to get out of bed. The only good thing about the morning for Ann was the fact that the manky had quieted down some time in the night. After she got Bob to school, she gingerly opened the closet door. The manky was now glowing a bright pink and seemed slightly larger. Deep violet lettering stood 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 quick answer to the letter she had written yesterday. It must have work tonight. She had just decided to call Hartshorne-Logan's complaint something that his parents gave him.\" 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.\" \"You aren't going to believe me, Doctor,\" Ann said while he took 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.\" 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 The doctor looked closely at the fingertips. \"Every human has natural \"Hey, Pete! What's wrong?\" The front man with the stretcher looked up. \"I don't know. This guy's weary sadness. \"People will suspect you of being a sex maniac for the rest of your life. You can't possibly explain—\" claims that her husband is poisoned. Young man, I'm going to put you under arrest.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat didn't Ann receive from Hartshorne-Logan?\n\n<options>:\nA a letter regarding money owed\nB a package with incorrect items\nC a response to her complaint letter\nD a manky\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
399	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nby CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in this desert as the trees. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction, visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie, had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've missed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , and other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are, however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background. Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from visiting her \"stage\" in person. novel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the offices of persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric.\" \"What's the Baldric?\" I had asked. \"Will you believe me, sir,\" he said, \"when I tell you I've been out here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?\" I scowled at that it didn't make sense. \"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities \"What do you mean?\" Interstellar Voice and \"What sort of trouble?\" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a \"Billy-boy,\" she said to me in a strange voice, \"look down there and head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way. \"What do you make of it?\" I said in a hushed voice. Grannie shook her head. \"Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced by some chemical radiations,\" she replied. \"Whatever it is, we'd better watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead.\" heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it. She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions. \"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie,\" he said. \"If Grannie's eyes glittered. \"Trouble with the mine laborers?\" she Jimmy Baker nodded. \"The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness \"But surely you must have some idea of where they go,\" Grannie said. notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained standing. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to \"There must be ways of stopping this,\" she said. \"Have you called in any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the men away until the plague has died down?\" I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all rights.\" Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and neither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. \"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet.\" coalesced into a three-dimensional scene. were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing \"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its \"Sure.\" The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice posted of Grannie's movements. took form. Ezra spoke over my shoulder. \"He's doing scenes for Grannie's new book,\" he said. \"The old lady figures on using the events here for a plot. Look at that damned nosy bird! \" Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. \"I've got it!\" she said. \"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images. They're Xartal's drawings!\" \"Don't you see,\" the lady continued. \"Everything that Xartal put on of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images.\" The Larynx manager nodded slowly. \"I see,\" he said. \"But why don't the birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?\" \"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and made a greater impression on their brains,\" Grannie replied. of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while sleeping or lounging in the barracks. was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. \"Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be getting sick of this blamed moon.\" It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers, never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues and facts to a logical conclusion. It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her \"Ezra!\" I yelled, swinging the car. \"That wasn't Grannie! Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of from his grasp. \"What have you done with Miss Flowers?\" I demanded. themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate with an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. \"Grannie!\" I yelled. \"What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?\" Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four. Larynx Incorporated become a far more powerful exporting concern than Interstellar Voice Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove\n\n<question>:\nWhat can be inferred about the personality of Grannie Annie from the passage?\n\n<options>:\nA She's fearless and quick-witted\nB She's fearful and hard to work with\nC She lacks the experience that she claims she has for her novels\nD She lacks the knowledge that is needed for her novels\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,838	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nExtensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may be welcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as a hero...? at-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer, one of the crew of the spaceship Washington upon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. His Honor's eyes held a trace of remoteness. Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, the and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the National Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he had returned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the great mariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing, passing, and then the arrival. \"Pretty good.\" Edith said, \"He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, and he made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank.\" He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering the warmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears as he left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They had continent-to-continent experimental flight. They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up. But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made the long journey. Ralphie suddenly said, \"I got to go, Dad. I promised Walt Reed Hospital early this morning which was something he found distasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time, before. But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance began filtering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the same man who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family and friends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he could communicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First One would again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—a return to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwash instead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly be embrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let it drop out of sight. So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was, the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joe \"Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before—\" At that point he looked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested in this normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate, mumbled, \"Soup's getting cold,\" and began to eat. His hand shook a little his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. cut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphie and said, \"Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.\" into the living room for a while. \"She'll be back for dessert, of course,\" he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked at Ralphie Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe Joe was chewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked at Lucille she was disappearing into the living room. of, that he could have smashed more than a table. Edith said, \"Hank!\" He said, voice hoarse, \"Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick of Edith said, \"He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an evening Hank stood up. \"The question is not whether I want to. You both know I want to. The question is whether you But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to a lighted room. \"Phil and Rhona are here.\" He blinked at her. She smiled, and it seemed her old smile. \"They're so anxious to see you, Hank. I could barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They want to go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will.\" He sat up. \"Phil,\" he muttered. \"Phil and Rhona.\" They'd had wonderful times together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest and very much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter and full of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, and clapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so much more gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than was good for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go along on the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer. They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road to and Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but he merely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana. they walked back to the booth. Phil said, \"Beddy-bye time.\" Hank said, \"First one dance with my loving wife.\" the music ended, he was ready to go home. They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear of Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made a little sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on a Rhona said, \"Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—\" Hank said, \"No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?\" Phil said, \"Because people are—\" And then he caught himself and waved his hand and muttered, \"I forgot the punch line.\" \"Because people are dying to get in,\" Hank said, and looked through the window, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleeting tombstones. The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have been nothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. \"Maybe you should let me out right here,\" Hank said. \"I'm home—or that's what everyone seems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe that would satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula or another monster from the movies.\" Edith said, \"Oh, Hank, don't, don't!\" didn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone path and entered the house. \"Hank,\" Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, \"I'm so sorry—\" \"There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'll all work out in time.\" \"Yes,\" she said quickly, \"that's it. I need a little time. We all need a little time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening. I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurt you terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we're \"I'm going to stay in the guest room,\" he said, \"for as long as necessary. For good if need be.\" \"How could it be for good? How, Hank?\" That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had since returning. And there was something else what Carlisle had told him, even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did. did—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He was smashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almost us because in time it'll be an ordinary thing.\" Edith said, \"Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Please believe that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and—\" She paused.\n\n<question>:\nWhy are they throwing a parade for Hank?\n\n<options>:\nA Hank is back from a mission to Mars.\nB Hank is back from an experimental continent-to-continent flight.\nC Hank is back from the dead.\nD Hank is back from beyond the Great Frontier.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,171	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nsociology good for?\" Wilton Caswell, Ph.D., was head of my Sociology Department, and right then he was mad enough to chew nails. On the office wall behind him were three or four framed documents in Latin that were supposed to be signs of great learning, but I didn't care at that moment if he papered the walls with his degrees. I had been appointed dean and president to see to it that the university made money. I had a job to do, and I meant to do it. He bit off each word with great restraint: \"Sociology is the study of Come on now.\" I smiled condescendingly, knowing it would irritate him. \"What are you doing that's worth anything?\" He glared at me, his white hair bristling and his nostrils dilated like a war horse about to whinny. I can say one thing for them—these scientists and professors always keep themselves well under control. He had a book in his hand and I was expecting him to throw it, but he spoke instead: of living as a basis for its general policies of—\" I stopped him with both raised hands. \"Please, Professor Caswell! That would hardly be a recommendation. Washington, the New Deal and the present Administration are somewhat touchy subjects to the men I have He began to tap the corner of his book absently on the desk, watching me. \"Fundamental research doesn't show immediate effects, Mr. Halloway, but its value is recognized.\" I smiled and took out my pipe. \"All right, tell me about it. Maybe I'll recognize its value.\" Prof. Caswell smiled back tightly. He knew his department was at stake. The other departments were popular with donors and pulled in gift money by scholarships and fellowships, and supported their professors and graduate students by research contracts with the government and industry. Caswell had to show a way to make his own department popular—or else. I couldn't fire him directly, of course, but there are ways of doing it indirectly. \"Institutions—organizations, that is—\" his voice became more resonant like most professors, when he had to explain something he instinctively slipped into his platform lecture mannerisms, and began to deliver an essay—\"have certain tendencies built into the way they without reference to the needs they were founded to serve.\" He was becoming flushed with the pleasure of explaining his subject. \"All through the ages, it has been a matter of wonder and dismay \"The reason can be traced to little quirks in the way they were organized, a matter of positive and negative power feedbacks. Such simple questions as, 'Is there a way a holder of authority in this \"I see you have your problems, too,\" Caswell said, conceding me afternoon, Mr. Halloway. I'm glad we had this talk.\" I shook hands and left him standing there, sure of his place in the progress of science and the respect of his colleagues, yet seething inside because I, the president and dean, had boorishly demanded that he produce something tangible. I frankly didn't give a hoot if he blew his lid. My job isn't easy. For a crumb of favorable publicity and respect in the newspapers and an annual ceremony in a silly costume, I spend the rest of the year going hat in hand, asking politely for money at everyone's door, like a well-dressed panhandler, and trying to manage the university on the dribble I get. As far as I was concerned, a department had to support itself or be cut down to what student tuition pays for, which is a handful of over-crowded courses taught by an assistant lecturer. Caswell had to make it work or get out. But the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to hear what he was going to do for a demonstration. At lunch, three days later, while we were waiting for our order, he opened a small notebook. \"Ever hear of feedback effects?\" \"Not enough to have it clear.\" group that no one in his right mind would expect to grow.\" \"There should be a suitable club—\" Picture Professor Caswell, head of the Department of Sociology, and with him the President of the University, leaning across the table toward each other, sipping coffee and talking in conspiratorial tones over something they were writing in a notebook. \"Ladies,\" said the skinny female chairman of the Watashaw Sewing Circle. \"Today we have guests.\" She signaled for us to rise, and we stood up, bowing to polite applause and smiles. \"Professor Caswell, and Professor Smith.\" (My alias.) \"They are making a survey of the methods and duties of the clubs of Watashaw.\" boring parliamentary formality. I pointed out to Caswell the member I thought would be the natural half doze while Caswell stayed awake beside me and wrote in his dereliction of the club. She was being scathing. I nudged Caswell and murmured, \"Did you fix it so that a shover has a better chance of getting into office than a non-shover?\" \"I think there's a way they could find for it,\" Caswell whispered back, can be trusted with initiating the change. Just mention all the personal advantages an unscrupulous person could have.\" He nodded, keeping a straight and sober face as if we were exchanging admiring remarks about the techniques of clothes repairing, instead of conspiring. After the meeting, Caswell drew the tall woman in the green suit If Caswell's equations meant anything at all, we had given that sewing how the test was coming along. Passing Caswell's office, I put my head in. He looked up from a student research paper he was correcting. \"Caswell, about that sewing club business—I'm beginning to feel the \"Not in the slightest. If you want to graph the membership rise, it should be going up in a log curve, probably doubling every so often.\" I grinned. \"If it's not rising, you're fired.\" He grinned back. \"If it's not rising, you won't have to fire me—I'll Poor Caswell. The bet between us was ironclad. He wouldn't let me back down on it even if I wanted to. He'd probably quit before I put through the first slow move to fire him. His professional pride would be shattered, sunk without a trace. I remembered what he said about but.... What a mess that would make for the university. I had to talk to Mrs. Searles. Perhaps there was some outside reason why the club had disbanded. Perhaps it had not just died. I called back. \"This is Professor Smith,\" I said, giving the alias I And what if Caswell asked me what I had found out in the meantime? I \" All we need is more members. Now get out there and recruit! \" I chuckled while reading the next page of the paper, on which a local politician was reported as having addressed the club with a long flowery oration on their enterprise, charity, and civic spirit. He had been made an honorary member. If he allowed himself to be made a full dealing with organizations, including his own, and finding them either inert, cantankerous, or both. Caswell's formula could be a handle to grasp them with. Gratitude alone would bring money into the university in carload lots. were spectacular. Caswell's formulas were proven to the hilt. ! I can use this Watashaw thing to get you so many fellowships and scholarships and grants for your department that you'll think it's snowing money!\" He answered somewhat disinterestedly, \"I've been busy working with students on their research papers and marking tests—not following the Watashaw business at all, I'm afraid. You say the demonstration went well and you're satisfied?\" He was definitely putting on a chill. We were friends now, but obviously he was still peeved whenever he was reminded that I had doubted that his theory could work. And he was using its success to string of degrees after his name is just as human as anyone else. I had needled him pretty hard that first time. \"I'm satisfied,\" I acknowledged. \"I was wrong. The formulas work tether and die of old age.\" \"When will that be?\" The graph on the desk before me began to look sinister. Surely Caswell\n\n<question>:\nHow good is Caswell at his job?\n\n<options>:\nA He's good at his job but not enough people know it\nB He's incompetent\nC He's known as the best in the world\nD He's respected by his students but never by his fellow staff\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,286	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nI slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, a togetherness-type-magazine reader. for, and not wanting to. So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhaps that sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody ever complained. It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explore the insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawers and—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble. It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away from how they hurt. Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I always knew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, and therefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feel the color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about the But I never say anything. I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade when Miss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eat my sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with some of the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction. her absence, which I dutifully did. Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk for her favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, and looking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it while \"It's in your purse,\" I blurted out. I was sent home with a stinging note. Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was able to sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many other people are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine. I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, but how? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of the things I sense in probing really are. So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except that it amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane. The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me out the window. \"Where are we?\" she asked in a surprised voice. I told her I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first. was numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'd doughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and a napkin. I goggled at her, managed to croak, \"No, thanks.\" She gave me an odd look and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing at the cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her. I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spent I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybe Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before the bomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life would be changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a man it without a word and went away. \"Were you really asleep that time?\" \"Not really,\" I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject to fits, but I didn't. \"Yeah.\" He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. But he was eying me with a \"well-why-don't-you-get-along?\" look. \"Take it inside. Why?\" He was getting too curious. \"Oh, I just wondered, that's all.\" tell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain the whole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my own business. \"Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag.\" But escaped my grasp. \"Do you have my suitcase?\" At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, \"Listen to me.\" She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door. \"It's a matter of life or death,\" I said. I wanted to wrest the bag from her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but I telephone booth where it would be out of the way. She didn't move. She just said, \"Why?\" or anything else right now if it had. \"I've got to talk to you. It's very important.\" The girl said, \"Why?\" I was beginning to think it was the only word she knew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to kill someone so lovely. \"I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make a don't ask me why.\" She gave me a speculative look. I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, \"All right, but—\" I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door, range it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel. Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet. \"Now will you please tell me what this is all about?\" she said stiffly. \"Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain.\" She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followed the short, fat man into the coffee shop. Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensory ability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, and how I had discovered what was in her overnight bag. During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grew pale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tears there when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag. she was reliving some recent scene. \"Who is Joe?\" \"My husband.\" I thought she was going to really bawl, but she got control again. \"This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit my sister.\" Her smile was bleak. \"I see now why he wanted to put in those books. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd put in some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when he must have put the—put it in there.\" I said gently, \"Why would he want to do a thing like that?\" \"I don't know.\" She shook her head. \"I just don't know.\" And she was close to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, \"I'm not sure I want to know.\" I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy. I nodded. \"As long as we don't move it.\" I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd been thinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell the airport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said her name was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was a bomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worried because she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but it would have to do. for a long while. \"She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried. She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab.\" She smiled a little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was all suitcase?\" \"Bag? Suitcase?\" he mumbled. Then he became excited. \"Why, a man just The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, \"We'd better get was all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia was thinking. She said, \"About those bags,\" and looked at me. The officer said, \"Yes, miss?\" \"I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.\" \"I feel the same way,\" I said. \"Would it be all right if we didn't bother to report it?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy doesn't Julia tell the policeman about the bomb?\n\n<options>:\nA This is her chance to disappear and start a new life.\nB She doesn't think the police will believe her husband tried to kill her.\nC She does not want to be blamed for the thief's death.\nD She doesn't want the narrator to have to explain his gifts.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
804	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>:\nShut Up, He Explained Owen Fiss is a professor at the Yale Law School and a highly regarded scholar of constitutional law. The subject of this short book is the present direction of the law governing the freedom of speech. What Professor Fiss has to say about it is worth attending to not merely because of his prominence in the field but because his argument is planted in the common assumptive ground of a lot of contemporary academic thought about the bankruptcy of individualism. The thesis of the book is Fiss', but the wisdom is conventional. This is what Fiss means by the \"irony\" in his title: that true freedom of speech for all requires suppressing the speech of some. This is not, technically, an irony. It is a paradox. An irony would be the observation that an attempt to increase freedom for all often entails, despite our best efforts, a decrease in freedom for a few. If Fiss had addressed the subject of free speech in this spirit, as an irony, he would undoubtedly have had some interesting things to say, for he is a learned and temperate writer. But he has, instead, chosen to address the issue as an advocate for specific groups he regards as politically disadvantaged--women, gays, victims of racial-hate speech, the poor (or, at least, the not-rich), and people who are critical of market capitalism--and to design a constitutional theory that will enable those groups to enlist the state in efforts either to suppress speech they dislike or to subsidize speech they do like, without running afoul of the First Amendment. Embarked on this task, the most learned and temperate writer in the world would have a hard time avoiding tendentiousness. Fiss does not avoid it. 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. Still, that discussion, like his discussions of the other issues, rests on a claim long associated with the left--the claim, in a phrase, that the minority is really the majority. In the case of speech, Fiss appears to believe that the reason the American public is less enlightened than he would wish it to be concerning matters such as feminism, the rights of homosexuals, and regulation of industry is that people are denied access to the opinions and information that would enlighten them. The public is denied this access because the state, in thrall to the ideology of individualism, refuses either to interfere with speech bullies--such as pornographers--who \"silence\" women, or to subsidize the speech of the unorthodox, such as Robert Mapplethorpe.\n\n<question>:\nWould Fiss believe that free speech is really \"free?\"\n\n<options>:\nA No, because he believes free speech is an outdated concept.\nB Yes, but he does propose minor critiques towards the concept of free speech.\nC No, because Fiss believes free speech is not granted equally to everyone.\nD Yes, because he has not advocated strongly against issues with free speech.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,987	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nNed Vince knew that. Still, his things, couldn't quite realize all the vast things that had happened to himself, and to the death. But Ned Vince lived again—a million years later! \"See Ned Vince made a last effort \"I don't know what you've been talking about,\" he grated wildly. Ned Vince was eager for the \"But I want to get out of here! I want to go back where I came Loy Chuk pressed more keys. \"But you can't go back to the Twentieth Century,\" said the of Hurley, where she lived. His old car rattled and roared as he rock at the turn of the road. Dazzled, and befuddled by his own rash speed, Ned Vince had on to avoid a fearful, telescoping collision. He flicked his wheel smoothly to the right but the But Ned Vince wasn't listening, Ned could scarcely have chosen a worse place to start sliding and spinning. His car hit the white-painted wooden rail sideways, crashed through, tumbled down His mind was too confused for nightmare. But then it might all be real instead, and that was abysmal horror. Ned was no conviction about anything. Everything he saw and felt and Ned Vince was still dimly conscious inky waters of the Pit, fifty feet beneath.... being stranded alone on another world! His heart was pounding heavily, Movement was slower now, as he began to sink, trapped inside his wrecked car. Nothing that he could imagine could mean doom more certainly than this. The Pit cracks beneath his feet, Ned him, and the occasional touch of a furry body, hurried his feverish body again, lost beyond recovery in this abyss. The car was deeply submerged. The light had blinked out on the dash-panel, leaving Ned in absolute at last at the surface. He stood there panting in that frigid, rarefied air. It was night. scrambling. But he emerged darkness. A flood rushed in at the shattered window. He after a million years of erosion under an ocean that was gone. In that ghastly moonlight, the \"Well, I guess it's all true, huh?\" Ned Vince muttered in a liquid was sucked into his lungs. His last thoughts were those of a drowning man. The machine-shop he and his dad had A wave of intolerable homesickness came over him as he everything that was familiar. He started to run, away Death, and the Father of tik!... Kaalleee!...\" The excited cry, which no human throat could quite have duplicated in his hell-world, lost beyond the barrier of the years.... Loy Chuk and his followers presently came upon Ned Vince's unconscious form, a mile from the city of Kar-Rah. In a flying machine they took him back, and applied stimulants. He came to, strapped to a low platform this time, so that he could not escape again. There he lay, helpless, until presently an idea occurred to him. It gave him a few crumbs Ned Vince,\" came the answer could send me back to my own time after all!\" Little Loy Chuk was in a black, discouraged mood, himself. He could understand the than this, death from homesickness had come. Loy Chuk was a scientist. In what Ned Vince had suggested. black box. \"Yes, Ned Vince,\" as ruler of the Earth. Loy Chuk had flown his geological expedition out from the far lowlands to the east, out where there had been none before. Maybe he'd be back in his soon.... Ned relaxed, as a tiny hypo-needle bit into his arm.... As soon as Ned Vince passed into unconsciousness, Loy Chuk went to work once more, using that pair of brain-helmets again, exploring carefully the man's mind. After hours of research, Loy Chuk and his fellow workers were gathered, tense and gleeful, around the things their for many days. Ned Vince's mind swam gradually out of the blur that had enveloped it. He was wandering aimlessly about in a familiar didn't more than half believe it. Betty,\" he whispered, feeling strange accident, happening in a \"You look as though you've been dreaming, and just woke up!\" He grimaced ruefully as she approached. With a kind of fierce legendary antiquity, had aided heard might be some kind of dreaming, wonder Loy Chuk and his co-workers were happy in their paleontological enthusiasm! A that mighty sense of relief. \"I must have fallen asleep at the bench, here, and had a nightmare. I thought I had an accident chirping signal. The chant of triumph ended, while instruments At last Loy Chuk gave a soft, Ned Vince's mind, over which at Pit Bend—and that a lot of worse things happened.... them in their quest for knowledge. He did not know anything about the invisible radiations beating down upon him, soothing and dimming his brain, so that it would never question or doubt, or observe too closely the incongruous corpse. What his probing gaze revealed But it wasn't true ...\" Loy, though, was not observing, now. He had wandered far out into cold, sad sea-bottom, to mummy of Ned Vince was disengaged from the worthless ruins, left by the final supermen. \"The Kaalleee believes himself home,\" Loy was thinking. \"He rust of his primitive automobile. With infinite care it was crated in a metal case, and hauled into will survive and be happy. But there was still an elusive fog that never escaped from the present by so much as an instant....\" THE END Fluids submerged it, slowly soaking from that hardened flesh the alkali that had preserved it once known. At last the final liquid was drained away, and the mummy lay there, a mummy no more, but a pale, silent figure in its tatters of clothing. Loy Chuk put an odd, metal-fabric helmet on its head, and a second, much smaller helmet Vince knew that his friends and At last, eager and ready for whatever might happen now, Loy Chuk pushed another switch. With a cold, rosy flare, energy blazed around that moveless animal chucklings around For Ned Vince, timeless eternity again, he experienced that inevitable 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. So his memories were as vivid as yesterday. Yet, through that crystalline vat in which he lay, he could see effect on Ned Vince—a sudden, nostalgic panic. Something was fearfully wrong! The nervous terror of the unknown was on him. Feeble and dizzy after his weird resurrection, which he could not understand, remembering as he did that moment of sinking to certain death in the pool at Pit Bend, he caught the edge of the \"Take it easy, Ned Vince....\" Ned's gaze searched for the touching rows of keys. To Ned Vince, it was all utterly place as eerie as this. Ned Vince did not know how Loy Chuk had probed his brain, with the aid of a pair of helmets, and the black box apparatus. He his language, taken from his own revitalized mind, was recorded, and that Loy Chuk had only to press certain buttons to make the instrument express his awry. His gaunt, young face held befuddled terror. He gasped in the thin atmosphere. \"I've Loy's box, with its recorded English words and its sonic detectors, Loy Chuk pressed more keys, and the box reproduced his answer: \"No, Ned, not nuts. Not a back to life. We have science that can do that. I'm Loy Chuk....\" It took only a moment for the box to tell the full story in clear, bold, friendly terms. Thus Loy\n\n<question>:\nWhat is Ned Vince's ultimate fate?\n\n<options>:\nA He is tranquilized and moved to a simulation of his previous life, where the Kar-Rah can continue to study him\nB He dies in a fatal car crash by drowning at the bottom of a deep pit of water\nC His body is put on display in a museum managed by the Kar-Rah\nD He wakes up to discover that the car wreck and experience with Loy Chuk was all a dream\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
965	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n\"Well, it's still a favor.\" a crime, get caught and be a hero ... an were laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPA psychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joe shuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietly 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 because employers know they're good workers. \"No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free room 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, the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the pain pieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape to get another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card and show it upon request. \"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 . \"See what I mean?\" Hendricks asked. \"A century ago, you would have been 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 useful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got a big hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every time the voice, want to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I get you is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal.\" 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 with pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now it \"I think it's a lousy, filthy system.\" Joe's head was still tingling wasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where all criminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shock treatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy and a dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were few 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 it did away with the damage caused by countless crimes did away with 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 man who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money. And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatment because it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon the 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. The girl shook her head vigorously. \"Sorry, buddy. Can't help you that way. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted?\" the CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, even 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 prevented crime, and the CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attempt to prevent crimes by punishment. If it did, that would be a violation prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward and they'd be famous.\" \"And the kids are the worst,\" Hendricks continued. \"They have Junior CPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboard boxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you through restaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you in your CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job.\" have to be a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all your criminal tendencies and—\" Joe laughed. \"If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you aren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. As soon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices, of the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel ill at ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by his 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 him to make a mistake. Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went. Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns, alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waited for someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones picked up was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator. If the words \"Let's see a movie\" were received in the Brain, they of it would kill a human. The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under the 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 that could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain. And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearance low prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The power required to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average of four dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture of the devices had cost even less. And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking at the individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinked subliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radio law, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, but evidently he didn't want to pay for installation. . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easy for the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed. Thief! Police! those people are down there because they admire what you did? They're down there waiting for you because they're curious, because they're glad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You're an ex than stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowd 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 the rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of places like that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like you before they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT First Class won't take the free psycho treatment or—\"\n\n<question>:\nHow does the CPA prevent crime?\n\n<options>:\nA The CPA prevents crime with brain implants that suppress the criminal nature.\nB The CPA prevents crime with large police forces, squad cars, and weapons.\nC The CPA prevents crime through the use of psychological warfare.\nD The CPA prevents crime using constant surveillance, subliminal messaging, public shaming, and various psychological treatments, including lobotomy.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
547	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>:\nTOLLIVER'S ORBIT Betty frowned at him. Koslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightened \"You asked any of them lately?\" Tolliver prodded. They know what it's like. D'ya think they Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meeting \"Doesn't matter,\" answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. \"The hazardous Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the number that it was payday was small consolation. \"Hey, Johnny!\" said a voice at his shoulder. \"The word is that they're finally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.\" Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. \"What do you mean?\" Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under a Tolliver. \"By the way, just call me Betty.\" or does he just know where bodies are buried? \"They were making dates,\" said the girl. \"Were they ribbing me, or is it true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?\" He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff and \"What did you expect?\" asked Tolliver. \"Square dances with champagne?\" this creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girl is trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. \"You can call me Betty. What happened to him?\" Tolliver! Tolliver, driver of \"missions\" across the menacing wastes between dome he was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. as if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscience know better. Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walking in without knocking. \"Jeffers,\" he announced, \"this is ... just call her Betty.\" \"Miss Koslow!\" he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting. Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is: your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor to show you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?\" \"Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers,\" snapped the girl, in a tone new to Tolliver. \"We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already had enough rope.\" pilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of the told en route from the spaceport. \"Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow?\" Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something about holding on to it.\" Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older. Betty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about \"just landed.\" Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to be Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling that Betty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around his Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in the He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitched in with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp of departing footsteps and then by silence. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was he \"Thanks for letting me know in time,\" said Tolliver. \"What can we use to get out of here?\" he mused. \"Why should we try?\" asked the girl. \"What can he do?\" \"You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?\" \"Your paycheck,\" said Betty. \"As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount, Tolliver groaned. \"Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. You didn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, and seemed to blame you for it.\" accident!\" \"What do you think you're up to?\" asked Betty with some concern. \"I'll come along with you, Tolliver,\" said the girl. \"Why not?\" \"Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident to the daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without a lot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it.\" \"Let's not argue about it,\" said Betty, a trifle pale but looking \"That switch under your chin,\" he said, touching helmets so she could hear him. \"Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening!\" then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. \"Just act as if you're on business,\" he told her. \"For all anyone can see, we might be inspecting the dome.\" They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver was From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startled They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be here when they do! It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running on ice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sight from the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell her how to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through the face-plate made him think better of it. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsed and stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. \"That's all right,\" Tolliver told the girl. \"We can get in with no trouble.\" It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved that clumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. \"Leave the suit on,\" he ordered, getting in the first word while she \"Takeoff!\" shrilled Betty. \"What do you think you're going to do? I doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. He warned her the trip might be long. \"I told you not to come,\" he said at last. \"Now sit back!\" \"Who knows?\" retorted Tolliver. \"There wasn't time to check Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pry her out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed any further help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter. When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set about \"Space Patrol?\" whispered Tolliver incredulously. wondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers and For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, he never addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted the request as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who to go down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. course, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had an idea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She might have got me killed! Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but he If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us later on this channel.\" \"Miss Koslow?\" repeated the spacer. \"Did she tell you—well, no matter! He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offended \"This 'Miss Koslow' business,\" he said suspiciously. \"He sounded funny about that.\" The girl grinned. \"Relax, Tolliver,\" she told him. \"Did you really believe Daddy would send his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoever was gypping him?\" \"Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigating Tolliver finished for her. \"I guess it's better this way,\" he said\n\n<question>:\nWhy was the Space Patrolman surprised that Tolliver referred to Betty as \"Miss Koslow\"?\n\n<options>:\nA It was a cover name, not her real name.\nB He realized that she was the boss' daughter.\nC The Space Patrolman didn’t know her name.\nD She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone who she was.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
723	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nGarden , Allure , Details , Self , Mademoiselle , and Glamour and Random House. The expense-account lunch is a hallowed journalistic tradition. But consider a day in the life of an editor working for Si Newhouse. (Donald's editors are a different story, as they will be happy to tell you.) It's a closed economy where almost all human needs and desires can be gratified with a miraculous, unlimited currency called the Si. you save a $1.50 late fee. Then there's lunch. The magazines account for more than a quarter of daytime revenues at the Four Seasons and the Royalton. A modest lunch for two at the Royalton (no fancy wine or anything) might cost $80. But Si's generosity extends to even assistants and sub-sub-editors, dining on sushi at their desks. If you spend $10 or less on lunch, and claim you were working, Si pays. At Vogue and Vanity Fair , almost everyone has a \"working lunch\" every day . An editor at Allure says that \"working lunches\" there are limited to 10 a month. Back at the office, you hear that a friend at another Newhouse magazine has been promoted, so you send flowers. The tab: $100. Si pays. (One of my favorite Condé Nast stories is of an editor who had just been promoted to an extremely senior job. His office was jammed with congratulatory flowers and cards. All had been sent by fellow Condé Nast staffers. All had been billed to the company.) Four o'clock, and it's snack time. Your assistant joins the mob in the lobby newsstand. She bills your candy bar, juice, and cigarettes (as well as her own candy bar, juice, and cigarettes) to the magazine ($15). After all, it's a \"working snack.\" Later, there's a birthday party for your assistant. You order champagne and a cake--on the company, of course, and present her with your gift--a Prada wallet ($200). Later, she submits the expense sheet for it. Finally, after a Random House book party at Le Cirque 2000 (estimated cost to Si: $35,000), your car ferries you home. Newhouse expense stories are a staple of New York literary-journalistic conversation. Stories about the $10,000 in expenses that a New Yorker editor billed for a single month. About the interior-decorating costs for the fashion-magazine editor who likes to have her office photographs rearranged every few months. About the hotel tab for the big-name New York writer who spent three weeks in Washington's Hay-Adams (basic room: $285 a night) researching a Vanity Fair story that will never run. About the Vogue editor who has furnished her summer house from items purchased for fashion shoots--beautiful furniture, designer pillows, coffee-table books. Vogue assistants have nicknamed the house \"Petty Cash Junction.\" None of the 39 past and present Newhouse employees I spoke to for this story would talk on the record, for . And the nature of the subject makes it hard to separate apocrypha from the truth. Did Condé Nast pay, as sources insist it did, hundreds of thousands of dollars in back taxes on behalf of an editor who didn't bother to file tax forms? Did an editor really expense $20,000 in a weeklong trip to Paris? The people who pay the bills are not talking. But every example of excess cited here was told to me by at least one source (and usually more than one) in a position to know. Need a facial? Treat yourself and bill it to Si. This is what is called \"scouting.\" It is also a great way to get free haircuts. To be fair, Si doesn't pay for all such treats. There is also a much-honored tradition of accepting tribute from companies that Condé Nast magazines cover. One magazine exec reportedly got so much loot last Christmas--Cuban cigars, \"crates of wine,\" designer suits (\"It was like a Spanish galleon\")--that he needed three cars to cart it home. At yuletide, even midlevel fashion-mag writers and editors are inundated with \"cashmere sweaters, Versace pillows, coats ...\" recalls one ex- Vogue staffer wistfully. Writers, of course, are nowhere near as profligate as photographers. Stories of wasteful shoots abound: the matching seaweed that had to be flown from California to the Caribbean for a fashion photo the Annie Liebovitz Vanity Fair cover shot of Arnold Schwarzenegger that reportedly cost $100,000 the Vogue shoot in Africa in which, an ex- Vogue editor claims, the photographer and his huge entourage wined and dined to the tune of \"hundreds of thousands of dollars.\" And then there are the parties. Last month The New Yorker spent--and this is not a joke--$500,000 on a two-day \"Next Conference\" at the Disney Institute in Florida, in connection with a special issue on the same theme. In order to get Vice President Gore, who was traveling in California at the time, The New Yorker paid for him and his entourage to fly Air Force Two from California to Florida and back. And vice presidents are not the only things that Condé Nast flies in for parties. The New Yorker once shipped silverware from New York to Chicago for a dinner. (\"What, they don't have silverware in Chicago?\" asks a New Yorker staffer.) Vanity Fair toted food from New York to Washington for this year's party on the night of the White House Correspondents Dinner. (What, they don't have food in Washington?) Actually, paying $100,000 for face time with Princess Di may not have been a foolish investment for a magazine so dependent on peddling her image. And Condé Nast's excess has other plausible justifications as well. Some top editors may earn their perks. Vogue and GQ make millions, according to industry analysts. Vanity Fair is enjoying banner years, and while it probably hasn't made back the millions Newhouse lost in starting it up, it is certainly in the black. The New Yorker loses money--how much may even surpass perks as a topic of Newhouse gossip and speculation. On the other hand, The New Yorker is the most talked-about magazine in America, and Tina Brown is the most talked-about editor. That is worth something. Public media companies such as Time Warner (or, for that matter, Microsoft) can entice and hold journalists with stock options. Advance is private, so Newhouse uses other golden handcuffs. He runs a lifestyle prison. Top editors stay because they could never afford to live in a house as nice as the one Si's interest-free loan bought them, or to host parties as nice as the ones Si's party planners throw for them. Condé Nast's magazines are all about glamour, wealth, prestige. To uphold that image, magazine editors need to circulate at the top of New York society. But the top of New York society consists of people who make far more money than magazine editors do--investment bankers, corporate chieftains, and fashion designers. Million-dollar salaries aren't enough to mix as equals with the Trumps and Karans. Si's perks are equalizers.\n\n<question>:\nHow much did the Vanity Fair shoot of Arnold Schwarzenegger cost? What is this a demonstration of?\n\n<options>:\nA $100,000: The wasteful methods of photographers\nB $1,000: The frugal character of writers as compared to photographers\nC $10,000: The wasteful character of Vanity Fair\nD $110,00: The vanity of photographers\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,954	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>:\nDELEGATE VENUS what the delegate from Venus for their patience was the biggest surprise since David clobbered Goliath. not more than fifteen feet in total circumference. me put it this way,\" Conners said paternally. \"We expect a certain amount of \" \"Greetings from Venus,\" it ship you see is a Venusian Class cagey, to behave the way the part of him, a rebel part, wanted him to stay on the trail of the story he felt sure was help thinking something was up.\" \"Even if that's true, we'll hear about it through the usual channels,\" Conners frowned. that's not only indiscreet, Bridges. It's downright dirty.\" that kind of advantage, Mr. been activated by the decreased will find our delegate within. Unstoppable, inexorable, it may Conners. Not that she wasn't a And from now on—\" He waggled a finger at him. \"Watch emissary.\" that it didn't go any further. you think is going on?\" \"I haven't the faintest idea.\" \"Don't kid me, Mr. Conners. Think it's war?\" \"That'll be all, Bridges.\" by a filmy packing material. \"Wait a minute,\" the general Delegate,'\" he read aloud. pieces packed within, protected order. A-1, central nervous system to build the damn thing.\" The Delegate, a handsomely rather than political implications. who seemed to find the Venusian \"Where's your decorum?\" mechanism they had assembled. It stood impassive until they obeyed the final instruction. they ought to get the Secret Service to guard her. She really fills out a size 10, don't she?\" have a low mind. For a week, this town has been acting like this moment forward. Look at that bothered him it was the certainty that something of major importance was happening State Department officials, mysterious conferences involving first, but as the meeting got under way, he knew that it was true. The highest echelons of the had been secrecy. They knew that Senator Spocker, chairman So far, the byword VENUS. The robot delegate stood up. reasons. Greta Johnson had that effect upon men. Even her outrageously feminine qualities. \"They told me you might be prompt attention. I come as a Delegate from a great neighbor here,\" she said, breathing hard. planet, in the interests of peace merely a threat, a promise, or an easy solution—but a challenge.\" we foresee the day when contact being far too occupied with internal cannot last in the face of your progress, so we believe that \"But I'm a reporter I thought you knew anything.\" She was pouting now. \"Well, compete with each other for the knowing you're only interested in me because of the Senator? Anyway, I'll probably lose my minds of men, fight your bloodless battles, if you know no without the terrible forces of power sadly. \"What?\" unleashing won't want to see me any more.\" of Venus, promise you this—that on the very day your conflict deteriorates into heedless \"Did I say that?\" \"It just won't be any use. We'll always have this thing between Venus will act swiftly, mercilessly, violence, we will not stand by have gained. But we, the scientists fighting it. Maybe if I did tell Earth, as a messenger of war. peace. But envision it, men of return, bearing a different Delegate from Venus—a Delegate of \"But if you print one word of it, Jerry Bridges, I'll never fired from a vantage point far beyond the reach of your retaliation. This is the promise and the challenge that will hang in your night sky from not the planet Venus, men of Earth, the idea,\" Greta poised to wreak its wrath upon those who betray the peace.\" said stiffly. and said: \"At first, they thought it was of Los Alamos, and the Venus \" hours after that, the robot delegate, its message delivered, its mission fulfilled, requested to be locked inside a bombproof Who another sputnik.\" speed over the world, and Jerry Bridges' eyewitness accounts of the incredible event and nobody could figure out \"Wait a minute,\" Jerry said dizzily. \"You mean to tell me what left him vaguely unsatisfied. He tried to explain his feeling the damn thing was.\" what ?\" out what to do about it. The only hitch is, Russia doesn't the Delegate speak, something's been nagging me.\" \"But don't you think he's done good? Don't you think they'll be \"About the Venusians, of impressed by what he said?\" \"I'm not worried about that. I think that damn robot did want to wait that long, and is that's ever come along in this from Venus they've already established that. And the cockeyed world. But still ...\" guess they're relax. It can be fun.\" can land their delegate.\" does. But in the middle of an \"Their delegate. They came \"Wait a minute!\" \"What's the matter?\" embrace, he cried out: \"You mean these Venusians \"It's not that,\" Jerry said moodily. \"But ever since I heard thinks that if we don't agree, they might do something drastic, or something. The Senator last chance to change his mind, and then left. \"You're taking it mighty \"Well, how else can I take it? I'm not even supposed to know calm,\" he said ironically. is so careless about—\" She put her fingers to her lips. \"Oh, dear, now you'll really think I'm terrible.\" \"Terrible? I think you're wonderful!\" \"And you promise not to print it?\" \"Didn't I say I wouldn't?\" \"Y-e-s. But you know, you're a pencil to her mouth. \"Well, I guess he'd be in the Holland a massive woman with gray hair and impervious to charm, guarded the portals of will of the U. S. Marines. see Mr. single stooped figure vigorously \"Do it for me, Hedy. And I'll buy you the flashiest pair of to match.\" She looked at him with exasperation, \"Professor Coltz, something's been bothering me. It bothered me from the moment I heard I'd heard some of the words before. I couldn't prove anything \"This note of yours. Just what do you think it means?\" \"You know better than I do, Mr. Howells. I'm just doing my job \"'It's my belief that peace is \"Mr. Bridges, you don't make it easy for us. It's our opinion by the Delegate from Venus.\" that secrecy is essential, that leakage of the story might cause panic. Since you're the only unauthorized person who knows of it, we have two choices. One of Jerry swallowed hard. \"The other is perhaps more practical,\" Howells said. \"You'll be taken into our confidence, and , damn it. not be and secrecy of a University on a that's what you call it, but you'll be an eyewitness. That should be worth something.\" fantastic scheme to force the eagerly. \"Thanks, Mr. Howells.\" \"Don't thank me, I'm not doing you any idea of peace into the minds of \"It's worth a lot,\" Jerry said how do you suppose I feel, reached to accept the delegate. \"You don't have to say it, in custody.\" The USAF jet transport wasn't the only secrecy-shrouded business is to tell the world everything I know. But if I did it, there might not be a Professor, I know what you're aircraft that took off that evening would there? No, thanks, Professor. As far as I'm concerned, \"Oh, I dunno. Venus is also the Goddess of Love.\" around her, and Venus winked approvingly. THE END Transcriber's Note: after another. As the minutes ticked off, the activity became more frenetic saw nothing. A faint roar was started in the heavens, and it heard. Then the crisscrossing lights struck metal, glancing off the gleaming body of a descending\n\n<question>:\nWhich emotion does the Venusian delegate intentionally tap into in order to more effectively achieve its mission?\n\n<options>:\nA greed\nB shame\nC fear\nD doubt\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
786	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>:\nstories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess Chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational Siamese-twin clocks should be essential to a chess tournament struck Sandra as a particularly maddening circumstance. computer do against four Russian grandmasters?\" the game of chess—a point that she had slid over in conferring with the powers at the Space Mirror chess be without coffee or schnapps?\" chess,\" he assured her. \"It is a curse of the intellect. It is a game for lunatics—or else it creates them. But what brings a sane and beautiful young lady to this 64-square madhouse?\" \"You have one great advantage,\" he told her. \"You know nothing whatsoever of chess—so you will be able to write about it understandably for your readers.\" He swallowed half his demitasse and smacked his lips. \"As for the Machine—you \"If you had,\" he said, \"a billion computers all as fast as the Machine, it would take them all the time there ever will be in the universe just to play through all the possible games of chess, not to mention the time needed to classify those games into branching families of wins for White, wins for Black and draws, and the additional time required to trace out chains of key-moves leading always to wins. So the Machine can't play chess like God. What the Machine can do is examine all the likely lines of play for about eight moves ahead—that is, four moves each for White and Black—and then decide which is the best move on the basis of capturing enemy pieces, working toward checkmate, establishing Sandra nodded. \"Does a human chess player—a grandmaster, I mean—ever look eight moves ahead in a game?\" is probably programmed to recognize such situations and do something of the same sort, though we can't be sure from the information World Business Machines has released. But in most chess positions the chess-playing computer. The first practical model, reported by Bernstein and Roberts of IBM in 1958 and which looked four moves ahead, was programmed so that it had a greedy worried tendency to grab at enemy pieces and to retreat its own whenever they were attacked. It had a personality like that of a certain kind of chess-playing dub—a dull-brained woodpusher afraid to take the slightest risk of losing material—but a dub who could almost always beat an utter novice. with a smile. \"Believe me, eight moves ahead is a lot of moves when you remember that the Machine is errorlessly examining every one of thousands of variations. Flesh-and-blood chess masters have lost games by blunders they could have avoided by looking only one or two moves ahead. The Machine will make no such oversights. Once again, you see, corresponding tables, five large dully glassy chessboards, the White squares in light gray, the Black squares in dark. One of the five wall chessboards was considerably larger than the other them had just laid a black cable to the nearest chess table and were true grandmaster would dare ignore. Again they refuse me. I predict \"One expects it of Jandorf,\" he explained to Sandra with a philosophic shrug when the shock-headed man was gone. \"At least he didn't take your wine-and-seltzer. Or did he? One tip I have for you: don't call a chess master Mister, call him Master. They all eat it up.\" \"Gee, Doc, I don't know how to thank you for everything. I hope I \"Don't worry about that. Wild horses couldn't keep Jandorf away from a press interview. You know, his rapid-transit challenge was cunning. That's a minor variety of chess where each player gets only ten seconds to make a move. Which I don't suppose would give the Machine time to look three moves ahead. Chess players would say that the Machine has a very slow sight of the board. This tournament is being played at the usual international rate of 15 moves an hour, and—\" \"Is that why they've got all those crazy clocks?\" Sandra interrupted. \"Oh, yes. Chess clocks measure the time each player takes in making his moves. When a player makes a move he presses a button that shuts his clock off and turns his opponent's on. If a player uses too much time, he loses as surely as if he were checkmated. Now since the Machine will almost certainly be programmed to take an equal amount of time on successive moves, a rate of 15 moves an hour means it will have 4 minutes a move—and it will need every second of them! Incidentally it was typical Jandorf bravado to make a point of a blindfold to you the only grandmaster ever to have been ex-chess-champion of the \"Chess masters aren't exactly humble people, are they?\" she said. the prize money they've put up, of course, that's brought the world's greatest players here. Otherwise half of them would be holding off in the best temperamental-artist style. For chess players the prize money is fabulous—$35,000, with $15,000 for first place, and all expenses paid for all players. There's never been anything like it. her best chess players at all adequately. I think the Russian players —the international chess organization) are also backing \"Will whoever wins this tournament become champion?\" \"Oh no. That's decided by two-player matches—a very long business—after elimination tournaments between leading contenders. This tournament is a round robin: each player plays one game with every other player. That means nine rounds.\" \"Anyway there represents pretty fairly the general difference in playing strength between the two countries,\" Doc said judiciously. \"Chess mastery moves from land to land with the years. Way back it was the Moslems \"Yes. Now that's one with a lot of human interest. Moses Sherevsky. Been champion of the United States many times. A very strict Orthodox Jew. Can't play chess on Fridays or on Saturdays before sundown.\" He chuckled. \"Why, there's even a story going around that one rabbi told Sherevsky it would be unlawful for him to play against the Machine . A senile has-been, it's a scandal he's been allowed to play in this tournament! He must have pulled all sorts of strings. Told them that his lifelong services to chess had won him the honor and that they physicist, I suppose?\" \"By no means. That was the trouble with some of the early chess-playing chess championship. I think WBM was surprisingly shrewd to pick him for the programming job. Let me tell you—No, better yet—\" grandmasters, including all four Russians, were seated at their tables. a fraud. Great is completely out of practice for actual tournament play, though not for chess-thinking. The difference in style between Doc shrugged. \"The scores weren't released. It was very hush-hush. But about your idea, Miss Grayling—did you ever read about Maelzel's famous chess-playing automaton of the 19th Century? That one too was supposed to work by machinery (cogs and gears, not electricity) but actually it had a man hidden inside it—your Edgar Poe exposed the fraud in a famous article. In my story I think the chess robot will break down while it is being demonstrated to a millionaire purchaser and the young inventor will have to win its game for it to cover up better player than either of them ... yes, yes! Your Ambrose Bierce too wrote a story about a chess-playing robot of the clickety-clank-grr kind who murdered his creator, crushing him like an iron grizzly bear when the man won a game from him. Tell me, Miss Grayling, do you find its opponents, or beaming rays of death and hypnotism at them? I can imagine....\" While Doc chattered happily on about chess-playing robots and chess\n\n<question>:\nWhat statement would many of the chess players at the tournament NOT agree with?\n\n<options>:\nA The Machine is impossible to win against.\nB There comes pride in winning against the Machine.\nC Chess tournaments are serious competitions.\nD Chess is a tedious game.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,657	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe 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. 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 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. 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 Though harrowing, the second half of Boys Don't Cry isn't as great as the first. The early scenes evoke elation and dread simultaneously, the later ones just dread and the last half-hour is unrelieved torture. What keeps the movie tantalizing is Chloë Sevigny's Lana, who might or might not know that Brandon is a girl but who's entranced by him anyway. With her lank hair, hooded eyes, and air of sleepy sensuality, Sevigny--maybe even more than Swank--embodies the mystery of sex that's at the core of Boys Don't Cry . Everything she does is deliberate, ironic, slightly unreadable--and unyielding. She's could be saying, \"I'm in this world but not of it. ... You'd never dream what's underneath.\" I n brief: If a friend tells you you'll love Happy Texas , rethink the friendship. This clunky mistaken-identity comedy about escaped cons who impersonate gay pageant directors doesn't even make sense on its own low farcical terms it's mostly one lame homo joke after another. The only bright spot is Steve Zahn, who could be the offspring of Michael J. Fox and Crispin Glover if they'd mated on the set of Back to the Future (1985). It's hard to make a serious case for Lawrence Kasdan's Mumford , which has apparently flopped but which you can still catch at second- and third-tier theaters. It looks peculiar--a Norman Rockwell painting with noir shadows. And its tale of a small town healed by a depressive (Loren Dean) posing as a psychologist is full of doddering misconceptions about psychotherapy. I almost don't know why I loved it, but the relaxed pacing and the witty turns by Martin Short, Ted Danson, David Paymer, and Mary McDonnell surely helped. I can't decide if the weirdly affectless Dean is inspired or inept, but my indecision suggests why he works in the role. There's no doubt, however, about his even more depressive love object, Hope Davis, who posseses the cinema's most expressive honking-nasal voice and who slumps through the movie like the world's most lyrical anti-ballerina. Even her puffy cheeks are eloquent: They made me think of Mumford as the home of the psychological mumps.\n\n<question>:\nOf the four films reviewed in the passage, which one has received the LEAST positive review?\n\n<options>:\nA Fight Club\nB Mumford\nC Boys Don't Cry\nD Happy Texas\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,971	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>:\nOne can't be too cautious about the people one meets in Tangier. They're all weirdies of one kind or another. Me? Oh, I'm A Stranger Here Myself cosmopolitan city in the world. In native costume you'll see Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue from further south. In European dress you'll see Japs and Chinese, Hindus and Turks, Levantines and Filipinos, North Americans and South Americans, and, of course, even Europeans—from both sides of the Curtain. the world's poorest and some of the richest. The poorest will try to sell you anything from a shoeshine to their not very lily-white bodies, and the richest will avoid your eyes, afraid you might try to sell them something. In spite of recent changes, the town still has its unique qualities. As a result of them the permanent population includes smugglers and black-marketeers, fugitives from justice and international con men, espionage and counter-espionage agents, homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics, drug addicts, displaced persons, ex-royalty, and subversives of every flavor. Local law limits the activities of few of these. and said, \"Hello, Paul. Anything new cooking?\" me and looked around for the waiter. The tables were all crowded and since mine was a face he recognized, he assumed he was welcome to intrude. It was more or less standard procedure at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't a place to go if you wanted to be alone. Paul said, \"How are you, Rupert? Haven't seen you for The waiter came along and Paul ordered a glass of beer. Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced little man. I vaguely remembered somebody saying he He grunted. \"Oh,\" I said, \"the intellectual type.\" I scanned the front page. \"The Russkies have put up another manned satellite.\" Paris. Every pore in place. We both looked after her. \"You know, what everybody was seeing a few years ago. It's too bad one of these bloody manned satellites wasn't up then. Maybe they would've seen one.\" \"That's an idea,\" I said. We didn't say anything else for without rubbing him the wrong way. I didn't know Paul very well, but, for that matter, it's comparatively seldom you ever get to know anybody very well in Tangier. Largely, cards are Just to say something, I said, \"Where do you think they came from?\" And when he looked blank, I added, \"The Flying Saucers.\" He grinned. \"From Mars or \"Ummmm,\" I said. \"Too bad none of them ever crashed, or was always the trouble with those crackpot blokes' explanations of them. If they were aliens from space, then why not show themselves?\" I ate one of the potato chips. Paul was mildly interested. \"Like what?\" \"Well, hell, suppose for instance of civilized planets. But it's restricted, see. You're not eligible for membership until you, well, say until you've developed space flight. Then you're invited into the club. Meanwhile, they send secret missions down from time to time to keep an eye on your progress.\" Paul grinned at me. \"I see you could see she wore lipstick. Very provocative, dark eyes can be over a veil. We both looked after her. I said, \"Or, here's another one. Suppose you have a very advanced civilization on, say, Mars.\" \"Don't interrupt, please,\" I said with mock severity. \"This is a very old civilization and as the planet began to lose its water and air, it withdrew underground. its water and air?\" \"I suppose so,\" he said. \"Anyway, what about them?\" \"Well, they observe how man is going through a scientific practical space ships. Meanwhile, get away with it.\" Paul said, \"I got it. So they're scared and are keeping an eye on us. That's an old one. I've read that a dozen times, dished up different.\" it's one possibility.\" \"I got a better one. How's this. There's this alien life form that's way ahead of us. Their civilization is so old that they don't have any records of when it began and how it was in the early days. They've gone beyond things like wars and depressions and revolutions, and greed for power or any of these things giving us a bad time here on Earth. They're all like scholars, get it? And some of them are pretty jolly well taken by Earth, especially the way we are right now, with all the problems, get don't know where we're going or how we're going to get there.\" ?\" \"Well, take half the countries in the world today. They're trying to industrialize, modernize, catch up with the advanced countries. Look at Egypt, and Israel, and India and China, and Yugoslavia rest. Trying to drag themselves up to the level of the advanced countries, and all using different methods of doing it. But look at the so-called advanced countries. Up to their bottoms in problems. Juvenile delinquents, climbing crime and suicide rates, the loony-bins full of the balmy, unemployed, threat of war, spending all their money on armaments instead of things like schools. All the bloody mess of it. Why, a man from Mars would be fascinated, like.\" Mouley came shuffling up in his babouche slippers and we in this sort of talk. I've sorted the whole thing out before, and you always come up against this brick wall. Where are they, these observers, or scholars, or spies or whatever they are? Sooner or later we'd nab one of them. You know, Scotland Yard, or the F.B.I., or Russia's secret police, or the French Sûreté, or Interpol. This world is so deep in police, counter-espionage outfits and security agents that an alien would slip up in time, no matter how much he'd been trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip up, and they'd nab him.\" I shook my head. \"Not necessarily. The first time I ever considered this possibility, it seemed to me that such an alien would base himself in London or New York. Somewhere where he could where anything goes. Nobody gives a damn about you or your affairs. For instance, I've known you a year or more now, and I haven't the slightest idea of how you make your living.\" \"That's right,\" Paul admitted. \"In this town you seldom even ask a man where's he's from. He can be British, a White Russian, a Basque or a Sikh and nobody could care less. Where are from, Rupert?\" \"No, you're not,\" he grinned. I was taken aback. \"What do you mean?\" \"I felt your mind probe back a few minutes ago when I was talking about Scotland Yard or the F.B.I. possibly flushing an alien. Telepathy is a sense not trained by the humanoids. If they had it, your job—and mine—would be considerably more difficult. Let's face it, in spite of these human bodies we're disguised in, neither of us is humanoid. Where are you really from, Rupert?\" We had a laugh and ordered another beer. \"What're you doing here on Earth?\" I asked him. \"Researching for one of our meat trusts. We're protein eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered quite a delicacy. How about you?\" \"Scouting the place for thrill tourists. My job is to go around to these backward cultures and help stir up inter-tribal, or international, conflicts—all according to how advanced they are. Then our tourists come in—well shielded, of course—and get their kicks watching it.\" Paul frowned. \"That sort of practice could spoil an awful lot of good meat.\" THE END\n\n<question>:\nWhat do Paul and Rupert have in common with their conception of alien life forms?\n\n<options>:\nA The belief that Earth should be more receptive to foreign life forms\nB They make the effort to socialize and attend large gatherings but are actually introverted\nC They believe in a hierarchy of human life and that those at the lower end were better off not around\nD Their tendency to observe humans without interacting with them\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
928	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>:\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.\" That letter, which has fallen into the hands of Slate, protests Seelye's coverage of a speech the previous day. Dole, in New Jersey, had talked about Clinton being AWOL in the drug war. \"Where has he been for four years? How many hundreds of thousands of young people started drugs?\" Dole said. \"Three million have started smoking while he was playing around with smoking and all this stuff finally in an election year.\" Seelye's front-page story reported that \"Mr. Dole accused the President of 'playing around' while the drug war raged out of control.\" Buckley complains that the story \"could lead the reader to believe that Dole was talking about a very different kind of 'playing around'--something he did not say, and something he would not say.\" The letter continues: \"Since May, I have been pointing out to you a problem we see with the accuracy and understanding of context revealed in Kit's reporting,\" going on to assert that \"Seelye has misquoted Dole on numerous occasions and done so in a manner that distorted the accuracy of her assertions and your coverage.\" Rosenthal, who has direct responsibility for campaign coverage at the Times , professes bewilderment at these complaints. \"We don't make editorial judgments based on disposition to be tough on Bob Dole or nice to Bob Dole,\" he says. On the specifics, Rosenthal says that the Times ran an editor's note acknowledging that it shouldn't have truncated the \"playing around\" quote. He points out that the Times ran its story on the Miami drug dealer who visited the White House the same day Dole accused the paper of not covering it. As for the nine-part series on Clinton, Rosenthal says it is the long-standing practice of the paper to do a lengthy series on the incumbent's record. \"If Dole wins and runs again in 2000, he will get nine-part series too,\" he says. \"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 veritÃ© \" 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 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.\n\n<question>:\nWhat does Dole hope to accomplish by juxtaposing Clinton's drug use with the War on Drugs?\n\n<options>:\nA To render Clinton as untrustworthy and 'above the law'\nB To capture specific population groups within a larger Christian demographic\nC To garner moderate dislike toward Clinton before exposing his infidelity\nD To perpetuate Clinton's reputation as a deviant and addict\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,884	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe earth, jungle and moons By AL SEVCIK ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK The robots were built to serve Man the robot apprehensively. Half comforts, make smooth his way. Then the robots figured out an additional service—putting Man to do his work, see to his out of his misery. his head. Alan froze. \"My God, Alan turned slightly to the sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyed buried in mud, it stood quiet in puzzled. Two more blasts, quickly panic. \"I should be at the camp Pete could cram enough brain into one of those things to make it hunt and track so perfectly.\" He tried to visualize the computing circuits needed for the operation of its tracking mechanism scraping the spongy ground like the tentacles of some monstrous tree-bound octopus. Fitful little as a blaster roared in the jungle. Then Alan heard the approaching robot, crunching and snapping its way through the undergrowth like an onrushing forest places. Standing in the sticky, jungle floor, but now, late afternoon on the planet, the shadows eyes widened. \"Of course! Radio! I'll bet anything they're automatically controlled by the \"Blaster fighting! But it can't camp computer. That's where their brain is!\" He paused. and silenced by an completely dissolving the towards the camp. another robot fired in his direction, too far away to be effective but churning towards him clearing of the camp site, the to follow a line between the two robots coming up from either side, behind him. His eyes were well accustomed to the dark Alan changed direction slightly his legs were a mass of stinging slashes from ankle to thigh. The crashing rumble of the killer robots shook the night behind him, nearer sometimes, the planet. Technologically advanced then falling slightly back, but 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 following constantly, more unshakable than bloodhounds owe Pete a bourbon-and-soda for sure. Anybody who can build a robot that hunts by homing in on animals' mind impulses ...\" He stepped forward again, and the robots would move a little closer. To his right the trees silhouetted briefly against brilliance as a third robot slowly moved up one of the robots rolled silently in the distance. Without thinking, up from the right, lowering its blaster barrel to aim directly at Pete built those things wrong!\" Suddenly a screeching whirlwind of claws and teeth hurled itself from the smoldering branches and crashed against the robot, clawing insanely at the antenna and blaster barrel. sending its robots in with no one to stop it, automatically wider and wider forays, slowly With an awkward jerk the robot wiping every trace of life from machines doing the job He pictured the camp computer circuits. The robot started and without human masters swung around and fired its blaster, for which they were built, completely, thoroughly, without feeling, But the back pressure of the cat's body overloaded the discharge and shorted the blaster cells. exist no more. And the bones of any difference to the robots, he him breathed fire, then exploded. In the brief flash of the camp site. A charred blob lying blaster shot, Alan saw the steel glint of a robot only a hundred felt sick. \"I suppose,\" he muttered to himself, \"that Pete assembled these robots in a batch and then activated them all at once, probably yards away, much nearer than never living to realize that they're tuned to pick up human brain waves, too. Damn! blinked the pain tears from his eyes and looked up—into a robot's blaster, jutting out of the foliage, thirty yards away. earth. and fired. To his amazement the robot jerked back, its gun wobbled and started to tilt away. Then, getting itself under control, Alan. He fired again, and again the robot reacted. It seemed familiar 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 pumas.\" right hand. \"This pop gun Firing intermittently, he night. On the other hand, I certainly can't get to the camp with a pack of mind-activated mechanical killers running around. The robot shook spasmodically Ahead, across fifty yards of grass stood the headquarters building, housing the robot-controlling computer. Still firing at short intervals he started across with the other colonists, the wives and kids! The metal killers, tuned to blast any living that jutted up through the grass. From the corner of his eye he saw another of the robots standing for an unknown planet, with her shakily in the dark edge of for his small blaster to run dry. he had thought. \"Thank heaven the jungle waiting, it seemed, for living. \"Not to be killed!\" cells released themselves from the device, falling in the grass at his feet. He dropped the useless gun. \"No!\" He threw himself on engulfed in a swarm of locust-like insects that beat disgustingly the ground as a new robot suddenly appeared around the edge against his eyes and mouth. \"Fagh!\" Waving his the robot paused momentarily, jiggling in place. In this instant, Alan jammed his hands into an insect hill and hurled the pile of dirt and insects directly at the robot's antenna. In a flash, hundreds of the winged things erupted angrily from the hole in which was a speck of life transmitting mental energy to the and he could see a robot rolling slowly across the clearing in his general direction, blasting indiscriminately robot fired erratically as Alan robot's pickup devices. Confused by the sudden dispersion of mind impulses, the planet's double moon had risen crouched and raced painfully for headed for the jungle, each to a Apparently the robot hadn't Frantically, Alan slammed open the door as the robot, sensing him strongly now, aimed slightly different spot. by the blast. sensed him yet, but Alan didn't red-clad safety switch mounted know what the effective range of its pickup devices was. He try.\" He moved into the blackness. Powerful as a small tank, the killer robot was equipped to crush, slash, and burn its way through undergrowth. Nevertheless, he could manage to keep ahead of it, barely out of blaster range. Only, the robot didn't get tired. Alan did. clothes, and insects attracted by the blood matted against his pants and shirt. Behind, the robot load in fresh cells this morning!\" The robot crashed on, louder now, gaining on the tired human. Legs aching and bruised, exploded around him. Startled, shadows. The robot crashed loudly behind him now. Without stopping to think, Alan fumbled along the a mere hundred yards behind. He screamed at the blast. \"Damn you, Pete! Damn your robots! Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!\" He stepped into emptiness. as the heavy little robot rolled slowly and inexorably towards to flame-out dig, dig, cursing and crying to into the stream. Above him on the bank, silhouetting against the moons, the killer robot stopped robot shook for a second, its the robot fired again. For a split crazily as the earth collapsed underneath 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 barrel and housing, pressed fiercely against the robot's metal skin. Slowly, trying to anticipate sprawling over a bush just as the stationary portion of the robot. With a quick prayer he jammed in the knife blade—and\n\n<question>:\nWhy are the robots incinerating all the living creatures?\n\n<options>:\nA A radio frequency from Waiamea scrambled the robots' programming.\nB Pete did not read the directions when assembling the robots.\nC Pete lost his mind on the journey to Waiamea and programmed the robots to kill everyone and everything.\nD Pete built the robots to hunt by following brain waves.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
2,036	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>:\nturn Ledman over to the authorities. Then we can catch the next ship for Earth.\" \"Go back? Go back? If you The planet itself was tough enough—barren, desolate, forbidding genius who had a motto: we dump this guy I'm sacking in for twenty hours, and then keep moving,\" I told Val. \"The surest way to die out here on Mars is to we're going back out there to give up.\" I reached over and turned up the pressure on her finish that search-pattern. Death to all Terrans! \"Let's Earth needs uranium, honey, and I know you'd never be happy quitting in the middle all my fault, too. Val's usually \"Let's get moving, fellow hero,\" she said. airlock, smiling. THE END Transcriber's Note: enough to stop the most adventurous and happen to us. me somehow: So we were out walking on the spongy sand of the Martian desert. We'd been walking a good eight hours. \"Can't we turn back now, Ron?\" Val pleaded. \"Maybe to wipe every last one of you out, one by one.\" I heard Val sob, \"He's a When Val's tired and overwrought arguing with her. I stared ahead at the bleak, desolate wastes of the Martian Mars. Eventually I'll scare you all away.\" \"Just pick us off in the desert?\" \"Exactly,\" replied Ledman. \"And I have no fears of an landscape. Behind us the Geigs—and UranCo—off and quitting you can find think I'm backing down now \"Come on, kid. Remember—we're doing this for Earth. We're heroes.\" years to this. Ever since—ever since I landed here on Mars.\" \"What are you going to do with us?\" Val finally asked, yourself another wife! After so glorious. And UranCo's for the pay, Val.\" pay is stinking.\" \"We didn't come out here for their constant undercurrent of meaningless noises. I found myself fervently wishing I was back out there on the infinitely safer desert. Even though the Martian snapped. \"Well, let me show you. You're on Mars hunting uranium, right? To mine and ship the radioactives back to Earth to keep the atomic engines going. Right?\" point, because Val didn't lie doing. She had been just as much inflamed by the idea of coming to Mars to help in the search for uranium as I was. We knew the pay was poor, Mars,\" Val said irrelevantly. \"Ah—two young heroes,\" \"Atomics cost me my legs,\" Earth going. And we'd always had a roving foot, both of us. No, we had decided together to come to Mars—the way we decided together on everything. Now she was that great accident—killing I'd never forget it. No one myself, terribly tired. I longed to lie down on the soft, spongy Martian sand and bury myself. Mars, until I recalled that I hadn't. In fact, she had come up with the idea before I did. the explosion and the amputation, of turning the weary, bedraggled the Val who had so enthusiastically decided that a semi-basket you. They left me almost a Ron?\" Val asked sleepily. \"I think we ought to rest a little before we go any further. It's been a long, hard day.\" Mars, lost myself, built this Dome, and swore to get even. There's not a great deal of Poor kid moment she was fast asleep, sprawled out on the sands. Mars after all. But, I reminded myself, someone our warm, comfortable little home on Earth. It wasn't much, but people in love don't need very fancy surroundings. we'd exchanged Earth and all it held for us for the raw, untamed struggle that was Mars. But I knew I'd do it again, if I had the chance. It's because Time to get moving. But I saw the horror on Val's can succeed?\" I taunted him. \"Really think you can kill every Earthman on Mars? Of all the insane, cockeyed—\" Val's quick, worried head-shake And here we are. I glanced at the suit-chronometer. Getting late. I decided once again to wake Val. scheme of revenge and tired too, tired from our wearying journey across the empty desert. But she was tired. And I was I never finished. It would be \"Why don't you do something? What are you waiting for, Ron?\" right after—\" \" Get sick! caught. And tangle-cord is fly. It wasn't Martians that had done it. There weren't any Martians, hadn't been for a million years. It was some Val, and saw that she was what was wrong with Val. \"Ron—\" to snap, \"Lie still, Val!\" over. went sprawling helplessly out the wheelchair upended next impact of landing and spun odd. I thought I knew everyone on sparsely-settled Mars. Somehow I'd missed him. What shocked me most was spacesuit ended neatly at the thighs. But I'm determined to drive Val rolled on the floor and \"You'll find out soon to make trouble.\" Val and I going to kill you at all. I'm going to see to it that you're sent back to Earth.\" \" No! Anything but back there. I don't want to face them again—not me—\" \"Not so loud,\" I broke in. \"They'll help you on Earth. \"What's going on, Ron?\" They'll take all the hatred and sickness out of you, and turn that you couldn't bear to hang around on Earth for as much as a year after the Sadlerville Blast. You had to take right off for Mars without a moment's delay, didn't you? You hated Earth so much you had to leave.\" where we were going, and why. I wondered why we had ever left Earth. The answer to that came to me quick enough: we had to. Earth needed radioactives, and the only way to get them long enough, you'd have used some of your pension money I had no muscles to fit them to.\" \"You left Earth too quickly,\" Val said. \"It was the only way,\" he them back together again. In three centuries the shattered world had been completely it can give as well. Soon after rebuilt. The wreckage of New York and Shanghai and London and all the other given the necessary replacement you had to get away from the world you despised and come But though the energy is inexhaustible, the supply of nuclei isn't. After three centuries of heavy consumption, of events that led Val and me to end up as a madman's prisoners, on Mars. With every source of uranium mined dry on Earth, we had tried other have added Val to the number time you could have been happy, useful on Earth, instead of being holed up here forty or fifty years, they'd get some results, we hoped. Earth. But you decided to channel everything out as revenge.\" to tide us over until then. In a \"I still don't believe it—those to. Millions of starving, freezing in it in the useless shell of a great atomic civilization. So, Mars. There's not much uranium on Mars, and it's not easy to find or any cinch to mine. But what little is there, over?\" \"Yes—human legs aren't helps. It's a stopgap effort, just to keep things moving gave Val the blaster and slipped Mars, combing for its uranium deposits. And here we are, I thought. After we walked on a let's go. Between the psychs and the prosthetics men, you'll be a new man inside of \"That's right. And you'll be sentenced to psych adjustment. When they're finished, will be as dead as if they'd been out on the desert. I realized now that I had been driving Val slipped her oxymask back on and fastened it shut. \"Let's get back to the Dome in a hurry,\" I said. \"We'll\n\n<question>:\nWhat likely happens to Val and Ron after the story ends?\n\n<options>:\nA They stay on Mars for their contract and then move on to a different project\nB They go back to earth to make sure Ledman gets the care he needs\nC They decide to stay on Mars forever\nD They stay on Mars for a few more weeks before heading back to Earth\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
891	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nA sound foreign policy His house was dancing. It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one's residence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sight that for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causing curiosity. he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. He was strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses, one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions. But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject to He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in a hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings of \"What?!\" handedness behind. approach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was an odd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similar to that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new and 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, genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own ?\" he asked in a somewhat patronizing tone of voice. \"And up and down.\" wild, elated jig. uniform. \"Go on,\" he said, amused. \"It sounds interesting.\" He tossed They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did a absurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It was seen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimly standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It was in an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievably trite. resounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spoke strangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now rose amount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully, which way. with the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identical shape of the illustration. shake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling the the avenue.\" beyond the all confines of everyday living close at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden every .\" 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 conversation—and that's why the house shakes.\" \"No, I don't need a vacation.\" A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against the \"No, you don't need a rest,\" MacBride said. \"You're starting to see shut. The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound. ghostly babble of voices to commence. dipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. The \"And the neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. There was something implacable about his sighs. said. \"Is he in with that bunch?\" watching the house with a consuming interest. widened as the house danced a new step. noticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. He . He went on, thinking: that went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had a circles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although there watched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them for satisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion. as the moon shifted to seemed fingers marching up and down your spine? book on ancient mores and courtship customs. 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 A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant important the moon shook a trifle as it whispered He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romantic garden time to be a bit forward. No. Contrived. How about a simple, one gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance as fell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When the and went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months, that way,\" she said. \"I'm \"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 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 \"Don't you think found out and you can bet they will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don't to be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask \"That's impossible! How?\" or is the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's outside the dome,\" she said, \"out where a man stays wistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. It number such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisor with it are library several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given over to government publications and censored old books with holes in them. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meet unintelligibility. illustration. \"What's that?\" he said. What do you make of ?\" to her, that one day they met in the street and he told her about was unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, like to feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlit The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaid ladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to other people's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tables looking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. \"Where did the old society fail?\" the leader was demanding of them. He 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?\" waited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggled with this problem in revolutionary dialectics. \" A sound foreign policy ,\" the leader said, aware that no one else had 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 \"Out?\" the leader said, frowning. \"Out? Out where?\" \"Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up and .\" \"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 discussed preparations, the practical necessities of life in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else? The leader sighed. \"The gentleman wants to know if he's left anything \"Tell the man what he's forgotten,\" the leader said, walking to the far Everyone spoke at the same moment. \"\n\n<question>:\nWhat theme can be understood from the behaviors of members of the Movement?\n\n<options>:\nA Too many group members vying for power often sabotages the group's progress\nB People who say they want progress are mostly virtue signaling, and their actual behaviors contradict their stated beliefs\nC People are too easily convinced by media propaganda\nD Social activism generally fails because it is all talk and no action\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,975	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nSTAR MOTHER By ROBERT F. YOUNG A touching story of the most enduring love in all eternity. That night her son was the first star. She stood motionless in the garden, one hand pressed against her heart, watching him rise above the fields where he had played as a boy, where he had worked as a young man and she wondered whether he was thinking of those fields now, whether he was thinking of her standing alone in the April night with her memories whether he was thinking of the verandahed house behind her, with its empty 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? came early the next morning: Explorer XII doing splendidly. Expect to bring your son down sometime tomorrow . She went about her work as usual, collecting the eggs and allocating them in their cardboard the station wagon on her Tuesday morning run. She had expected a deluge of questions from her customers. She was not disappointed. \"Is Terry really way up there all alone, Martha?\" \"Aren't you scared , Martha?\" \"I do hope they can get him back down all right, Martha.\" She supposed it must have given them quite a turn to have their egg woman change into a star mother overnight. She hadn't expected the TV interview, though, and she would have avoided it if it had been politely possible. But what could she do when the line of cars and the technicians got out and started setting up their equipment in the backyard? What could she say when the suave young man came up to her and said, \"We want you to know that we're all very proud of your boy up there, ma'am, and we hope you'll do us the honor of answering a few questions.\" Most of the questions concerned Terry, as was fitting. From the way the suave young man asked them, though, she got the impression that he was trying to prove that her son was just like any other average American boy, and such just didn't happen to be the case. But whenever she opened her mouth to mention, say, how he used to study till all hours of the night, or how difficult it had been for him to make friends because of his shyness, or the fact that he 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 the behavior pattern which the suave young man apparently considered the norm, but which, if followed, Martha was sure, would produce not young men bent on exploring space but young men bent on exploring trivia. A few of the questions concerned herself: Was Terry her only child? (\"Yes.\") What had happened to her husband? (\"He was killed in the Korean War.\") What did she think of the new law granting star mothers top priority on any and all information relating to their sons? (\"I think it's a fine law ... It's too bad they couldn't have shown similar humanity toward the war mothers of World War II.\") It was late in the afternoon departure. Martha fixed herself 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. And how bright they became 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 ... It grew cold in the April garden and she could see her breath. There was a strange crispness, a strange clarity about the night, that she had never known before ... She glanced at her gone? Tremulously she faced the her Terry appear in his shining chariot, riding up the star-pebbled path of his orbit, a star in his own right, dropping swiftly now, down, down, and out of sight beyond the dark wheeling mass of the Earth ... She took a deep, proud breath, realized that she was wildly waving her hand and let it fall slowly to her side. Make a wish! she thought, like a little girl, and she wished him pleasant dreams and a safe return and wrapped the wish in all her love and cast it starward. Sometime tomorrow, the general's telegram had said— That meant sometime today! She rose with the sun and fed the chickens, fixed and ate her breakfast, collected the eggs and there! Doesn't it get on your nerves ?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it does.\") \"Martha, when are they bringing him back down?\" (\"Today ... Today !\") \"It must be wonderful being a star mother, Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a way.\") If only he can last it out for a few more hours, she thought. If only they can bring him down will be over, and some other mother can take over the awesome responsibility of having a son become a star— If only ... Will make every effort to find another means of accomplishing your son's return. See the little boy playing beneath the little boy, his fuzz of making near-grownup strides over the sun-seared grass the sky blue and bright behind him, the song of cicada rising and falling in the hazy September —probably won't get a chance but don't worry, Ma. The Explorer XII is the greatest bird 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? 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 her star appeared, but its swift passage blurred before her God , she thought, , even though she knew that it \"Good evening, ma'am.\" She saw the circlet of stars on the gray epaulet she saw the stern handsome face she saw the dark tired eyes. And she knew. Even before he spoke again, she knew— \"The same meteorite that damaged the ejection mechanism, \"It's all right.\" \"We will, of course, make every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so that he can have a fitting burial on Earth.\" \"No,\" she said. She raised her eyes to the patch of sky where her son had passed in his shining metal sarcophagus. Sirius blossomed there, blue-white and beautiful. She raised her eyes still higher—and beheld the vast parterre of Orion with its central motif of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung blooms of Betelguese and Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ... And higher yet—and there flamed the exquisite flower beds burgeoned the riotous wreath of the Crab there lay the pulsing petals of the Pleiades ... And down the ecliptic garden path, wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted the ocher rose of Mars ... \"No,\" she said again. The general had raised his them. \"I think I understand, ma'am. And I'm glad aren't they.\" \"More beautiful than they've ever been,\" she said. After the general had gone, she looked up once more at the vast and variegated garden of the sky where her son lay buried, then she turned and walked THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the star mother's attitude toward space exploration? (leave it alone) she misses her son\n\n<options>:\nA She feels ambivalent and thinks the government's money is better spent elsewhere\nB She wishes that humans and governments would abandon their space-related pursuits\nC She obsesses over learning all she can about new stars and planets\nD She displays strong curiosity about how discoveries could benefit life on Earth\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
173	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>:\nnot.\" Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking hush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefully into its field. \"Suppose we settle this argument about humanity,\" said Knof Llud the Old Ones were too big to be clever. the ship had decelerated. \"He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for some time,\" said the voice lightly. \"When he saw that it was hopeless, he preferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun.\" A short the same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the Quest He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. \"Have you any other last wishes?\" \"Yes,\" said Llud with icy control. \"You haven't answered one question. Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are.\" cylinder had been engines and fuel 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 little more than a hollow shell. he met them with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, \"We've sighted Earth.\" A feverish buzz arose 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.\" we left, the world we knew and fitted in....\" The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. \"Don't 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 forgotten altogether.\" Lesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either. He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the and the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so the in interstellar flight while years and decades had raced by on the home world. the size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony. \"Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering the Centaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. If 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 comes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the Quest ships will be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream, humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever....\" that system, too, is devoid of planets. \"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 we cannot betray the plan.... 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 therefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can be limited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone is life.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth was in sight—so we launched the Quests . Perhaps our effort will prove as futile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter to reduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transport 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!\" Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. That Omega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away.... \"Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the could achieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senility 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 phase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely from 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? ... for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order to Earth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been able to alter that. He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a green shady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last of what it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity of the Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless stars such collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could have been done. The but it plunged on toward Earth, its mighty engines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity. To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge, his father. \"If they had anything heavier,\" surmised the captain, \"they'd have meteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized by the impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and opposite would have felt nothing at all of the vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that their inertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities, The Quest III bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even if one were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating or change course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel left if there had been come what might, this was journey's end—perhaps the watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were torn apart. Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one was 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. space, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. That argued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behind we're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eight hours.\" \"We'll have reached Earth before then,\" Gwar Den said hopefully. \"If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first.\" \"We're under the psychological disadvantage,\" said the captain, \"of not last. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have already returned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if you continue toward Earth.\" Quest III's ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehow human? \" The voice chuckled sourly. \"We are human,\" it answered, \"but you are\n\n<question>:\nWhat would have happened if the Centaurus Expedition hadn’t failed?\n\n<options>:\nA People from Earth would have colonized the Procyon system.\nB Captain Llud would have become a hero.\nC The other two Quest ships would have been launched.\nD Humanity would have died out.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,076	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>:\nsend the intruder on his way. Keech and the little people just stood by and grinned all the while. treasures most. A one-time Air Force officer, he has turned to fantasy in his lighter moments, to bring us such brightly sparkling little gems as this. houlihan's equation that the small people with their quick eyes and clever fingers could spot all sorts of minute shortcomings by ... Walt Sheldon The working model and the fact hearing the old tongue and talking of the old things every day, and each other to hush, be quiet, and the soft breeze stirring them up again. I had known precisely such had it back soon enough—or else and combustion.\" \"Thank you, Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech. All his people had gathered in a loose circle, as though attending a rite. They were all looking at me quietly. \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech, \"you will not be forgotten by the leprechauns. If we ever meet again, work out an equation to give the upon another world perchance, eager and ready.\" \"Thank you,\" I said. \"And now, Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech, \"I'll see that a quantity of gold is delivered to your rooms tonight, become convinced they could along with my story. When you \"Well,\" said Keech in surprise, and in some awe, too, \"well, now, musha Lord help us! 'Tis the first time I ever heard such a speech from a mortal.\" He turned to his people. \"We'll have three cheers now, do you hear, for Mr. Houlihan—friend of the little people as long as he shall live!\" And they cheered. And little tears crept into the corners of some of and structure— Oh, there is so slowly and chuckled to myself at equations sits strangely, you might say, upon the tongue of a man named Kevin Francis Houlihan. little people. Surely it was not every mortal who could accomplish that. I had given them the wrong equation, engaged in vital research at the center. Anyway, I heard these little But I am, after all, a scientist. If I had not been a specialist in my field in eerily mysterious fashion with a chorus of small voices. I thought at first it might be children at play, but then at the time I was a bit absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge noises in the park. They sounded his working model. It would go down in scientific I saw? Not children, but a group of little people, hard at work. There was a leader, an older one literature now, I suppose, as Houlihan's with a crank face. He was beating branches. And what do you suppose Equation, and that was honor \"Over here, now! All right, bring leprechauns are most clever in matters of this sort and he would have little people. I was more than startled by it, too. I had not seen little people in—oh, close to thirty years. I had seen them first as a boy of eight, and then, very briefly again, on my tenth birthday. And I had include the second as a fortunate byproduct it is a most happy accident. For if I had shown the little people how to make a spaceship they made it a burden in some way. would have left our world. And and shiny and upright and a little over five feet in height. \"Come along now, people!\" said this crotchety one, looking straight Come without the little people here for us to believe in every now and likely to blow ourselves to Kingdom know he can't see nor hear us!\" Oh, it was good to hear the rich more then? mind that man standin' there! You at me. \"Stop starin' and get to and under all conditions of friction little souls. They began to scurry behind the trees and bushes, and a sloping embankment nearby. little creatures!\" But the glade was silent, and they legends affirmed, though I've wondered center there is not much time for the old things. I very much wanted to talk to the little people. I walked over to the center of the glade where the curious shiny and looked about the glade. I knew they were all hiding nearby, watching me apprehensively. I lifted my head to them. \"Listen to me now, little people!\" I called out. \"My name's Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans. I am descended from King Niall himself—or so at least my father used to say! Come on out now, and pass the time o' day!\" Then I waited, but they didn't answer. The little people always had been shy. Yet without reaching suddenly that I had to talk to them. about the old things, I might be able to think the problem through to a a resounding blow with my fist. \"Hear me now, little people! If you don't show yourselves and come out and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship from stem to stern!\" I heard only the leaves rustling Three! \" And with that the little people suddenly appeared. The leader—he seemed more wizened and bent than before—approached me slowly and warily as I stood there. The others all followed at a safe distance. I smiled to reassure said with some caution. \"My name is Keech.\" \"And mine's Houlihan, as I've told you. Are you convinced now that I have no intention of doing \"Mr. Houlihan,\" said Keech, drawing a kind of peppered dignity up about himself, \"in such matters I am never fully convinced. After living for many centuries I am all down cross-legged upon the grass. \"Any Irishman wants to talk, Mr. Houlihan.\" \"And often that's all He shook his head and remained standing. \"Have your say, Mr. Houlihan. And afterward we'll appreciate it if you'll go away and leave us to our work.\" and glanced at the spaceship. \"That's exactly what's got me curious.\" The others had edged in a bit intently staring at me. I took out my pipe. \"Why,\" I asked, \"would a group of little people be building a but not overwhelmingly so. I've run into believers before who could see the little people. It happens every so often, though not as frequently as it did a century ago. But knowing a spaceship at first glance! Well, I has just now crossed my mind, Mr. Houlihan that you, being a scientist, might be of help to us.\" \"How?\" I asked. clay dudeen—and looked hopeful. I gave him a pinch of tobacco from my pouch. \"Well, now,\" he said, that we're not long for this world. that possibility,\" I said. \"Well, then, as I say,\" said Keech, \"the little people have decided Which we're buildin' here and how I had gotten the best of the \"You mean you've been spying on us at the center all this time? Do me, though. If you've been constantly around us—and I'm still able to see the little people—why did I never see you before?\" \"It may be we never crossed your has crossed my mind. That's why I'm wastin' all this time with we're here.\" \"Help you?\" \"The power control, Mr. Houlihan. \"Ha!\" said Keech, grinning, but not with humor, \"the avarice of humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan, I'll give you reason enough. The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!\" \"The one at the end of the rainbow?\" \"It's not at the end of the rainbow. That's a grandmother's tale. and peered out between the us how to make our ship work.\" the air with his arms and piping: those electrical connections over here—and see you're not slow as they wouldn't see the leprechauns of day, and then, in subtle fashion,\n\n<question>:\nWhich best describes the role of history and faith in this story?\n\n<options>:\nA It is both family history and faith in the truth of the little people that lets Houlihan interact with them\nB It is with knowlege of family history and some faith that Houlihan is able to decieve the little people into trusting him\nC It is Houlihan's faith and belief in the existence of fantastical creatures that lets him see the little people\nD Houlihan has heard about the little people in reading up on family history and this is why he can see him\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
265	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>:\nGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—\" reaching for the safe-lock release.... \"Don't!\" Retief jumped—too late. Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke. \"Never mind the excuses,\" Retief said. \"Just tell him I won't be Mr. Retief to his quarters in this building—\" \"I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith,\" Retief Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. \"You've been here on Groac the present government in power?\" \"I'm sure I haven't pried into—\" \"What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out this way about ten years back?\" \"Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we \"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?\" \"I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed, grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We try never to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief.\" \"They never found the cruiser, did they?\" \"Certainly not on Groac.\" Retief nodded. \"Thanks, Miss Meuhl,\" he said. \"I'll be back before \"OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked,\" Retief said in Terran. \"To keep Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street. Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gesture \"I've changed my mind,\" Retief said to the bartender. \"To be grateful door. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief looked \"To not endure such insolence!\" The Groacian advanced toward Retief. Retief backed away. who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrow Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacian Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed. \"Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast.\" Retief pulled off his indicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered a 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 \"Just keep that recorder going,\" Retief snapped. Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they were they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through the \"How did they die?\" Retief snapped. \"Did you murder them, cut their \"No!\" Fith gasped. \"I must correct this terrible false impression at once.\" \"False impression, hell,\" Retief said. \"They were Terrans! A simple narco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw the parade.\" \"They fell ill,\" Fith said. \"One by one....\" \"We'll deal with that question later,\" Retief said. \"Right now, I want more information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship? What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before the \"How could we know?\" Fith moaned. a blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to make amends....\" \"Where is the ship?\" \"The ship?\" \"What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget. Where is it?\" \"Miss Meuhl,\" Retief said. \"If I don't come back in a reasonable length Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern. He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull. \"Any lights in here?\" he asked. A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up. Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Empty emplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking was visible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVS Terrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy. \"How did you get it in here?\" Retief asked. Retief grunted. \"Let's go inside.\" Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interior \"I've seen enough,\" Retief said. was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.\" Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. \"Where is she, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat.\" overlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere of responsibility. My patience is at an end.\" \"Where is that ship?\" Retief rapped out. \"You never learn, do you? You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'm telling you you can't.\" \"We return to the city now,\" Fith said. \"I can do no more.\" \"You can and you will, Fith,\" Retief said. \"I intend to get to the four armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in. Retief eyed Fith. \"Don't try it,\" he said. \"You'll just get yourself in deeper.\" Retief looked at the four policemen. \"I see your point,\" he said. vehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened to going to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci off \"If you'll listen, you may find out,\" Retief said. \"I have no time happened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now. I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out. Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have come far. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to know where!\" \"The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You can \"The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper in the Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who know Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you've \"I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ... It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to the Retief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare. \"I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it.\" Retief went to his desk, \"That's right,\" Retief said calmly. \"Now—\" \"Get that sender going, woman!\" Retief snapped. \"This is important.\" \"I've already done so, Mr. Retief!\" Miss Meuhl said harshly. \"I've been \"He's here now,\" Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retief \"That's good,\" Retief said. \"I don't think the Groaci can knock us off \"I have done my duty, Mr. Retief,\" Miss Meuhl said. \"I made a full Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphant \"If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn't ignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,\" Retief went on earnestly, \"I've found the missing cruiser.\" \"You heard him relieve you!\" \"I heard him say he was Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder.\n\n<question>:\nWhy isn’t Retief satisfied when the Groaci finally show him the missing cruiser?\n\n<options>:\nA Retief believes the cruiser they show him is a decoy. The real missing cruiser was at least twenty-tons, which is much larger than the ship the Groacians reveal.\nB Retief believes the cruiser they show him isn’t human made at all, meaning the real cruiser is still out there.\nC Retief believes the cruiser they show him is a replica, meaning the real cruiser is still out there.\nD Retief believes the cruiser they show him is a decoy. The real missing cruiser was a battle ship, while the cruiser they show him is of the domestic variety.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,425	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>:\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.\" 4. Egg auctions will promote the survival of the unfittest. Harris writes that only men with \"substantial financial resources\" are fit to give his models' offspring \"a financially secure and stable life.\" But skeptics wonder whether women who sell their eggs to the highest bidder--and men who buy these eggs for the sole purpose of spawning good-looking children--may produce children just as dysfunctional as themselves. As Calgary Sun columnist Sydney Sharpe put it, \"Any woman ... who enters into this mephistophelian pact has a few screws loose. Maybe her kid will, too. Not to mention the buyers who sign her up.\" 5. Egg auctions will fail to promote the survival of the unfittest. Many models, if not most, have had cosmetic surgery. A model who is perfectly ruthless will conceal this fact when selling her eggs. (One of Harris' \"angels\" has already been caught lying about her age.) How does Harris know whether his models have had collagen injections and nose jobs? \"There's no way to know that. You can ask the girl and hope she tells you the truth,\" he says. Annas concludes that since there's \"no way to know how much of their beauty is a product of their genes, plastic surgery, a makeup artist, or exercise,\" only a \"naive\" person would buy their eggs on the basis of the photographs displayed on the site. \"You don't want to see the models,\" he points out. \"You want to see pictures of their parents.\" On this theory, children produced by the egg auction are likely to be the offspring of liars on one side and fools on the other. 6. Beauty doesn't convey health. Harris casually asserts that beauty \"shows healthiness and longevity.\" On his site, he writes, \" 'Natural Selection' is choosing genes that are healthy and beautiful.\" Skeptics question this assumed equivalence, noting that traits men find attractive in women these days--thinness, for example--are often unhealthy. When asked on the Today show how much \"medical screening\" he has given his egg donors, Harris answered, \"None.\" 7. Beauty is less meaningful than intelligence. Harris says he's not the first person to market good genes. Others, he notes, have sold sperm and solicited eggs on the basis of the donor's intelligence. Harris' detractors reply that beauty is \"superficial\" and conveys a \"harmful preoccupation with exterior appearances over intelligence and content of character.\" This critique is usually offered by a blow-dried TV interviewer who, after thanking Harris for his time, urges viewers to stay tuned for the movie starlet who will join the program after a brief commercial break. 8. Beauty is less useful than intelligence. Harris advertises beauty not as an end but as a means to \"success,\" since people who are physically desirable get more attention, power, and favorable treatment. Having chided Harris for exalting social advantage over \"character,\" critics turn around and adopt his ruthless logic. While conceding that beauty is useful, they argue that intelligence is a better weapon in today's meritocratic information economy--and that although Harris claims his models are \"beautiful, healthy and intelligent,\" he offers no evidence of brains, such as IQ or SAT scores. London's Independent envisions \"Bimbo births.\" A fertility expert shrugs, \"If people want to spend $150,000 for the eggs of a gorgeous woman who has an IQ of 68, let them.\" 9. The auction exploits desperate buyers. Harris preaches pure capitalism, saying it's \"unfair to put a limit on a girl's ability to make money\" by auctioning her eggs. In turn, fertility clinic operators accuse Harris of \"taking advantage of couples trying to conceive\" and exploiting \"desperate people ... susceptible to the dreams he is trying to sell.\" USA Today laments, \"This is about human need. And human greed.\" 10. The auction exploits desperate sellers. By late Monday, Harris had only a handful of bids, and only one was verified as legitimate. On the other hand, 50 women had asked him to put their eggs up for auction. Gradually, the media concluded that the donors were the true victims. USA Today described the models as \"struggling actresses,\" reported that they were unaware of the health risks of donating eggs, and quoted one as saying, \"I'd rather do this than do Playboy or Penthouse .\" Harris' sole verified bidder told the paper that selling eggs was \"better than prostitution.\" 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>:\nWhat theme would critiques 6 and 7 agree with?\n\n<options>:\nA beauty isn't everything\nB people will do anything for beauty\nC beauty is beneficial\nD beauty is in the eye of the beholder\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,178	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>:\nDigital technologies have created more than one revolution. Let’s call this one the access revolution. Why don’t more authors take advantage of the access revolution to reach more readers? The answer is pretty clear. Authors who share their works in this way aren’t selling them, and even authors with purposes higher than money depend on sales to make a living. Or at least they appreciate sales. If authors like that exist, at least they should take advantage of the access revolution. The dream of global free access can be a reality for them, even if most other authors hope to earn royalties and feel obliged to sit out this particular revolution. These lucky authors are scholars, and the works they customarily write and publish without payment are peer-reviewed articles in scholarly journals. Open access is the name of the revolutionary kind of access these authors, unencumbered by a motive of financial gain, are free to provide to their readers. Open access (OA) literature is digital, online, free of charge, and free of most copyright and licensing restrictions. We could call it “barrier-free” access, but that would emphasize the negative rather than the positive. In any case, we can be more specific about which access barriers OA removes. A price tag is a significant access barrier. Most works with price tags are individually affordable. But when a scholar needs to read or consult hundreds of works for one research project, or when a library must provide access for thousands of faculty and students working on tens of thousands of topics, and when the volume of new work grows explosively every year, price barriers become insurmountable. The resulting access gaps harm authors by limiting their audience and impact, harm readers by limiting what they can retrieve and read, and thereby harm research from both directions. OA removes price barriers. Copyright 1.1 What Makes OA Possible? OA is made possible by the internet and copyright-holder consent. But why would a copyright holder consent to OA? Two background facts suggest the answer. First, authors are the copyright holders for their work until or unless they transfer rights to someone else, such as a publisher. Second, scholarly journals generally don’t pay authors for their research articles, which frees this special tribe of authors to consent to OA without losing revenue. This fact distinguishes scholars decisively from musicians and moviemakers, and even from most other kinds of authors. This is why controversies about OA to music and movies don’t carry over to OA for research articles. Both facts are critical, but the second is nearly unknown outside the academic world. It’s not a new fact of academic life, arising from a recent economic downturn in the publishing industry. Nor is it a case of corporate exploitation of unworldly academics. Scholarly journals haven’t paid authors for their articles since the first scholarly journals, the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London and the Because any content can be digital, and any digital content can be OA, OA needn’t be limited to royalty-free literature like research articles. Research articles are just ripe examples of low-hanging fruit. OA could extend to royalty-producing work like monographs, textbooks, novels, news, music, and movies. But as soon as we cross the line into OA for royalty-producing work, authors will either lose revenue or fear that they will lose revenue. Either way, they’ll be harder to persuade. But instead of concluding that royalty-producing work is off limits to OA, we should merely conclude that it’s higher-hanging fruit. In many cases we can still persuade royalty-earning authors to consent to OA. (See section 5.3 on OA for books.) Authors of scholarly research articles aren’t the only players who work without pay in the production of research literature. In general, scholarly journals don’t pay editors or referees either. In general, editors and referees are paid salaries by universities to free them, like authors, to donate their time and labor to ensure the quality of new work appearing in scholarly journals. An important consequence follows. All the key players in peer review can consent to OA without losing revenue. OA needn’t dispense with peer review or favor unrefereed manuscripts over refereed articles. We can aim for the prize of OA to peer-reviewed scholarship. (See section 5.1 on peer review.) OA gains nothing and loses potential allies by blurring these distinctions. This variety reminds us (to paraphrase Tim O’Reilly) that OA doesn’t threaten publishing it only threatens existing publishers who do not adapt. OA isn’t an attempt to reform, violate, or abolish copyright. It’s compatible with copyright law as it is. OA would benefit from the right kinds of copyright reforms, and many dedicated people are working on them. But it needn’t wait for reforms and hasn’t waited. OA literature avoids copyright problems in exactly the same way that conventional toll-access literature does. For older works, it takes advantage of the public domain, and for newer works, it rests on copyright-holder consent. (More in chapter 4 on policies and chapter 6 on copyright.) OA isn’t an attempt to deprive royalty-earning authors of income. The OA movement focuses on research articles precisely because they don’t pay royalties. In any case, inside and outside that focus, OA for copyrighted work depends on copyright-holder consent. Hence, royalty-earning authors have nothing to fear but persuasion that the benefits of OA might outweigh the risks to royalties. (More in section 5.3 on OA for books.) OA isn’t an attempt to deny the reality of costs. No serious OA advocate has ever argued that OA literature is costless to produce, although many argue that it is less expensive to produce than conventionally published literature, even less expensive than born-digital toll-access literature. The question is not whether research literature can be made costless, but whether there are better ways to pay the bills than charging readers and creating access barriers. (More in chapter 7 on economics.) Terminology We could talk about vigilante OA, infringing OA, piratical OA, or OA without consent. That sort of OA could violate copyrights and deprive royalty-earning authors of royalties against their will. But we could also talk about vigilante publishing, infringing publishing, piratical publishing, or publishing without consent. Both happen. However, we generally reserve the term “publishing” for lawful publishing, and tack on special adjectives to describe unlawful variations on the theme. Likewise, I’ll reserve the term “open access” for lawful OA that carries the consent of the relevant rightsholder. OA isn’t an attempt to reduce authors’ rights over their work. On the contrary, OA depends on author decisions and requires authors to exercise more rights or control over their work than they are allowed to exercise under traditional publishing contracts. One OA strategy is for authors to retain some of the rights they formerly gave publishers, including the right to authorize OA. Another OA strategy is for publishers to permit more uses than they formerly permitted, including permission for authors to make OA copies of their work. By contrast, traditional journal-publishing contracts demand that authors transfer all rights to publishers, and author rights or control cannot sink lower than that. (See chapters 4 on policies and 6 on copyright.) OA isn’t an attempt to reduce academic freedom. Academic authors remain free to submit their work to the journals or publishers of their choice. Policies requiring OA do so conditionally, for example, for researchers who choose to apply for a certain kind of grant. In addition, these policies generally build in exceptions, waiver options, or both. Since 2008 most university OA policies have been adopted by faculty deeply concerned to preserve and even enhance their prerogatives. (See chapter 4 on OA policies.)\n\n<question>:\nWhich is the most accurate representation of the relationship between authors and copyright issues in OA?\n\n<options>:\nA The authors have less control over what happens with their work\nB Authors do not want to publish in OA venues because of the constant legal battles\nC Publicly available content is more likely to be stolen and reproduced without permission\nD Authors do not lose any more rights to their work than they would publishing in more conventional venues\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,050	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\na man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So did the light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man in the gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of the humans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously and arrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superior to anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she was The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a cloth was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had just The man in the gray suit smiled. \"Who else in any world would stand up for you?\" \"I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having you at times, you know.\" \"So you don't mind having me around?\" The nondescript man smiled again. \"Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running from yourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember?\" Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. \"Come on, have a drink not pleased with what they saw. \"Watch yourself, colleague,\" he warned as he left. \"Soon you might not be worth the saving.\" \"Who was that, Gabe?\" the girl asked. He shrugged. \"I never saw him before in my life.\" Of course, knowing him, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then he happened to have been telling the truth. Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotel suite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, as he watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out again the letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would have been nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no real identification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one for years. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. \"Where to, fellow-man?\" It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in no condition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out onto Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at him Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before, which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces and closer about her chilly body. \"Aren't you going to introduce your—your friend to me, Gabe?\" \"I don't know who he is,\" Gabe said almost merrily, \"except that he's no friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger?\" with deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but only casually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciation held little gratitude. had been perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperate have trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish knew everybody else far too well. The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive in coming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventually disaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemed too logical for the man he was haunting. However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off the III The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright rays from the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futile patterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angular features, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examine Gabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. \"Only weighted out,\" he muttered, \"he'll be all right. Whatever possessed you two to come out to a place like this?\" \"I really think Gabriel to herself. \"I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to be until he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse. It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?\" \"It does indeed,\" the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It was there was menace here and she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she was included in its scope. \"Do you want to keep him from recognizing you is that it?\" \"Ask him.\" \"He won't tell me he never tells me anything. We just keep running. I didn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's what followed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three of them would stay.... \"If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him,\" she asked, \"why then do you keep helping him?\" \"I am not helping \"Too bad he got married,\" the young man said. \"I could have followed him for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me out outsider he was part of their small family group—as long as she had known Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspect that he was even more closely involved than that. it was tough on me too, wasn't it?\" \"But how did you get into this ... pursuit?\" she asked again. \"And why are you doing it?\" People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockard for fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly should know him better than most. The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate, snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name, and stirred it with his toe. \"I'd better call a cab—he might freeze to death.\" quivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement through long, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. His town where they're not so particular?\" The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game. He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration. And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, he wouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Was he changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his own discoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the fact that none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him? Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in the hazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some day win another body that approached perfection as nearly as his original he would have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl, seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happened and tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her that how he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece of information. The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now they he recognized the face. Not that it was a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a careful might one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one of the men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, though not an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom the man in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily, nor whom the police intended to capture easily. This might be a lucky break for me after all , the new tenant thought, as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obvious \"Look, Gabe,\" the girl said, \"don't try to fool me! I know you \"No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask you whatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody he obviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want to very probably he was relieved at having someone with whom to share his secret. Gabe, why don't you...?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy was the ugly man constantly chasing after Gabe?\n\n<options>:\nA He was actually after Gabe's wife.\nB He wanted his body back.\nC He wanted some of Gabe's money.\nD He was only following him by coincidence.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,806	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nSTAR MOTHER By ROBERT F. YOUNG A touching story of the most enduring love in all eternity. That night her son was the first star. She stood motionless in the garden, one hand pressed against her heart, watching him rise above the fields where he had played as a boy, where he had and she whether he was house behind her, with its empty rooms and silent halls, that once upon a time had been his birthplace. rose in the southern sky, and 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: doing splendidly. Expect to bring your son down sometime tomorrow . She went about her work as usual, collecting the eggs and allocating them in their cardboard boxes, then setting off in the station wagon on her Tuesday morning run. She had expected a deluge of questions from her customers. She was not disappointed. \"Is Terry really way up there all alone, Martha?\" \"Aren't you scared , Martha?\" \"I do hope they can get him back down all right, Martha.\" She supposed it must have given them quite a turn to have their egg woman change into a star mother overnight. She hadn't expected the TV interview, though, and she would have avoided it if it had been politely possible. But what could she do when the line of cars and setting up their equipment in the backyard? What could she say when the suave young man came up to her and said, \"We want you to know that we're all very proud of your boy up there, ma'am, and we hope you'll do us the honor of answering a few questions.\" Most of the questions concerned Terry, as was fitting. From the way the suave young man asked them, though, she got the impression that he was trying to prove that her son was just like any other average American boy, and such just didn't happen to be the case. But whenever she opened her mouth to mention, say, how he used to or how difficult it had been for him to make friends because of his shyness, or the fact that he she started to mention any of these things, the suave young man was in great haste to interrupt her and to twist her words, by requestioning, into a different meaning pattern seemed to coincide with suave young man apparently considered the norm, but which, if followed, Martha was sure, would produce not young men bent on exploring space but trivia. A few of the questions concerned herself: Was Terry her only child? (\"Yes.\") What had happened to her husband? (\"He was killed in the Korean War.\") What did she think of the new law granting star mothers top priority on any and all information relating to their sons? (\"I think it's a fine law ... It's too bad they couldn't have shown similar humanity toward the war mothers of World War II.\") It was late in the afternoon by the time the TV crew got everything repacked into their cars and trucks and made their departure. Martha fixed herself a light supper, then donned an for the sun to go down. According 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. And how bright they became pulsing brilliantly down out of the blackness of the night ... And they were different colors, Some of them were blue and ... green ... orange ... night, that she had never known before ... She glanced at her gone? Tremulously she faced the southern horizon ... and saw her Terry appear in his shining chariot, riding up the star-pebbled path of his orbit, a star in his own right, dropping swiftly now, down, down, and out of mass of the Earth ... She took a deep, proud breath, realized that she was wildly waving her hand and let it fall slowly to her side. Make a wish! she thought, like a little girl, and she wished him pleasant dreams and a safe return and wrapped the wish in all her love and cast it starward. Sometime tomorrow, the general's telegram had said— That meant sometime today! She rose with the sun and fed the chickens, fixed and ate her breakfast, collected the eggs and put them in their cardboard boxes, then started out on her ?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it does.\") \"Martha, when are they bringing him back down?\" (\"Today ... Today !\") \"It must be wonderful being a star mother, Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a way.\") Wonderful ... and terrible. If only he can last it out for safe and sound. Then the vigil will be over, and some other mother can take over the awesome responsibility of having a son become a star— If only ... The general's third telegram arrived that afternoon: Regret to inform you that meteorite impact your son's return. Terry!— See the little boy playing beneath the little boy, his fuzz of wind— Terry!— over the sun-seared grass the sky blue and bright behind him, the song of cicada rising and Terry ... —probably won't get a chance to write you again before take-off, but don't worry, Ma. The Explorer XII is the greatest bird they ever built. Nothing short of 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 After a while, when the light began to fade, she slipped into the stars began to appear. At length her star appeared, but its swift passage blurred before her drive. A car door slammed. God , she thought, let it be Terry , even though she knew that it Someone coughed softly. She turned then— \"Good evening, ma'am.\" She saw the circlet of stars on the gray epaulet she saw the stern handsome face she saw the dark tired eyes. And she knew. Even before he spoke again, she knew— \"The same meteorite that damaged the ejection mechanism, ma'am. It penetrated the was nothing we could have done anyway ... Are you all right, ma'am?\" \"Yes. I'm all right.\" \"I wanted to express my regrets personally. I know how you must feel.\" \"It's all right.\" \"We will, of course, make every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so that he can have a fitting burial on Earth.\" \"No,\" she said. \"I beg your pardon, ma'am?\" She raised her eyes to the patch of sky where her son had passed in his shining metal sarcophagus. Sirius blossomed there, blue-white and beautiful. She raised her eyes still higher—and beheld the vast parterre of Orion with its central motif of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung blooms of Betelguese and Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ... And higher yet—and there flamed the exquisite flower beds of Taurus and Gemini, there burgeoned the riotous wreath of the Crab petals of the Pleiades ... And wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted the ocher rose of Mars ... \"No,\" she said again. now, slowly, he lowered 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 vast and variegated garden of the sky where her son lay buried, then she turned and walked slowly back to the memoried house. THE END\n\n<question>:\nWhat is a star mother?\n\n<options>:\nA A star mother is a mother who becomes a celebrity.\nB A star mother is the mother of an astronaut.\nC A star mother is the mother of someone in the military.\nD A star mother is the mother of a celebrity.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
746	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nto “cook” in an atomic reactor and soak up radioactivity. 33 “We weren’t planning to run a submarine with it,” his father said. “It wasn’t that strong. Still, it doesn’t take so very much radioactivity to make two ounces of an isotope quite powerful—and quite deadly. I only hope whoever stole it knows what he’s doing. However, I’m sure he does.” scientist himself?” Eddie asked. “Let’s just say he—or both of them—have enough training in the subject to know how to handle that isotope safely,” Mr. Taylor said. door. they do with it?” “They could study it,” his father explained. “At least, they could send it somewhere to be all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” broken down and studied. Being a new isotope, the formula is of great value.” “What do you mean, send it somewhere?” “Then—then you mean whoever stole it “In fact, it’s the only logical explanation I can think of. People simply don’t go around stealing “You may use the Geiger counter any time radioactive isotopes without a mighty important rocks. Suddenly the Geiger counter began as good as another when it comes to hunting kitchen. it would take a magnifying glass to detect any small rubber bands from his tooth braces. what it’s all about if you could explain what a fill all the needs for radioactive materials. Besides, and dangerous to handle that it’s not a very good idea to try using it in its true form. one building holds the reactor itself. It’s the having to do with atomic science excited him. He knew something about isotopes—pronounced eye-suh-tope . You was a material which had been “cooked” in an When carefully controlled, the radiation stored up in such isotopes was used in around, but they break apart. They shoot out little particles called neutrons. These neutrons hit other atoms and split them apart, sending asking that particular question was to keep it to. They have ways of controlling it so that only as much radiation builds up as they want. “And Geiger counter?” Eddie asked careful tending, the scientists keep the atomic not actually using it.” “But the whole pile is covered by a shield of concrete about eight feet thick. That keeps the rays from getting out and injuring the workmen.” “Goodness. Eight feet is a lot of cement.” particles,” Eddie explained. “Especially the had provided during the earlier hours. gamma rays. They’re the fastest and most dangerous, to the house and getting the Geiger counter and the hardest to stop. Alpha and beta rays are fairly easy to stop. But the gamma rays are regular high-velocity invisible bullets. They’ll go right through a stone wall unless Not with even the most powerful microscope in the world.” it’s plenty thick. Of course, you can’t see them. where I might get shot at by—by dangerous 39 protected. They see to that. Well, anyway, scientists take certain elements which aren’t radioactive, but can be made radioactive, and shove small pieces of them into holes drilled with a Geiger counter. 18 “They don’t shove them in with their bare hands,” Eddie said, trying not to show exasperation. “They use long holders to push the small chunks of material into the holes in the reactor. Then, as those uranium atoms keep will soak up radiation, just like a sponge “I’ve seen them do it,” Eddie said proudly, then added, “from behind a protective shield, of course. When the material has soaked up enough radiation, they pull it back out. They say it’s ‘cooked.’” came out of a stove. By hot, they mean it’s a radiation burn. That’s a kind of burn you said. “It’s like a sponge. Only instead of soaking watch me do a little prospecting with the Geiger counter. But maybe you’re too busy.” that as more is learned about the ways to use isotopes, the whole world is going to be improved. You’ve heard of radiocobalt for curing cancer. Well, that’s an isotope. They make it Some soak up a lot of radioactivity, and are strong and dangerous. Others absorb only a little and are pretty safe to use. Depends, too, “What kind was the one stolen from the the kitchen. He felt triumphant about the “except he did say that if whoever took it even the mild isotopes are deadly if they’re not handled right.” “My goodness, it is a serious matter, isn’t than its threat of danger to anyone who secret isotope. His father hadn’t said whether it had been developed for curing things or for used. Eddie assumed that anyone who would stoop to stealing isotopes more than likely would be interested in their ability to destroy rather than their ability to benefit mankind. work.” “She always does, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said, pretending great injury. “Don’t know why I “Well, I certainly do hope everything works it. After all, this is an atomic age. We might as well face it. My father says that in horse-and-buggy days everyone knew how to feed a horse and grease a wagon wheel. They knew what was needed to get the work done. But now that atoms are being harnessed to do the work, not mother glanced at the Geiger counter which many people even bother to find out what an atom is.” job of trying to feed a herd of them the size of a period,” he said. “Did you know that there Ross cautioned, as Eddie picked up the Geiger switched on the Geiger counter. The needle but Eddie knew these indicated no more than a normal background count. There were slight traces of radioactivity in almost all earth or rocks. It was in the air itself, caused by mysterious and ever-present cosmic rays, so there was always a mild background count when the Geiger counter was turned on mean anything, the needle had to jump far ahead on the gauge, and the clicking through “In fact, not good at all.” door. He put the Geiger counter in the closet “But this morning you said it would be driver was inquiring where to put it, the container isotope. His father had plenty on his mind, as it was. The main information was in the evening in his chair. 28 “They’ve got it pretty straight, at that,” Mr. Taylor said, “but I’m afraid this is going to defended. I am head of the department. I knew about the shipment. That should make it my responsibility to see that it was properly received and placed in our atomic-materials storage vault. But there is little point in trying to place the blame on anyone. I’m willing to accept it of a secret nature, but it is also dangerously radioactive if improperly handled.” “But—but wasn’t it in a safe container?” 29 “Of course,” his father said. “There were only two ounces of it in a fifty-pound lead capsule. As long as it remains in that capsule it’s safe. As you know, the lead prevents any radiation from escaping. Out of that capsule, however, those two ounces of radioisotope can be very dangerous.” shot. The whole thing was carefully planned and carefully carried out. It was not the work of amateurs.” had carried out the theft. A heavy iron pry bar had been dropped at the rear of the truck after the lock was sprung. It was a common type paper, “how could anyone carry away something weighing fifty pounds without being noticed?” “Chances are they had their car parked nearby,” his father said. “As you know, there automobiles parked around the shipping and the men know that the delivery truck would worked out, they didn’t need to use it. The expected. At least, they took quick advantage was a new one. A very secret one. Our job at the college was to conduct various tests with it in order to find out exactly how it could best be put to use as a cure for disease, or for sterilizing food, or even as a source of power.” “Power?” Eddie said. “Boy, it must have been a strong isotope.” He knew that the strength of radioisotopes could be controlled\n\n<question>:\nGiven the information in the article, what is the purpose of a Geiger counter?\n\n<options>:\nA To measure rock formation patterns.\nB To measure for radiation.\nC To find hidden rocks.\nD To measure gravity.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
223	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThere should be an epitaph for every Meanings and answers to his questions slithered out of his reach. \"Now the world is dead. The whole world is dead.\" New York lay quietly below him. It was the hour of indecision when day has not quite made up its mind to leave and night has not yet attacked in force. The streetlights were already on, making geometric patterns through the dusk of Central Park. Some of the billboards were shining, their relays activated by darkness-sensitized solenoids. A reddish-orange pallor hung from the sky. \"Why did it have to be her—or me? Why should it have to happen to To any man, WHO HAPPENED TO BE THE LAST MAN ON EARTH! attacking his olfactory patch with the retching smell of decaying flesh. Charles ignored it. Even smells had lost their customary of the sharp pain that raced through his system, in spite of the \" Maybe I'm not the last! \" ignored it. The street that led towards the Bureau of Vital Statistics were taller, men were healthier, most of the problems of humanity unit of population, each section of town operating on perpetual, ever-lasting, automatic atomic piles. Two years ago the animals had started dying. Strangely enough the rats had gone first, to anybody's notice. Sales of poison dropped, scientific laboratories chained to a perpetual rodent-cycle began to complain bitterly. Then the lovers who hunted out and haunted the lonely lanes through the countryside began to remark that the locusts were late that year. The an unprecedented degree. The largest cotton crop ever was forecast and rumors from Mexico had it that no one had died from scorpion bite in several weeks. began dropping as rapidly as the flies which had dropped earlier. Congress was called into special session, as were all of the national governments around the world. The U.N. met at emergency sessions to cope with the situation. The president of the world-wide Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals committed suicide. Within a year it was obvious to everyone that man was the only animal left on earth. The panic which had begun with the death of the animals was quieted somewhat by the fact that humans seemed immune to the pandemic. But the coasts began to move inland. Sales of perfumes and deodorants soared. Then just one year ago, the first human became infected with the strange malady. Within six months, half of the world's population was gone. Less than a month ago no more than a few thousand people remained in New York. And now.... \"I've got to find out,\" Charles told himself. He meant it, of course, but in a sense he was afraid—afraid that his trip to the Bureau might walked on down the bloody street. Before the plague the Bureau of Vital Statistics had been one of man's crowning achievements. Housed as it was in a huge metallic globe of a building, it contained computers which kept exact account of every human on earth. Compulsory registration and the classification of each individual by means of the discrete patterns of his brain waves had accomplished for man what no ordinary census could have. The machine knew who was alive, who was dead, and where everybody was. Once a year the Bureau issued The Index, an exact accounting of Earth's four billion inhabitants. Four billion names and addresses, compressed into microprint, a tremendous achievement even for the \"Proud Era.\" The average person had little necessity to do so since the Bureau information service would answer questions free of charge at any time. But he still remembered it and he still recalled the powerful emotional experience it had been those many years ago. All children had to have a brain-wave recording made by the Bureau mechanical wonder had remained with him the rest of his life. of the world. The silence became unbearable. Charles walked to the master control panel. With newly acquired dexterity he switched the computer screens on and watched them glow to life. All around the world sensitive receiving stations pulsed to activity, sending out searching fingers, hunting for elusive patterns of neutral energy, mapping and tabulating the results. The main computer screen dominated one wall of the room. Other smaller screens clustered around it. On these screens could be graphed the population of any and every part of the globe. An illuminated counter immediately above it would give the numerical strength of the area being sampled while the screen would show population density by individual pinpoints of light that merged to form brightness patterns. coward, afraid to check the whole world from the start. \"I'll start with New York and work up.\" Charles activated the switches that would flash a schematic map of New York on the screen. \"There's bound to be somebody else left here. After all, there were at least twenty of us just a couple of days ago.\" And not because she liked him, but because.... quickly in on him. His frantic fingers searched for the computer controls. New York State. One. The entire United States. One. The western hemisphere, including islands. (Was that a point of light in Brazil? No. Just a ghost image). One. The Pacific area, Asia, Australia, Asia Minor, Russia and the Near East, Africa and then Europe. England! There was a light in England! Someone else still lived! The counter plague. It's only logical that—\" One. Alone. Alone! Why? human nature. Why. The drive of curiosity. Stronger, in a way, than the so-called \"basic\" drives: hunger, thirst, sex, shelter, warmth, companionship, elimination. Certainly more decisive in the history of animals, when he first asked the question: \"Why?\" free of bodies. that most people wanted to die inside of something—inside of anything. Not out in the unprotected open.\" The silence was like a weight hanging around his neck. Not an insect of a plane. Not even a breeze to whisper among the leaves, he thought. Civilization equals life equals noise. Silence equals.... earth, me. The last. Why me? 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 Chance. That was it! The laws of probability, the bell-shaped curve, normal distribution, rectilinear regression. More people per square So simple to explain by the laws of chance. No need for any underlying assumptions about good and evil, no need for teleological arguments to be the last to go and that was— THE LAST MAN ON EARTH Yes. That was it. Simple. Let whoever came afterwards figure out the 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.\" 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! tearing down the defenses of his mind, putting an end of his thoughts of immunity. Colors flared before his eyes, a persistent, irresistible susurrus flooded his ears. appealed to every divinity he knew, all the time knowing it would be useless. His body, out of his voluntary control, tried to run off in Charles struggled to end his body's disorganized responses, to everything else seemed irrelevant: he had he forced his body to become an unwilling Charles refused to think. Machines, especially half-broken machines, do they only work. Sweating, straining, bleeding, retching, he for the grave. Instantly the thought struck him with paralyzing devastation. The sapped the last bit of his energy, corroding his nerves and dying The large, invisible, ovular being that hung suspended over the Empire State Building rested from its exertion. Soon it was approached by another of its kind. no system. How was \"Beautiful,\" said the first. \"It went according to the strictest They made it easy for me.\" \"All right. Let's go.\" \"What's that you have there?\" \"Oh, this?\" replied the first. \"It's a higher neural order compendium THE LAST MAN ON EARTH—\n\n<question>:\nWhat did the beings use to ensure they killed every human?\n\n<options>:\nA Charles's brain-waves\nB The Bureau's Index\nC A machine they brought from their home planet\nD Spies throughout the world\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,484	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>:\non my part, they tended to segregate into groups consisting of four to eight couples together with the current children of the women. Within these groups, the adults were promiscuous, but apparently not outside the group. The group thus had the appearance of a super-family and the males indulged and cared for all the children without reference to actual parenthood. The only kind of gag worth pulling, I always maintained, was a cosmic one—till I learned the Cosmos has a really nasty sense of humor! houses in which the young, and sometimes the adults, slept through bound. I heard my daughter's running feet in the animal rooms and her tolerantly. \"Can't adjust your skates?\" I asked again. \"Daddy, I've tried and tried and I just can't turn this old key tight enough.\" I continued to look down on her. \"Well, Dad-dee, I can't!\" \"Tightly enough.\" \"What?\" \"You can't turn this old key tightly enough.\" \"That's what I My son asked, \"What happened to the animals?\" say My wife looked at me appraisingly and shook her head. \"I thought you meant it. But you really ought to. It would be your first.\" on the ranch. through the dark overhead, they chattered and laughed and sometimes cage. \"Daddy?\" ?\" \"No.\" I lifted her out of the chair and stood her on her skates. \"Tell your mother that I retaliate. I say she She skated awkwardly between the rows of cages from which mutants with brown fur and blue fur, too much and too little fur, enormously long The accelerator had forced them almost to adulthood in less than a structures. They were lovely, perfect little creatures. when I slipped out. \"Come on, you old hermit. I have a buffet on the terrace.\" \"Our daughter says I'm eccentric. Wonder how the devil she found out.\" \"From me, of course.\" \"But you love me just the same.\" the ketchup and said, \"I've reached the dangerous age.\" \"Oh, good heavens!\" \"Thanks. Yours deserve the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, too.\" Our son reared the new palomino I had just bought him for his fourteenth birthday and yelled down, \"Unhand that maiden, Burrhead, or I'll give you lead poisoning.\" 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 there in that lab! Wouldn't they all!\" The boy carried the saddle up onto the terrace and dropped it. \"Mom, I'd like a swim before I eat.\" He started undressing. \"You look as though a little water might help,\" she agreed, sitting down next to me with her plate. The girl was yanking off her skates. \"And I want one.\" \"All right. But go in the house and put on your swim suit.\" \"Oh, Mother develop an embryonic culture of their own. Then they could leave my \"Because, dear, I said so.\" The boy had already raced across the terrace and jack-knifed into the pool. The cool sound of the dive sent the girl scurrying for her suit. I looked at my wife. \"What's the idea?\" \"She's going to be a young woman soon.\" \"Is that any reason for wearing clothes? Look at him. He's a young man sooner than already.\" \"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.\" \"I told you—\" \"Oh, not that again! You were dangerous at any age.\" . Why?\" but I've always....\" \"Well, when my old man was pumping his first fortune out of some oil you have prepared for them.\" ?\" were already moving about on the mattress and the male was trying to stand. his arms out and tried to tease the spars open. They were not new. The 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. Cloud Nine and he wants to celebrate.\" Oh, wonderful! Good old Guy! Everybody's a success. It's great. It's married to Zeus. I've my own little Greeks descended from Icarus.\" \"I will, yes. But first a divine kiss.\" have their own crafts and live in small tree houses. When they were able to take care of themselves, I would turn them would laugh. Then someone authoritative would find a colony and observe them. He \"Darling, are you listening to me?\" my wife asked with impatient \"What? Sure. Certainly.\" \"For heaven's sake, darling,\" my wife complained, \"I told you about As we stepped up on the terrace, she turned to Guy and Em. \"He's out of contact today. Thinks he's Zeus.\" I asked our son to wheel a TV set out onto the terrace while I made martinis for our friends. Then we sat down and drank the cocktails and to check on.\" \"Darling, will you please—be— quiet ?\" \"Yeah, Dad. Can it, will you? You're always gagging around.\" On the screen, Guy's big dead-earnest face was explaining more about the project and suddenly I realized that this was an instrument-bearing it's always been pictured. A mechanical voice cut in. The women were kissing him and hugging him. Everybody was yelling at once. one week. Then I used it to bring the infants to maturity in one month. infants were females, which sped things up considerably. down the accelerator. From now on, they could have babies in their own I had devised the language for them, using Basic English as my model, the opportunity to slip the oldest of the males and his two females out They kept me busy relating their words for \"tree,\" \"rock,\" \"sky\" to the appreciate fully what lovely little creatures they were. They blended The two girls reached him before I did and stroked and fussed over him so that I could not get near. Suddenly he laughed with a shrill little 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 tiny stream through there and at one point it formed a sizable pool. They got into this and splashed their long arms about and they scrubbed stretched to dry. I watched them affectionately and wondered about the advisability of could tell them about surviving would help them as much as a little are very few of you left. Since you have been staying at my place, you naturally have forgotten the ways of living outdoors.\" \"We can learn again. We want to stay here.\" His little face was so solemn and thoughtful that I reached out and stroked the fur on his there. I can stay for a while. How long will they be in the tree?\" \"Chances are they won't stay long. Keep your eye on the tree in case him. Their lavish affection held him up for a time, but eventually he strutted in like every human hunter. gleeful and greasily amorous during the meal. his wonder. \"You say we came from there?\" \"The old ones of your kind told me so. Didn't they tell you?\" \"That's right.\" \"Which star?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat kind of relationship does the narrator have with his children?\n\n<options>:\nA The children don't talk to him at all, because they are constantly disappointed by his not sharing his work with them\nB The children see him as a kind but absent father figure who is dedicated to his science\nC The children think he is nice but odd, perhaps a bit too talkative about his own pride around his work\nD The children are upset with him because they think he is too strict, making them swim with bathing suits, and things like this\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
327	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>:\nCriminals, beware the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, \"All right, everybody, keep brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefs over the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulled low over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, \"Keep your shirt on.\" like the ships in pirate movies. There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robbers were going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrong way and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clear path behind them. \"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 operation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to their getaway car, you know what I mean?\" Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. \"They always slip up,\" he said. \"Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up.\" \"Yes, but their tires block away.\" \"Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car,\" said Pauling. \"For a well-planned operation like this one,\" said Stevenson, \"they made a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense.\" my insurance company.\" \"Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd come \"Well, why not?\" demanded Hastings belligerently. \"If I'm making just a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one customer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?\" \"The car was stolen,\" Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. \"It's always been perfectly safe up till \"What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car.\" about anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us.\" He looked at the trunk lid again. \"It's the nuttiest thing,\" he said thoughtfully.... fights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avenging 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 out the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting, \"Murder! Murder!\" At this point, neighbors called the police. One In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house, firing at anything that moved. undershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of the house. The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere, 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. neighbors went home and telephoned their friends. On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of the patience. \"What are you trying to prove?\" \"I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. And what about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?\" trunk?\" \"How do I know?\" demanded the captain. \"Kids put it on before the car was stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows? What do they say?\" \"They say they didn't do it,\" said Stevenson. \"And they say they never saw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd been there.\" desperately. \"How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do these things happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and they write 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happens all the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?\" III Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids around for the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked up carrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're on your way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as a entrances. The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separate clubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to play chicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn of the approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who might come wandering through. dark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark, particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephone pole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her Scarlet you kids. Take off.\" One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. \"Who, us?\" \"Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way.\" \"The subway's this way,\" objected the kid in the red mask. \"Who cares? You go around the other way.\" \"Because I said so,\" Judy told him. \"Now, you kids get away from here. Take off.\" \"Hey!\" cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. \"Hey, they're Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chase the one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them would come running along after her. She didn't know what to do. A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems. \"Cheez,\" said one of the kids. \"The cops!\" \"Fuzz!\" screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward the off their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering. They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy's warning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once both the yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street. And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault. \"Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?\" the problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?\" him. \"One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was the \"Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?\" something,\" said Hanks severely. \"They heard the police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then they threw their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't been part of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught before they could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showed up a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in it but weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over the neighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and not bothering anybody. freezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alec punk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back to worrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kid gangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, or\n\n<question>:\nWhy do the gangs pick Halloween night to fight?\n\n<options>:\nA The schoolyard would be empty as kids would be out.\nB They could be out past curfew without suspicion. No one would question why kids were going out on Halloween night.\nC The cops would be preoccupied with other matters, and it was easy to explain why you had a weapon on you.\nD The cops wouldn't be on lookout on a night like Halloween, so they can get away with doing what they want.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
2,004	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>:\nday, two of which I knew about immediately. Mary brought a portable JUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT typewriter from home and spent part of the afternoon banging away at what seemed to me, since I use two And Hilary brought in a bottle of to lead a junior achievement his new detergent. It was a syrupy suds. He'd been busy in his home laboratory after all, it seemed. yellow liquid with a nice collar of tasty, I might add. \"Why, Donald,\" she said, \"it could be quite interesting, if I understand what a junior achievement group is. \"Goodness.\" I protested, \"it's been twenty-five years since my last course \"Mr. McCormack called me to the office today, and told me that some of the children in the lower grades wanted to start one. They \"It wasn't my idea, really,\" I admitted. 20% solution.\" one of the group suggested my name.\" in chemistry. Perhaps if I saw the need adult guidance of course, and formula—.\" other hand, the fathers of most of my students work for the Commission and a constant awareness of the Commission and its work pervades the at least sometimes, to teach my old-fashioned brand of science to these children of a new age. group this summer?\" \"What does a junior achievement group do?\" \"It has the purpose,\" I told her, themselves. \"Well, now,\" I demanded, in my best classroom voice. \"What is all this?\" were laughing and evidently enjoying which are available for later educational expenses.\" \"Gracious, you wouldn't have to \"Oh, please, Mr. Henderson, come outside where it's quieter and tell me all about it.\" kids how to do it.\" Marjorie put back her head and laughed, and I was forced to join her, \"You didn't know that one of your junior whatsisnames poured detergent in the Memorial Fountain basin last night?\" hour. Suds built up in the basin and overflowed, and down the library \"What is it?\" I asked. \"You never steps and covered the whole street. across the street. And this morning,\" she chortled, \"somebody phoned in an anonymous tip to the police—of course it was the same boy that did so, of course, did we, which meant starting mortgage payments all over \"Yes, of course. Who would ever with those cute furry tails?\" the summer—a roomy unused barn belonging to the parents of one of Mr. Miller, who had come home to see what all the excitement was, went back to work and Mrs. Miller went you know. I stopped being a school teacher when the final grades went in last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My job here is only to advise, and I'm going to do that as little as possible. don't need to treat me as a teacher, charming little beasts, with tails as \"Seventeen. No, eighteen, now. get out of their cages. But heaven knows what you'll do when fall comes. They won't live in an unheated barn and you can't bring them into the house.\" \"We'll be out of the mouse business by then,\" Doris predicted. \"Every pet shop in the country will have them and they'll be down to nothing Doris was right, of course, in spite a few months younger, was just an average, extroverted, well adjusted youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted and butch-barbered. The group exchanged looks to see week—with a few interruptions—we built cages, hundreds of them, a good \"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior achievement group is a bunch of kids \"There's something wrong with making said Hilary. \"We'll need some money these junior achievement efforts, are It was on Tuesday—following the Thursday—that a lanky young man disentangled himself from his car free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove road tar, mechanic's hand soap—that squares of screening onto wooden frames. \"Hi,\" he said. \"You're Donald sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had \"The Miller boy and Mary McCready,\" high IQ's—around one forty he had said, \"have exceptionally these youngsters a bit more ambitious. much of the time they seem to have little interest in their studies. The junior achievement idea has sparked their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just what they need.\" in the electronics field. A hi-fi sub-assembly of some kind.\" \"How about a new detergent?\" Hilary put in. \"Like the liquid dishwashing detergents?\" advance against next season's royalties. It was a rainy morning about three team except Tommy. Jeff lowered his feet from the picnic table and said, \"Hi.\" legal sense, of course. Hilary and I should keep the achievement group were just going over the situation on his phosphonate detergent. I've spent Dr. Matlack's son, aren't you? Been dipping into your father's library?\" \"Some,\" said Hilary, \"and I've got a home laboratory.\" despondency. \"I'm not very technical. \"That's fine, Mr. McCord,\" Hilary said, \"but it's not very important.\" \"No?\" Jeff tilted an inquiring eyebrow every month.\" \"No,\" said Doris, \"these aren't laboratory mice. They're fancy ones. I always clean mouse cages later. Where's Tommy?\" Hilary had been deep in thought. \"What on earth for? We have over six thousand in the account.\" \"What did they do today, dear?\" Marge asked as she refilled my coffee of sandwiches. The parents had agreed to underwrite lunches at the cup. found a place over a garage on Fourth Street that we can rent for winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is starting action to get the company incorporated.\" \"Winter quarters,\" Marge repeated. \"You mean you're going to try to keep the group going after school young boy who doesn't know any better, \"Why not? The kids can sail through their courses without thinking about them, and actually they won't put in more than a few hours a week during the school year.\" \"Even so, it's child labor, isn't it?\" \"Child labor nothing. They're the employers. Jeff McCord and I will be the only employees—just at first, may wind up a sales manager. naturally. On the other hand, they It was Mary, finally, who advanced \"and think about the small end. It'll work out all right.\" I wished that the youngsters weren't starting out by inventing a new impractical, of course, for a group of Tommy, for example, wanted to put tooth powder into tablets that one would chew before brushing the threaded part, then send it home with a few turns of a screwdriver. Hilary, reluctantly forsaking his ideas on detergents, suggested we These latter ideas had made unknowing use of some basic physics, and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few minutes into the role of teacher and told them a little bit about the laws to have to call in Mr. Wells.\" I do feel just a little embarrassed \"Why it would have to, wouldn't it? It changed the pattern of air pressures.\" \"Oh, sure, but don't you think it complacency in his voice. \"It didn't take long, but they sure made it out yes, and cosign the note.\" and to ask how we were progressing make me most uneasy. To say nothing of finding myself responsible for a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar note—over two weeks salary. I made a mental vow to sign very few checks. that evening, and Marjorie recognized I only told her about the success of and wood splints. There was no use in both of us worrying. On Friday we all got down to work, for every member of the group to be a company officer. Of course a\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Donald's wife think it is funny that Donald might lead the junior achievement group?\n\n<options>:\nA Donald is prone to get carried away with 'side projects,' which his wife finds amusing\nB Donald's students know more than he does about science and industry\nC Donald has no desire or innate talent to participate in sales- or marketing-related schemes\nD Donald comes home each day and complains about his students, yet he is volunteering to spend more time with them\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
2,258	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIn his foreword to the book, Lessig writes that you understand your subjects “by learning to see them in a certain way.” What is that certain way? I think I’m trying to capture pictures of people that help others see what they’re about. Some photographers will make someone look the way the photographer wants them to look, and not the way they appear, so they’ll pick the one picture out of 100 where the guy looks more egotistical than he really is. Some photographers are almost medical, and are going after a perfect portrait. I’m somewhere in between. It’s amazing how many people will upload snapshots of people where the pictures don’t look like them at all. To me, uploading a picture that is not an easily recognizable picture of that person defeats the point, which I’m working toward, to try to express who they are. On the other hand, professional photographers usually have a subject whom they don’t know personally, so they end up having to try to capture an image that they’ve created based on who they think the person is or how they want make this hard. A lot of people are uncomfortable in front of a camera, person is nervous, it’s very difficult to try to see what it is that you’re trying to capture. A lot of what I’m doing is, I just start shooting photos. After half an hour of having their picture taken, people start to ignore you. Or I’ll take pictures when I’m talking to people about what they’re doing, so after a while they get distracted by the conversation and forget about the camera. That’s something that I’m not perfect at, but I’m getting better. I think good photographers are also able to disarm people through conversation, but still, it’s difficult to have a disarming conversation with somebody you don’t know, or to make them laugh. Many times people make a face for me that they wouldn’t make for a professional photographer. For instance, a board meeting picture, like the one with Eric Saltzman: that was during a very tense discussion. I’ve found that people are at their most animated at these kinds of meetings, and look the most alive when they are under a lot of pressure, and super- focused. But usually if an outsider is in the room, they won’t get into that. I mean, it would be difficult for a cameraman to be in a room where a board is having a heated debate. But those are the things that I’m trying to capture, because most people asked me to put the camera away after awhile [laughs] because it was distracting. We were having a very heated discussion and I was taking all of these pictures. But he credited me later because afterward those pictures turned out the best. In your mind, what is a ‘Freesoul’ ? copyright of the photographer, or the institution who hired the photographer to take the picture. Often, even the subject of the article can’t make an image available to the Wikimedia/Wikipedia community. all the time, “By the way, do you have a photo that we can use?” But wonderful work, and allow others to create derivative works. Of course people can abuse that, just like they can abuse anything. But I want people to see the value in sharing over the fear in sharing. The pictures for something positive, rather than for something negative. The way, giving up your image and allowing anyone to use it: it’s the picture is sad. Besides Wikipedia, how do you imagine these photos being used? They can be used in textbooks and in mainstream media articles about the person. Now they can get a picture that represents the person, at least from my perspective. That said, I shouldn’t be the only person doing this. More people should do the same, and make the photographs available freely. For one, I feel that “free” CC licensed photos have a much higher chance of not disappearing. But I don’t know exactly how these photos are going to be used, so in a sense I’m curious. For example, of what they’re doing, and they also had a bunch of my pictures in they’re not all pictures of people sitting at desks in the Berkman Center. There’s one more important thing: Creative Commons is great for original creative works or derivative creative works, but when it involves human images, it gets very complicated. We all know the Virgin more thorough from a legal perspective. It’s also an important educational point, so people understand that, in addition to the images, and a lot of the photographers were professionals. This is beyond what anybody has done in the US. A lot of the progress that we’re Well, we’re all getting old, if you look at these pictures. But there’s another thing, though, about this book: the number of professional-quality amateurs has increased significantly due to the importance of digital in both professional and high-end amateur photography I hate to say it, a lot of people love the darkroom, but it really feels like the death of the darkroom with this year. With new 22 megapixel cameras coming in under $10,000, and Lightroom and some of this software at a couple hundred dollars, it doesn’t really make sense, except for particularly fussy artists, to do wet-work anymore. If you’re a commercial photographer or a high-end amateur, you can do anything you used to do in the darkroom. I think it has really lowered the bar. I don’t know how that affects the industry directly, but for me, it bridged a huge gap. I used to be darkroom geek. I loved my darkroom, and even when I didn’t have my darkroom anymore, I still was shooting 6x6 Hasselblad 120 film and processing it in a special lab, and then digitizing it. For me, that film was it. You could never get as good as medium-format film or large-format film At the time, the digital Hasselblad backs were too expensive, and were still not as good as 8x10 film. So there was this whole period where the darkroom was not all that exciting, but the digital wasn’t perfect. I went through a limbo period. I had invested so much in my Hasselblad system, and my Leica M6 set. I had bought the Leica R8, but I was I could use my old gear, and it had enough megapixels to be as good as some film. Another way of saying it was that there was a gear breakthrough at the a technology breakthrough, let’s call it that, that allowed me to switch completely away from film, and I think this happened to a lot of photographers. It caused an explosion of content and an increase in the quality of content on sites like Flickr. It has allowed amateurs to create a business model with professionals. Interestingly, I think these new high-end amateurs are buying more photography books and photographs and are probably providing an increasing revenue stream for professional photographers. I think most amateurs, including myself, are paying homage to the professionals and not trying to “compete” with them. For me, the right way to use a lot of the new social software is by making it easier to spend more physical time with the people you like best. Dopplr is a great example. When I visit a city, I will see all of the people who are in the city at the would bet that more than half of the photos in this book are pictures of really increasing your ability to spend quality time with, actually, a smaller number of people. It allows you to actively filter. Your were drinking, what we were talking about, and to me that’s a much more rich experience. It’s the combination of social software and photography. For me, reality is “the present” plus what you remember from the past. I think this well, but to me photography is a really good way of doing that. When I look at the expressions, I remember the moment and get a sense of presence. I think the main problem for me is the environmental impact of flying around. Just as I never believed that we would have a paperless office, is essential. My job is to keep that focus and maintain that balance. Also, CC needs to run smoothly as an organization and there is a lot of operational work that we all need to do. My photography is a way for me to participate in a small measure on the creative side of the Free\n\n<question>:\nHow does the photographer feel about dark rooms?\n\n<options>:\nA Darkrooms don't make sense anymore with today's technology.\nB They are a darkroom geek.\nC Darkrooms are not all that exciting.\nD Doing the wet work in the darkroom will always produce a superior picture.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
214	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry into the offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.\" \"Why, why,\" Miss Meuhl stammered. \"Yes, of course. And I do want to Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I don't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nine It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, the Groaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—\" \"Don't bother,\" Retief said. \"You know what was in those files I looked over this morning.\" years, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resist the temptation to make matters worse than they are.\" of armed Groaci in the consulate?\" \"I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wanted them.\" \"He had complete confidence in me.\" \"Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on,\" Retief said, \"I won't up?\" \"I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives.\" Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. \"Whatever for?\" avoid with the \"Why?\" \"The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworlders raking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live down \"They never found the cruiser, did they?\" The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressed bleat. \"Not to enter the Archives,\" he said in his faint voice. \"The denial of permission. The deep regret of the Archivist.\" \"The importance of my task here,\" Retief said, enunciating the glottal dialect with difficulty. \"My interest in local history.\" \"The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly.\" \"The necessity that I enter.\" A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink from digestive sacs to express regret.\" \"To not worry,\" Retief said, irritated. \"To pour it out and let me decide whether I like it.\" \"To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners.\" The barkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers, eyes elsewhere, were drifting away. \"To get the lead out,\" Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in the dish provided. \"To shake a tentacle.\" whispered. \"To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece.\" He wavered toward Retief. \"To show this one in the streets, like all freaks.\" \"To get a cage!\" the drunk shrilled. \"To keep the animals in their own stinking place.\" \"I've changed my mind,\" Retief said to the bartender. \"To be grateful \"To begone, freak,\" the Groacian whispered. The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him, Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed. \"To not be going anywhere for a few minutes,\" Retief said. \"To stay \"I'll not be a party—\" \"You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl,\" Retief said quietly. \"I'm telling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation.\" Miss Meuhl sat down. Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. \"You reopen an old wound, and sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funny answers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left. Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they were innocent.\" back—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Some curious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged, they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through the streets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show. throats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figure 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 \"They're alive?\" \"Alas, no. They ... died.\" \"I see,\" Retief said. \"They died.\" \"We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know what foods—\" \"Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you?\" \"They fell ill,\" Fith said. \"One by one....\" \"We'll deal with that question later,\" Retief said. \"Right now, I want more information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship? What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before the big parade?\" helped them to death.\" \"How could we know?\" Fith moaned. brisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A close felt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warships came, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged our guilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered our \"Where is the ship?\" \"The ship?\" \"What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget. Where is it?\" The two Groacians exchanged looks. \"We wish to show our contrition,\" Fith said. \"We will show you the Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Empty Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel and \"Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,\" he said. \"Now that all has been fully and honestly shown—\" them—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting what you'd done.\" \"Where is that ship?\" Retief rapped out. \"You never learn, do you? happened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now. I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out. Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have come far. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to know where!\" do irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist—\" \"That's my decision,\" Retief said. \"I have a job to do and we're wasting time.\" He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer and took out a slim-barreled needler. \"This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know the \"Where are you going with ... that?\" Miss Meuhl stared at the needler. \"What in the world—\" \"The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper in their files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need before it's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'll find nothing but blank smiles.\" the Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who know what happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffed him out—for the moment.\" 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 supply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep in \"What are you planning to do?\" \"If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of this afternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you. clothing?\" \"I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it.\" Retief went to his desk, opened a drawer and replaced the needler. look faded from Miss Meuhl's face. \"Why, what is the meaning—\" \"If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn't where I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape for transmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed task force. Then we'll settle down to wait.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy did the Groacians hide the ship?\n\n<options>:\nA To overthrow the government.\nB They wanted to hide the Terrestrials as long as they could.\nC They were afraid to admit they knew where it was.\nD They wanted to keep it for further research.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,376	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWhen overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of the humans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously and arrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superior to anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she was ugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felt he was, which was what mattered. \"Sorry, colleague,\" Gabe said lazily. \"All my fault. You must let me You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance, now ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were too strong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only to at times, you know.\" \"So you don't mind having me around?\" The nondescript man smiled again. \"Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running from other man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion of bags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and were not pleased with what they saw. \"Watch yourself, colleague,\" he warned \"Who was that, Gabe?\" the girl asked. bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would have \"Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?\" But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. \"Games?\" the driver finally asked, although he could guess what was wanted by then. \"Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?\" \"Is there a good zarquil game in town?\" The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in the II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in no condition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. \"Let me take the controls, honey,\" the light-haired girl urged, but he To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out onto \"I don't know who he is,\" Gabe said almost merrily, \"except that he's with deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but only casually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciation held little gratitude. something happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it?\" Gabriel shivered. \"I'll be careful,\" he vowed. \"I promise—I'll be careful.\" When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night, commission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the others had been or despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was known colloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went from one zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if you could call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope it nature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. Playing the game was fabulously expensive it had to be to make it involved in games where the players had not been carefully screened. The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but, when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off into disaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemed too logical for the man he was haunting. The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright rays from the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futile patterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angular \"I really think Gabriel The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. \"Yes, I'm all of them.\" \"Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are people included in its scope. \"Do you want to keep him from recognizing you is that it?\" \"He won't tell me There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and she wondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- or must not let herself think that way or she would find herself looking for a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not, she thought, the best way him . And he knows that.\" \"You'll change again tonight, won't you?\" she babbled. \"You always something about you that doesn't change.\" risk of getting a bad one?\" \"This isn't a good body,\" he said. \"It's diseased. Sure, nobody's supposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medical examination. But in the places to which your husband has been leading I'll get it passed on before then. It'll be expensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but then it was tough on me too, wasn't it?\" are you doing it?\" People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockard for fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly should know him better than most. \"Sorry,\" the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfect except for the slight dampening of the sibilants, \"but I'm afraid you cannot play.\" \"Why not?\" The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes. \"You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house.\" \"That is the reason we can afford to be honest.\" The Vinzz' tendrils quivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement through long, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. His The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game. He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration. he changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his own that none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him? Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in the hazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some day win another body that approached perfection as nearly as his original casing had? \"Of course,\" the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimate standards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was the curious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though it its self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despite \"Don't beat 'em cheat 'em.\" \"It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to take such a risk.\" The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. \"How much?\" \"Thirty thousand credits.\" \"Why, that's three times the usual rate!\" \"Oh, all right,\" the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrific risk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, he himself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for all tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing to match the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably many might one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one of the men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, though not an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom the punishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and the man in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily, nor whom the police intended to capture easily. This might be a lucky break for me after all maybe I'll be able to get away with it. \"Look, Gabe,\" the girl said, \"don't try to fool me! I know you too well. And I know you have that man's—the real Gabriel whatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody he obviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want to see his body spoiled.\" \"I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe,\" she said truthfully enough, for\n\n<question>:\nWhat is something that isn't true about the man who saved Gabe?\n\n<options>:\nA he's married to the light-haired girl\nB he regrets his past choices\nC he used to be Gabe\nD he plays a dangerous game\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,177	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nWhat Is Open Access? Why don’t more authors take advantage of the access revolution to reach more readers? The answer is pretty clear. Authors who share their works in this way aren’t selling them, and even authors with purposes higher than money depend on sales to make a living. Or at least they appreciate sales. If authors like that exist, at least they should take advantage of the access revolution. The dream of global free access can be a reality for them, even if most other authors hope to earn royalties and feel obliged to sit out this particular revolution. These lucky authors are scholars, and the works they customarily write and publish without payment are peer-reviewed articles in scholarly journals. Open access Open access (OA) literature is digital, online, free of charge, and free of most copyright and licensing restrictions. We could call it “barrier-free” access, but that would emphasize the negative rather than the positive. In any case, we can be more specific about which access barriers OA removes. is a significant access barrier. Most works with price tags are individually affordable. But when a scholar needs to read or consult hundreds of works for one research project, or when a library must provide access for thousands of faculty and students working on tens of thousands of topics, and when the volume of new work grows explosively every year, price barriers become insurmountable. The resulting access gaps harm authors by limiting their audience and impact, harm readers by limiting what they can retrieve and read, and thereby harm research from both directions. OA removes price barriers. Removing price barriers means that readers are not limited by their own ability to pay, or by the budgets of the institutions where they may have library privileges. Removing permission barriers means that scholars are free to use or reuse literature for scholarly purposes. These purposes include reading and searching, but also redistributing, translating, text mining, migrating to new media, long-term archiving, and innumerable new forms of research, analysis, and processing we haven’t yet imagined. OA makes work more useful in both ways, by making it available to more people who can put it to use, and by freeing those people to use and reuse it. . Work that is not open access, or that is available only for a price, is called There are many degrees and kinds of wider and easier access to [research] literature. By “open access” to this literature, we mean its free availability on the public internet, permitting any users to read, download, copy, distribute, print, search, or link to the full texts of these articles, crawl them for indexing, pass them as data to software, or use them for any other lawful purpose, without financial, legal, or technical barriers other than those inseparable from gaining access to the internet itself. The only constraint on reproduction and distribution, and the only role for copyright in this domain, should be to give authors control over the integrity of their work and the right to be properly acknowledged and cited. Note that all three legs of the BBB definition go beyond removing price barriers to removing permission barriers, or beyond gratis OA to libre OA. But at the same time, all three allow at least one limit on user freedom: an obligation to attribute the work to the author. The purpose of OA is to remove barriers to all legitimate scholarly uses for scholarly literature, but there’s no legitimate scholarly purpose in suppressing attribution to the texts we use. (That’s why my shorthand definition says that OA literature is free of “most” rather than “all” copyright and licensing restrictions.) In principle, any kind of digital content can be OA, since any digital content can be put online without price or permission barriers. Moreover, any kind of content can be digital: texts, data, images, audio, video, multimedia, and executable code. We can have OA music and movies, news and novels, sitcoms and software—and to different degrees we already do. But the term “open access” was coined by researchers trying to remove access barriers to research. The next section explains why. We’d have less knowledge, less academic freedom, and less OA if researchers worked for royalties and made their research articles into commodities rather than gifts. It should be no surprise, then, that more and more funding agencies and universities are adopting strong OA policies. Their mission to advance research leads them directly to logic of OA: With a few exceptions, such as classified research, research that is worth funding or facilitating is worth sharing with everyone who can make use of it. (See Newcomers to OA often assume that OA helps readers and hurts authors, and that the reader side of the scholarly soul must beg the author side to make the necessary sacrifice. But OA benefits authors as well as readers. Authors want access to readers at least as much as readers want access to authors. All authors want to cultivate a larger audience and greater impact. Authors who work for royalties have reason to compromise and settle for the smaller audience of paying customers. But authors who aren’t paid for their writing have no reason to compromise. it only threatens existing publishers who do not adapt. The Budapest Open Access Initiative said in February 2002: “An old tradition and a new technology have converged to make possible an unprecedented public good. The old tradition is the willingness of scientists and scholars to publish the fruits of their research in scholarly journals without payment. . . . The new technology is the internet.” A beautiful opportunity exists where the willingness and the medium overlap. A scholarly custom that evolved in the seventeenth century frees scholars to take advantage of the access revolution in the twentieth and twenty-first. Because scholars are nearly unique in following this custom, they are nearly unique in their freedom to take advantage of this revolution without financial risk. In this sense, the planets have aligned for scholars. Most other authors are constrained to fear rather than seize the opportunities created by the internet. We could talk about vigilante OA, infringing OA, piratical OA, or OA without consent. That sort of OA could violate copyrights and deprive royalty-earning authors of royalties against their will. But we could also talk about vigilante publishing, infringing publishing, piratical publishing, or publishing without consent. Both happen. However, we generally reserve the term “publishing” for lawful publishing, and tack on special adjectives to describe unlawful variations on the theme. Likewise, I’ll reserve the term “open access” for lawful OA that carries the consent of the relevant rightsholder. OA isn’t primarily about bringing access to lay readers. If anything, the OA movement focuses on bringing access to professional researchers whose careers depend on access. But there’s no need to decide which users are primary and which are secondary. The publishing lobby sometimes argues that the primary beneficiaries of OA are lay readers, perhaps to avoid acknowledging how many professional researchers lack access, or perhaps to set up the patronizing counter-argument that lay people don’t care to read research literature and wouldn’t understand it if they tried. OA is about bringing access to everyone with an internet connection who wants access, regardless of their professions or purposes. There’s no doubt that if we put “professional researchers” and “everyone else” into separate categories, a higher percentage of researchers will want access to research literature, even after taking into account that many already have paid access through their institutions. But it’s far from clear why that would matter, especially when providing OA to all internet users is cheaper and simpler than providing OA to just a subset of worthy internet users. Finally, OA isn’t universal access. Even when we succeed at removing price and permission barriers, four other kinds of access barrier might remain in place: Many schools, employers, ISPs, and governments want to limit what users can see. The digital divide keeps billions of people offline, including millions of scholars, and impedes millions of others with slow, flaky, or low-bandwidth internet connections. open access\n\n<question>:\nWhich of these has the least to gain from going open access as presented in this article?\n\n<options>:\nA A short film producer looking to make a name for herself\nB An independently wealthy poet looking for people to read their work\nC A tenured faculty member wanting to publish their work on a very specialized topic\nD A graduate student in the sciences looking to publish their research\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,457	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>:\nSlate beer-testing team were coping with lagers and trying to see if they could taste the 3-to-1 price difference between the most- and least-expensive brands. (Click for a wrap-up of the first round of beer tasting.) The answer was: They found one beer they really liked, Samuel Adams Boston Lager , and one they really hated, imported Grolsch from Holland. Both were expensive beers--Grolsch was the most expensive in the test--and otherwise the testers had a hard time telling beers apart. The members of the team, as noted in the original article, all hold day jobs at Microsoft, mainly as designers, managers, and coders for Microsoft Word. The point of the second test was not to find the difference between cheap and expensive beers but instead to compare a variety of top-of-the-line beers. Was there one kind the tasters preferred consistently? Could they detect any of the subtleties of brewing style and provenance that microbrew customers pay such attention to when choosing some Doppelbock over a cream ale? Since the tasting panel had left the first round grumbling that cheap lagers were not a fair test of their abilities, this second round of testing was advertised to the panel as a reward. Every beer in Round 2 would be a fancy beer. A microbrew. A \"craft beer.\" A prestigious import. These were the kinds of beer the panel members said they liked--and the ones they said they were most familiar with. One aspect of the reward was that they would presumably enjoy the actual testing more--fewer rueful beer descriptions along the lines of \"urine\" or \"get it away!\" were expected than in the first round. The other aspect of anticipated reward was the panelists' unspoken but obvious assumption that this time they would \"do better\" on the test. Intellectual vanity being what it is, people who had fought for and won jobs at Microsoft and who still must fight every six months for primacy on the employee-ranking scale (which determines--gasp!--how many new stock options they receive) would assume that their skill as tasters was on trial, just as much as the beer was. Of course they were right, which is what made this round as amusing to administer as the first one had been. Here is what happened and what it meant: 1. Procedure. This was similar in most ways to the experimental approach of Round 1. The nine testers who showed up were a subset of the original 12. The missing three dropped out with excuses of \"my wife is sick\" (one person) and \"meeting is running long\" (two). that it included at least one macrobrew , specifically, a member of the vast Anheuser-Busch family (Michelob Hefeweizen). After sampling all beers, the tasters rated them as follows: Overall quality points, from zero to 100, reflecting their personal, subjective fondness for the beer. Descriptions of and comments about each beer's taste--\"smooth and nutty,\" \"too strong,\" etc. If the first ranking was a measure of how good each beer was, this was an attempt to explain what made it good. The nine tasters cast a total of nine Worst votes and 11.5 Best votes. (Tester No. 1 turned in a sheet with three Best selections, or two more than his theoretical quota. Tester No. 4 listed a Best and a Best-minus, which counted as half a vote.) The results were clearest at the bottom: three Worsts for Pyramid Hefeweizen , even though most comments about the beer were more or less respectful. (\"Bitter, drinkable.\") But at the top and middle the situation was muddier: There were three Bests for Full Sail ESB , which most of the tasters later said they weren't familiar with, and 2.5 for Redhook IPA , which all the tasters knew. But each of these also got a Worst vote, and most of the other beers had a mixed reading. So far, the tasters are meeting expectations, finding something to like in nearly all these fancy beers. This best-liked beer belonged to the same category, Hefeweizen, as the least-liked product, from Pyramid. This was also the only outright Anheuser-Busch product in the contest (the Redhooks are 75 percent A-B free). It is safe to say that all tasters would have said beforehand that they would rank an American macrobrew last, and Anheuser-Busch last of all. Although it clearly won on overall preference points, Michelob Hefeweizen was the only beer not to have received a single \"Best\" vote. The first two anomalies can be written off as testament to the power of a blind taste test. The third suggests an important difference in concepts of \"bestness.\" Sometimes a product seems to be the best of a group simply because it's the most unusual or distinctive. This is why very high Wine Spectator ratings often go to wines that mainly taste odd. But another kind of bestness involves an unobtrusive, day-in day-out acceptability. That seems to be Michelob Hefe 's achievement here: no one's first choice, but high on everyone's list. Let's go to the charts: This table shows how the beers performed on \"raw score\"--that is, without the advanced statistical adjustment of throwing out the highest and lowest score each beer received. Pyramid Hefeweizen was expensive on top of being unpopular, so its position at the bottom was hammered home--but not as painfully as that of Bass Ale . Bass had been in the respectable lower middle class of the preference rankings, so its disappointing Val-u-meter showing mainly reflects the fact that it was the only beer not on \"sale\" and therefore by far the costliest entry in the experiment. d) Taster skill. As members of the tasting panel began to suspect, they themselves were being judged while they judged the beer. One of the tasters, No. 7, decided to live dangerously and give specific brands and breweries for Samples A through J. This man was the only panel member whose job does not involve designing Microsoft Word--and the only one to identify two or more of the beers accurately and specifically. (He spotted Redhook IPA and Redhook ESB.) The fact that the beers correctly identified were the two most popular microbrews in the Seattle area suggests that familiarity is the main ingredient in knowing your beer. Many others were simply lost. Barely half the tasters, five of nine, recognized that Michelob Hefeweizen was a Hefeweizen. Before the test, nine of nine would have said that picking out a Hefe was easy, because of its cloudy look and wheaty flavor. Three tasters thought Sam Adams was an IPA two thought Redhook's IPA was a Hefeweizen. In fairness, six of nine testers identified Pyramid Hefeweizen as a Hefe, and six recognized Full Sail ESB as a bitter. Much in the fashion of blind men describing an elephant, here is a how the testers handled Sam Adams Boston Lager : 5. Implications and Directions for Future Research. Science does not always answer questions often, it raises many new ones. This excursion into beer science mainly raises the question: What kind of people are we? Remember to stay strictly in the scientist's role. Don't take the test yourself.\n\n<question>:\nWhich isn't true of the test results?\n\n<options>:\nA some people were able to identify the beer based on taste\nB not all people knew beers as well as they thought they did\nC American beers typically scored higher\nD Hefeweizens were not popular among the testers\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,115	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nHe and his Las Vegas allies, a former Las Vegas city councilman named Steve Miller and an inner city venture capitalist named Otis Harris, invite me on a tour of Las Vegas. \"Behind the Mirage,\" they call it. For two hours, we cruise the streets behind the casinos. They show me all the evidence of gambling blight you'd never want to see, from a youth-center-turned-crack-house to pawn shops to sex shops to down at heels casinos to quickie motels. All the while, they keep up a patter about how terrible a neighbor the casino industry is and how superficial Las Vegas' prosperity is. It's very grim and mostly persuasive. Still, when we turn back on to the Strip, and pass the jaw-dropping Stratosphere and Circus Circus and Bellagio and the MGM Grand--a 30 story tower bathed in fabulous emerald light, I realize why Grey's task is hopeless here. He is committing the cardinal sin of Vegas. All he wants to do is talk about losers. In Las Vegas, under the thrilling lights of the Strip, no one wants to hear about losers. In the land of gaming, not gambling, everyone is sure he's a winner. 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. I owe an apology to Nevada Sen. Richard Bryan, whom I criticized yesterday for using the term \"Indian country\" during a speech critical of Indian casinos. As several readers pointed out to me, \"Indian country\" is a common phrase in the West and has no derogatory connotations. I'm sorry, Senator. 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. So the commission's two day visit to Gomorrah has been transformed from a charged political event to a kind of victory lap for gaming. Nevada Gov. Bob Miller and the \"gaming visionaries\" have been planning for these hearings for months, hoping to use them to demonstrate the might and sanctity and goodness of the Nevada gambling industry. The MGM Grand, which is run by commission member Terrence Lanni, is itself the first exhibit of the Vegas triumphalists. It is gaudy testimony that consumers, at least, have no problem with this business. The MGM Grand, a k a \"The City of Entertainment,\" has 5,000 rooms--the corridor outside my room is 200 yards long, so long I can't see its end--to feed the endless supply of slot machines, craps tables, and roulette wheels. David Cassidy performs here every night--twice! A few steps outside on the Strip is still more overwhelming evidence that Las Vegas has won the popular vote. New York, New York is just across the street, the $1.6 billion Bellagio is one door down, and a half-scale Eiffel Tower is going up next door. The setting has, as the pro-gambling folks no doubt hoped, stunned some of the gambling opponents. I asked one anti-gambling activist who had never before been to Vegas what she thinks of it. She could only blurt out \"Wow.\" The hearings, too, reinforce the Glorious Las Vegas theme. Frank Fahrenkopf, the industry's top lobbyist (who is paid so much he can afford monogrammed shirt cuffs --I saw them), holds forth cheerfully outside the ballroom, celebrating the electoral triumph of freedom over religious moralist tyranny. Inside, the room is packed with more than 600 people in neon lime green T-shirts that read \"Unions and Gaming: Together for a Better Life.\" They are members of the major casino union, here to cheer on their employers and their union. (Most of them, it must be said, are getting paid to do this.) Chairwoman Kay Coles James, a Christian conservative and skeptic of gambling, opens the hearing by assuring the crowd that the committee is toothless: \"We're not here to take anyone's job. ... We have no power to do anything except make recommendations.\" This sets the mood for most of the day: Vegas is great, so you'd better leave it alone! The local government, by all appearances a wholly owned subsidiary of the casinos, puts on a bravura performance. Gov. Miller opens the show with a 15 minute hymn to Las Vegas. It is the first of many statistical barrages about Nevada's one-ders: No. 1 in job growth, No. 1 in population growth, and No. 1 on planet Earth in per capita Girl Scout troops--and Boy Scout troops! Later in the day, Nevada's senators and both its congressmen appear to chew out the commission for even thinking that Nevada might have a dark side. They pay tribute to Nevada's sophisticated gambling industry, especially its regulation (much stricter than other gambling states) and its use of gambling taxes to fund state services. It is one of the ironies of Nevada politics that its Republican congressmen (Jim Gibbons and John Ensign) end up crediting their state's success to government regulation and corporate taxation. 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 is next door to the author's hotel?\n\n<options>:\nA David Cassidy's show\nB The Bellagio\nC The Eifel Tower\nD The MGM Grand\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
94	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>:\nHarvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever could devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously a \"Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!\" though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, with \"What is?\" asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. 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 Harvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering this for more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartender had taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water so proclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire history Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. \"That—that's robbery!\" the lanky man 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 because I gotta.\" \"Friend,\" said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eight \"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 you need?\" preposterous. We simply can't afford it.\" Johnson's response almost floored them. \"Who said anything about \"Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague?\" said Harvey as he and Joe a faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went to \"What's this doing here?\" Harvey asked, puzzled. \"I thought Johnson had from .\" Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion of Harvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. \"Joseph, the good-natured artist in frozen in the doorway. \"Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed. Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City.\" \"You don't need any more,\" said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hair and held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously been born and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would have kept him down near the general dimensions of a man. He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his own hand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again when his fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressed one. \"Pleased to meet you,\" piped a voice that had never known a dense drooping like a bloodhound's. \"Bring him in here!\" Johnson cried. \"I mean, get him away! He's coming down with asteroid fever!\" \"Of course,\" replied Harvey calmly. \"Any fool knows the first symptoms every year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get him out of here!\" \"In good time. He can't be moved immediately.\" his gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathe in tiny, uncontaminating gasps. Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-hand When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partner La-anago Yergis never fails, my friend,\" Harvey explained. \"By actual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-three minutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caught this one before it grew formidable.\" \"We do not sell this unbelievable remedy,\" Harvey replied with dignity. buckos.\" Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression of \"Make it four fifty,\" quavered Johnson. \"I dislike haggling,\" said Harvey. Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. The \"Medicine,\" Harvey propounded, \"should taste like medicine.\" To Joe he Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. \"Did Johnson ask to 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. he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolic Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carried down carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gave he gagged. \"That's the stuff, all right,\" he said, swallowing hard. He counted balanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his pain Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking about \"Your hospitality,\" said Harvey, \"depends on the prices you charge.\" Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He saw 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, silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails, Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices were 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 deftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian viotars , using his other two hands for waiting on the table. \"We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen,\" Harvey to women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire.\" complained Harvey. \"I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honest As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe and Harvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished in \"What the devil is this?\" he shouted.—\"How do you arrive at this fantastic, idiotic figure— three hundred and twenty-eight buckos Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty with \"restaurateur,\" pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign to the peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds the fingers together and asked disinterestedly: \"What were you going to offer, anyhow?\" \"It doesn't matter any longer,\" Harvey said with elaborate \"Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable to \"Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money would \"Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius!\" Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then he Genius, and I'm going to miss him something awful.\" On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiosity would probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting with questions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. For his part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoeba 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 is it I'm turning down?\" his greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!\" \"In simple terms,\" clarified Harvey, \"the ingenious doctor discovered ourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge would find himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!\" \"It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied Doctor a sensitive soul like his could\n\n<question>:\nWhat was so unique about Genius that made Joe and Harvey want to purchase him?\n\n<options>:\nA His impressive cooking\nB His ability to haggle\nC His useful mechanical skills\nD His 6 arms\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]

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