Subset (3)

instruct · 4.61k rows

Split (2)

train · 2.52k rows

conversation_id int64 1 2.52k	category stringclasses 1 value	conversation list
1,970	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 The of Boulevard Pasteur, the main drag of the westernized part of walk from the Place de France you can go from an ultra-modern, California-like resort to the It's quite a town, Tangier. King-size sidewalk cafes occupy shoeshine boys attached to the establishment. You can sit of a sunny morning and read the while getting and watch the people go by. Tangier is possibly the most cosmopolitan city in the world. Man, and occasionally a Senegalese from further south. In and Chinese, Hindus and Turks, Levantines and Filipinos, North Americans and South Americans, and, of course, even Europeans—from both sides of the Curtain. In Tangier you'll find some of 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. 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. Like I said, it's quite a town. I looked up from my Herald Tribune 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 The waiter came along and Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced was from Liverpool and in exports. \"What's in the newspaper?\" he said, disinterestedly. \"Pogo and Albert are going to fight a duel,\" I told him, \"and singer.\" He grunted. \"Oh,\" I said, \"the intellectual type.\" I scanned the front page. \"The Russkies have put up another manned satellite.\" \"They have, eh? How big?\" \"Several times bigger than saucers?\" A French girl went by with a poodle so finely clipped as to look as though it'd been shaven. The girl was in the latest from Paris. Every pore in place. We \"You know, what everybody Maybe they would've seen one.\" a while and I began to wonder 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 played close to the chest. tapas for us both. Tapas at the Cafe de Paris are apt to be olives, and possibly some cheese. Free lunch, they used to call it in the States. Just to say something, I said, \"Where do you think they came Saucers.\" Venus, or someplace.\" \"Ummmm,\" I said. \"Too bad , or something.\" was always the trouble with those space, then why not show themselves?\" It'd been cooked in rancid olive oil. I said, \"Oh, there are various answers to that one. We could think of two or three that made sense.\" \"Like what?\" \"Well, hell, suppose for instance of civilized planets. But it's restricted, see. You're not eligible 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.\" read the same poxy stuff I do.\" A Moorish girl went by dressed in a neatly tailored gray jellaba, European style high-heeled shoes, and a pinkish silk veil so transparent that you could see she wore lipstick. Very provocative, dark eyes can be over a veil. We both looked after her. one. Suppose you have a very advanced civilization on, say, bloody dry to support life.\" \"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. Uses hydroponics and so forth, husbands its water and air. Isn't that what we'd do, in its water and air?\" what about them?\" \"Well, they observe how man not against using it, if he could get away with it.\" scared and are keeping an eye on us. That's an old one. I've read that a dozen times, dished up different.\" I shifted my shoulders. \"Well, \"I got a better one. How's this. There's this alien life form civilization is so old that they don't have any records of when giving us a bad time here on Earth. They're all like scholars, or how we're going to get there.\" my hands for Mouley. \"How do you mean, ?\" to industrialize, modernize, catch up with the advanced countries. and India and China, and Yugoslavia and Brazil, and all the 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. 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 schools. All the bloody mess of be fascinated, like.\" know, there's only one big snag in this sort of talk. I've sorted 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. to me that such an alien would base himself in London or New York. Somewhere where he could use the libraries for research, here in Tangier.\" \"Why Tangier?\" \"It's the one town in the world 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.\" \"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 you you mean?\" \"I felt your mind probe back 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 about you?\" \"What're you doing here on \"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, 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 THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories December 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.\n\n<question>:\nIt is challenging to get to know someone intimately in a place like Tangier because people are generally ________.\n\n<options>:\nA Prejudiced\nB Monolingual\nC Transient\nD Inscrutable\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,242	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe intercom on Baxter's desk suddenly buzzed, and a bright red light Baxter picked it up and swiftly scanned its surface. A look of dismay overrode his erstwhile genial features. I had a horrible suspicion. \"Not again?\" I said softly. Baxter swore under his breath. Then he reached across the desktop and Jery Delvin had a most unusual talent. He could detect the flaws in greatest mystery, Jery assumed that it was because of his mental end of the whole puzzle of THE SECRET MARTIANS—with Jery as the first however, the real reason (same as that expressed by Jean Kerr) is that this kind of stay-at-home self-employment lets me sleep late in the morning.\" 1 unless maybe it was that hair dye that unexpectedly turned bright green after six weeks in the hair, but that was the lab's fault, not mine. So I managed a weak smile toward the duo, and tried not to sweat too profusely. \"Jery Delvin?\" said the one on my left, a note of no-funny-business in his brusque baritone. \"... Yes,\" I said, some terrified portion of my mind waiting masochistically for them to draw their collapsers and reduce me to a heap of hot protons. \"Come with us,\" said his companion. I stared at him, then glanced \"Mr. Delvin,\" she said, her voice a wispy croak. \"When will you be back? The Plasti-Flex man is waiting for your—\" I opened my mouth, but one of the security men cut in. \" W-Will I be back?\" I asked desperately, as we waited for the elevator. \"At all? Am I under arrest? What's up, anyhow?\" There was nothing for me to do but sweat it out and to try and enjoy the ride, wherever we were going. \" The man who spoke seemed more than surprised he seemed stunned. His voice held an incredulous squeak, a squeak which would have amazed his Baxter pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment, loudly. Baxter seemed to be trying to say something. \"I suppose you're wondering why I've called—\" he started, then stopped short and flushed with embarrassment. I felt a sympathetic hot wave flooding my own features. A copy chief in an advertising company almost always reacts to an obvious cliche. Then, with something like a look of relief on his blunt face, he \"Jery Delvin,\" he read, musingly and dispassionately. \"Five foot eleven civic-minded, slightly antisocial....\" He looked at me, questioningly. \"Just a bit,\" Baxter said. \"On file?\" Baxter frowned. \"What for?\" \"Ah,\" said Baxter, grinning. \"I begin to. And your job is to test these Then Baxter frowned again. \"But what's this about girls?\" Baxter cleared his throat loudly. \"I understand, at last. Hence your \"You have my sympathy, son,\" Baxter said, not unkindly. \"No, I don't imagine it has....\" Baxter was staring into some far-off is.... You have been chosen for an extremely important mission.\" I couldn't have been more surprised had he announced my incipient Baxter looked me square in the eye. \"Damned if I know!\" I stared at him, nonplussed. He'd spoken with evidence of utmost Baxter shrugged, and his genial smile was a bit tightly stretched. \"And,\" I said, beginning to be fascinated by his bewildered manner, Baxter eyed me balefully, then skimmed the brochure through the air in 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 his narrowing eyes. \"Not really,\" I said hastily. \"It baffles me, to be frank.\" \"If you're sitting there in that hopeful stance awaiting some sort of fist down on the desktop. \"No one has an explanation! All we know is that the Brain always picks the right man.\" Chief of Security or not, I was getting a little burned up at his highhanded treatment of my emotions. \"How nice!\" I said icily. \"Now if I only knew the problem!\" Baxter blinked, then lost some of his scowl. \"Yes, of course \" Baxter I detected a tinge of cynicism in his tone, but said nothing. \"What a gesture!\" Baxter went on, hardly speaking directly to me at \"You sound disillusioned, sir,\" I interjected. off for an extraterrestrial romp, will cement relations between those nations who have remained hostile despite the unification of all and then we got this red-headed kid with freckles like confetti all over his slightly bucktoothed face, and we—Sir?\" I'd paused, because he was staring at me like a man on the brink of apoplexy. I swallowed, and tried to look relaxed. what happened to the Space Scouts last week?\" I thought a second, then nodded. \"They've been having such a good time that the government extended their trip by—Why are you shaking your head that way, sir?\" and tired, and very much in keeping with his snowy hair. \"You see, the Space Scouts have vanished.\" Baxter shook his head. Baxter cupped his slightly jowled cheeks in his hands and propped his \"That's just it,\" Baxter sighed. \"We don't even know that! We're like a Baxter nodded. \"Yes,\" said Baxter. \"That's what bothers me.\" go anywhere, do anything, commandeer anything I might need. All with no questions asked. Needless to say, I was feeling pretty chipper as I entered the hangar housing Phobos II . At the moment, I was the most influential human being in the known universe. yellow sunlight outside. He was tall, much taller than I, but he seemed nervous as hell. At least he was pacing back and forth amid a litter of half-smoked cigarette butts beside the gleaming tailfins of the spaceship, and a fuming butt was puckered into place in his mouth. Baxter's idea. \"Yes, sir!\" he replied swiftly, at stiff attention. \"I don't really have any details,\" I said, and waited for him to take his cue. As an afterthought, to help him talk, I added, \"At ease, by \"Thank you, sir,\" he said, not actually loosening much in his rigid the ration packs, when I noticed how damned quiet it was aboard. And especially funny that no one was in the galley waiting for me to start last—interview with Chief Baxter. I had a slight inkling why the Brain \"Strange,\" I remarked to Chief Baxter when I was seated once again in myself out at that airfield. I was brusque, highhanded, austere, almost malevolent with the pilot. And I'm ordinarily on the shy side, as a matter of fact.\" \"The hell it is!\" Baxter snapped. \"Good grief, man, why'd you think the I sat up straight and scratched the back of my head. \"Now you mention it, I really don't know. It seems a pretty dangerous thing to have about, the way people jump when they see it.\" \"It is dangerous, of course, but it's vitally necessary. You're young, was impossible, Jery, my boy, to get anything done whatsoever without Baxter smiled. \"No chance of that, Jery. We didn't leave it up to any Baxter nodded. \"The Brain just picks the men. Then we tell the men the Baxter grimaced and shivered. \"Don't even think such a thing! Even such a situation!\" I sank back into the contour chair, and glanced at my watch. Much too \"You understand,\" said Baxter suddenly, \"that you're to say nothing\n\n<question>:\nHow did Baxter feel when he first met Jery?\n\n<options>:\nA guilty and sympathetic\nB confused and anxious\nC frustrated and nervous\nD nervous yet excited\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,256	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nObstetrics for beginners It's my first go at delivering a baby by caesarean section – and the foetal head is impacted, jammed in its mother's pelvis. To be honest I'm struggling. The baby's mother – she's called Debra – remains impassive throughout these agonised fumblings. Her face reveals nothing of what she may be feeling. But then Debra has no feelings. Indeed she has no face…So you can stop worrying. Debra – Desperate Debra to use her full trade name – is a simulator designed to help doctors practise their skill at dealing with impacted foetuses: babies that get stuck trying to exit the womb by the normal route. She comprises the lower two thirds (ie from the mid-chest region downwards) of a life-sized but limbless female torso made of flesh-coloured silicone rubber. She comes with a vulva, a pre-cut incision in her abdomen and, most importantly, a uterus containing a foetal head that should, in the normal way of things, be free to emerge between her legs. But this fetus is going nowhere until an obstetrician – or in this case me – can successfully grasp and pull it out. A proper study of the clinical effectiveness of the Tydeman tube will necessarily involve women giving birth. Assessing the value of Debra as a simulator didn't require human subjects The clever and sophisticated simulator I'm playing with started life as a lash-up in an obstetrician's home workshop: a Heath Robinson-style contraption barely recognisable as a model of the human body. But it wasn't at that stage intended as a simulator for training medical staff. Its sole purpose was to test the effectiveness of a novel device called a Tydeman tube. Paradoxically, although the testing equipment, Debra, is now commercially available, the device it was intended to test has yet to reach the market. The use of simulators to teach technical skills is now common in medical schools. You can learn to sew up a knife wound, catheterise a bladder or intubate an airway. You can practise cardiopulmonary resuscitation or ear syringing or even go through the motions of a keyhole surgical procedure. The technology required to do these things may cost a few pounds, or tens of thousands. Either way, given that most of these devices were invented during the past three or four decades, it comes as something of a surprise to learn that simulation for medical purposes can be traced back as far as the Chinese Song dynasty of 960-1279 AD. So you can stop worrying. Debra – Desperate Debra to use her full trade name – is a simulator designed to help doctors practise their skill at dealing with impacted foetuses: babies that get stuck trying to exit the womb by the normal route. She comprises the lower two thirds (ie from the mid-chest region downwards) of a life-sized but limbless female torso made of flesh-coloured silicone rubber. She comes with a vulva, a pre-cut incision in her abdomen and, most importantly, a uterus containing a foetal head that should, in the normal way of things, be free to emerge between her legs. But this fetus is going nowhere until an obstetrician – or in this case me – can successfully grasp and pull it out. Given the universality of childbirth it's no surprise that, then as now, the womb turns out to be the most simulated of our organs. For the benefit of 18th-century midwives and doctors-in-training, the Bologna surgeon Giovanni Antonio Galli devised a birthing simulator comprising a glass uterus supported by an artificial pelvis and containing a flexible foetus. Trainees had to deliver the baby while wearing a blindfold. Only the tutor could witness the fumbling of their hands. As the material for a convincing simulation, glass clearly has its drawbacks. But another 18th-century contraption used a pink cloth-covered mannequin comprising a female torso complete with genitalia, a set of implantable foetuses of various ages, and even – a real and the team has already conducted such a study. Thirty obstetricians, from three NHS maternity units and with varying levels of experience, took part. They all received a brief explanation of how Debra works, and were then asked to try a timed removal of the foetal head at three different levels of difficulty. Overall, 87 per cent reported that the simulator offered a realistic experience of dealing with an impacted head, and 93 per cent thought it would be valuable as a training device. The inventor of the tube and of Desperate Debra is Dr Graham Tydeman, a consultant in obstetrics and gynaecology at Victoria Hospital in Kirkcaldy, Fife. Only after he'd built Debra did he realise that she might serve a purpose beyond his original intention. His is a decade-long tale of inspired insights, thwarted aims and shifting purposes Tydeman didn't do much with the idea until 10 years ago when one trainee, who was experiencing real difficulty getting heads out, prompted him to think again about the problem. Around the same time, he met professor of obstetrics Andrew Shennan and consultant midwife Annette Briley, both of the Women's Health Academic Centre at St Thomas's hospital. Between them they came up with a device – the Tydeman tube – to make pushing on the foetus more controlled while simultaneously releasing any vacuum that might be holding it in place. The team found some money to employ a product designer who used computer-aided design technology and 3D printing to make a prototype. \"We were at the point of getting one made in silicone,\" says Tydeman, \"when we realised that before we started experimenting on women we really ought to test it on a simulator.\" No such simulator existed – so he decided to make one himself. Although tests carried out with the Debra prototype showed that the tube would work as intended, Tydeman and his colleagues then faced what he calls a kind of medical catch-22. \"We had the tube finished about three years ago… but we were more interested in trying to save lives than selling a product. We thought that the right thing to do before commercialising it was to be sure we'd got the best design.\" They tried it on a dozen or so women in labour, and concluded that it did what it supposed to. But they held off trying to market it because they wanted to do more extensive, more rigorous clinical studies. With a grant from the Guy's and St Thomas's Charity fund they made Debra more presentable. Tydeman showed the prototype to Adam Rouilly, an established company specialising in medical models and simulators. They were impressed. A year later, the first of Debra's smartened-up sisters was on the market. So how valuable in training medical staff is a simulator like this? Very, according to Annette Briley. Imagine it's the middle of the night and an unplanned emergency caesarean is required: \"Some poor junior doctor might find himself trying to manage it on his own.\" To have practised the knack of extracting a firmly impacted baby from a simulator is lot better than first honing your skill on a real woman.\n\n<question>:\nWhen was the earliest childbirth simulator developed?\n\n<options>:\nA Sometime in the fourth century\nB Sometime in the eighteenth century\nC Sometime in the thirteenth century\nD Sometime in the first century\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,505	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 clever and sophisticated simulator I'm playing with started life as a lash-up in an obstetrician's home workshop: a Heath Robinson-style contraption barely recognisable as a model of the human body. But it wasn't at that stage intended as a simulator for training medical staff. Its sole purpose was to test the effectiveness of a novel device called a Tydeman tube. Paradoxically, although the testing equipment, Debra, is now commercially available, the device it was intended to test has yet to reach the market. The inventor of the tube and of Desperate Debra is Dr Graham Tydeman, a consultant in obstetrics and gynaecology at Victoria Hospital in Kirkcaldy, Fife. Only after he'd built Debra did he realise that she might serve a purpose beyond his original intention. His is a decade-long tale of inspired insights, thwarted aims and shifting purposes but with a good outcome. Although the Tydeman tube is still in gestation, Desperate Debra herself is now thriving. which suggests requests for push-ups during unplanned caesareans are far from uncommon. The Tydeman tube is a gadget intended to make this manoeuvre safer and more effective. Creativity and innovation have many unlikely sources. What seems to have inspired Tydeman to develop his device was the characteristic sound of a Wellington boot being pulled free of wet, muddy ground: a slurpy, sucking, gurgling noise. When an impacted foetal head is pulled free of the uterus it's often accompanied by a similar sucking noise, the result of air rushing in between the obstetrician's fingers to fill the space vacated. \"What occurred to me years ago was that if the air can't get in, why not put a tube up into the vagina so that it can get in from below the baby's head.\" From time to time, if he felt he felt the baby might stick, Tydeman would slip a length of sterile silicone tubing through the woman's vagina and up into the womb next to the baby's head. Allowing air in by this route would release any suction forces tending to hold it where it was. Tydeman didn't do much with the idea until 10 years ago when one trainee, who was experiencing real difficulty getting heads out, prompted him to think again about the problem. Around the same time, he met professor of obstetrics Andrew Shennan and consultant midwife Annette Briley, both of the Women's Health Academic Centre at St Thomas's hospital. Between them they came up with a device – the Tydeman tube – to make pushing on the foetus more controlled while simultaneously releasing any vacuum that might be holding it in place. The instrument is made up of a rigid plastic tube opening into a softer silicone cup. Pressure to the foetal head is applied using four pads projecting forward from the cup's interior. Holding the device by the tube, the user places the cup against the part of the head exposed through the dilated cervix, and presses. This pushes the baby back up into the uterus while releasing any suction pressure that may have been holding it, so allowing the obstetrician to extract it more easily. Because pressure is distributed equally between the four pads with a greater combined surface area than that of a user's fingertips, the risk of inadvertent damage is minimised. The team found some money to employ a product designer who used computer-aided design technology and 3D printing to make a prototype. \"We were at the point of getting one made in silicone,\" says Tydeman, \"when we realised that before we started experimenting on women we really ought to test it on a simulator.\" No such simulator existed – so he decided to make one himself. That Tydeman was able to do this comes as no great surprise once you've glanced at his website. His career may be rooted in medicine but his interests encompass sculpture, furniture making and much else. He works in wood, glass, metals and plastic. \"I've got a big workshop with a lathe and a forge,\" he says. \"I make stuff. I always have, ever since I was a child. My dad was a woodwork teacher, my mum was very creative with fabric.\" Although tests carried out with the Debra prototype showed that the tube would work as intended, Tydeman and his colleagues then faced what he calls a kind of medical catch-22. \"We had the tube finished about three years ago… but we were more interested in trying to save lives than selling a product. We thought that the right thing to do before commercialising it was to be sure we'd got the best design.\" They tried it on a dozen or so women in labour, and concluded that it did what it supposed to. But they held off trying to market it because they wanted to do more extensive, more rigorous clinical studies. This presented a problem. \"If you've applied for research money,\" says Tydeman, \"but you've already got what seems to be a commercially viable design, potential funders are going to say that the company aiming to sell it should pay for the work.\" On the other hand, commercial interest is easier to drum up if you've already got evidence that a device is safe and effective. the head was cast in silicone from a model he'd made in plasticine, and the rest comprised old springs and other bits of stuff lying around his workshop. \"It wasn't actually that difficult,\" Tydeman says. Tydeman can remember the exact moment when the idea of her having a greater role dawned on him. \"I was on the sleeper train down from Scotland to London,\" he says. \"Debra was with me because the first Tydeman tube had become available at St Thomas's… It was about midnight, I'd had my free whisky and I suddenly thought, 'Blow me! Even if the tube doesn't work, Debra could be useful as a teaching aid'.\" With a grant from the Guy's and St Thomas's Charity fund they made Debra more presentable. Tydeman showed the prototype to Adam Rouilly, an established company specialising in medical models and simulators. They were impressed. A year later, the first of Debra's smartened-up sisters was on the market. A proper study of the clinical effectiveness of the Tydeman tube will necessarily involve women giving birth. Assessing the value of Debra as a simulator didn't require human subjects One of the treatments of choice in that era was, naturally, acupuncture. But how to teach tyro-acupuncturists where to place the needles? Simple. A life-size bronze statue dotted with small holes indicated the points of insertion. And how then to test the students' grasp of their subject? If the statute was hollow, filled with liquid and given an outer coating of wax to mask the holes, a correct needle insertion would be followed by a leak. Given the universality of childbirth it's no surprise that, then as now, the womb turns out to be the most simulated of our organs. For the benefit of 18th-century midwives and doctors-in-training, the Bologna surgeon Giovanni Antonio Galli devised a birthing simulator comprising a glass uterus supported by an artificial pelvis and containing a flexible foetus. Trainees had to deliver the baby while wearing a blindfold. Only the tutor could witness the fumbling of their hands. coup de théâtre , this – a facility for exuding suitably coloured liquids at the appropriate moment. Oddly, as medicine became more scientific, most of these devices fell by the wayside. As an academic review of these and other devices has pointed out, much of the 20th century was something of Dark Ages for simulation. Its value in professional training has had to be rediscovered: an endeavour in which inventive people like Graham Tydeman, sometimes with workshops rich in discarded junk, are still fruitfully engaged.\n\n<question>:\nWhat inspired Tydeman to develop his device?\n\n<options>:\nA A mannequin\nB A sound\nC An advertisement\nD A smell\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,229	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>:\nprosperity, yet they still lacked adequate medical and research facilities. [p 135 ] By CHARLES V. DE VET monkey on his back Under the cloud of cast-off identities lay the shape of another man— [p 143 ] caustically. “He doesn’t look so tough now, does he?” “It might have been better to kill him right away,” a second, less confident voice said. “It’s supposed to be impossible to hold him.” to his right but within vision, “What do you think they’ll do with him?” “Execute him, I suppose,” the harsh voice said matter-of-factly. “They’re probably just curious to [p 136 ] straightened and barked an order Two men hurried through a and began to run. of his normally alert gaze. “I see Shouts and the sound of charging It was a mistake. “He’s out of it,” the first speaker said, and Zarwell observe his surroundings. escalator to the second floor. Another pair of men were hurrying down, two steps at a stride. With feet came from behind him. He cut to the right, running toward the to his more immediate problem. that—except wait. The men pursuing him came There was nothing to do after to fight. Now he swiftly reassessed the odds. There were five of them, he saw. He should be able to incapacitate two or three and break out. But the fact that they had been expecting him meant face splitting in a grin that revealed large square teeth. “How like this,” he said, his smoke-tan shot up and locked about his throat, joined almost immediately by the right. relaxed. He offered no resistance as they The man’s mouth opened and he tried to yell as he threw himself reached him. episodes are beginning to tie together,” he said, with an attempt at [p 144 ] nonchalance. “The next couple should do it.” other than an introspective stillness came and he returned his attention no connection,” he decided, his words once again precise and meticulous. “We don’t have enough to go on. Do you feel able to try another comanalysis this afternoon yet?” “I don’t see why not.” Zarwell [p 137 ] again. “You must be joking.” “I have very little sense of humor,” Curiosity restrained his trigger finger. “Why would I be foolish?” he asked. “Your Meninger oath of inviolable confidence?” still have to trust some other analyst.” had to spend weeks, sometimes months or years interviewing a patient. If he was skilled enough, he could sort the relevancies from little difference. If I was going to able now, with the help of the serum, to confine our discourses to done it before this.” Zarwell debated with himself the asked. “Because you’re no mad-dog killer!” Now that the crisis seemed Don’t …” The words tumbled down from calmly, even allowed himself to relax. “You’re still pretty much in truth of what the other had said. what we’re told. We’ll hold him.” simplicity. He should know all about the many. But you are an idealist. Your killings were necessary to bring effort. Abruptly the unreality about more with you on that later.” While Zarwell considered, Bergstrom pressed his advantage. “One more scene might do it,” he said. them—the man who held the gun. The man who was himself. The other “himself” drifted me, that is?” [p 145 “Should we try again—if you trust ] twitch, expand and contract. The face was unharmed, yet it was no doorway of a small anteroom to his longer the same. No longer his own features. He brought his hands up and joined the tips of his fingers against his chest. “But it’s another piece in the [p 138 ] jig-saw. In time it will fit into place.” He paused. “It means no more to you than the first, I suppose?” smile. Thirty-six hours under the paralysis was longer than advisable. “No,” Zarwell answered. least every twenty hours. Fortunately his natural features would serve as an adequate disguise One cheek wore a frozen quarter now. He adjusted the ring setting on as much. A quite normal first phase of treatment.” He straightened a paper on his desk. “I think that will be enough for today. Twice in one sitting is about all we ever try. Otherwise some particular episode might cause undue mental stress, and set up a block.” He glanced down at his appointment pad. “Tomorrow at two, then?” Zarwell grunted acknowledgment and pushed himself to his stone. The evening meal hour was approaching when he reached the the needle into his forearm and tossed the instrument down a waste chute. He took three more steps and paused uncertainly. waiting in a nearby shed to be shipped to the country. turn you in to the police, I’d have [p 146 ] “Trust and money,” Zarwell said drily. his ennui. [p 139 ] all come to him. Yet always, when his mind lost its sleep-induced [p 140 ] them thoughtfully. “I learned then the truth of Russell’s my share. Yet, wherever I go, the word eventually gets out, and I’m right back in a fight again. It’s like conflict . back in! You and your Vernon Johnson can do your own revolting. I’m through!” He moved in and joined a party of short, bearded men, directing them as they battered at the concrete and the besiegers charged through, carrying back the defenders man without answering. He was medium tall, with the body of an athlete, though perhaps ten years [p 147 ] beyond the age of sports. He had was fleeing, pursued by the same bearded men who had been with the same firm purpose, vigilant, resourceful, and well prepared for the eventuality that had befallen. would not come. “We have nothing to talk about,” was the best he could manage. He made his escape without me that sometimes I forget it’s all [p 141 twelve. Their successors were to be elected biennially. At first they were. Then things changed. We ] is beginning to prosper. Yet the only ones receiving the benefits explain. This work is so routine to twelve hours a day. They are poorly housed , poorly fed, poorly clothed. They …” Zarwell found himself not listening as Johnson’s voice went on. The approaching—not walking, but did they always try to drag him into their troubles? Why hadn’t he chosen some story was always the same. But why The last question prompted a new thought. Just why had he chosen St. Martin’s? Was it only a coincidence? Or had he, merely shortening the space between is so …” “Haphazard? That’s true. The other world on which to hide? random, with no chronological sequence. Our problem will be to reassemble them in proper order back? “… and we need your help.” Johnson had finished his speech. his own have put the monkey on his later. Or some particular scene may and let it out in a sigh. “What are your plans so far?” he asked wearily. — must be false. It must have been implanted there. But we can go into that later. For today I think we have done enough. This episode him. “That’s right.” Bergstrom thought for a moment. “We shouldn’t let this hang too long. up the next morning and he rode with a tech crew to the edge of [p 142 ] subconsciously and technicians had been supplied by Earth, and the long struggle began to fit the world for human needs. When Zarwell arrived, six months before, the vitalized area already extended three hundred at least, picked this particular they blasted out springs and lakes in the foothills to make their own. they imported microorganisms from Earth. Three rubber-tracked crawlers picked their way down from the mountains until they joined the loaded with ore that would be smelted into metal for depleted After its three-thousand-mile journey across scorched sterile rock, it worker’s mouth. Zarwell gazed idly about at the other laborers. Fully three-quarters of them were beri-rabza ridden. A cure for the skin fungus had not yet been found the men’s faces\n\n<question>:\nHow many comanalysis sessions can someone undergo in one day?\n\n<options>:\nA Four\nB Two\nC One\nD Three\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
512	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nMercury, he was selling his guns into the weirdest of all his exploits—gambling his life men and women sitting at the tables drank heavily of Latonka, the Latonka. The pale green wine had a delicate yet exhilarating taste. He wondered who was putting up the ten thousand Earth notes? Who stood to lose most in case of a revolution? The answer seemed obvious enough. Who, but Albert Peet. Peet controlled the Latonka trade for which there was a tremendous demand throughout the Universe. And what had happened to the girl. Had the rebels abducted her. If Universal Debacle of 3368, after that the Martian Revolution as well as business of hunting a man through the rat-runs beneath the city was out Mr. Peet licked his lips again. \"I have come, Mr. Moynahan, on a matter of business, urgent business. I had not intended to appear in this matter. I preferred to remain behind the scenes, but the disappearance Mr. Peet licked his lips. \"But you will, surely you will. Unless Karfial Hodes is stopped immediately there will be a bloody uprising all over the planet during the Festival of the Rains. Earth doesn't \"Perhaps. I have a large interest in the Latonka trade. It is—ah—lucrative.\" Jaro Moynahan lit a cigarette, sat down on the edge of the bed. \"Why beat about the bush,\" he asked with a sudden grin. \"Mr. Peet, you've gained control of the Latonka trade. Other Earthmen are in control I don't wonder that you are afraid of a revolution.\" Mr. Peet took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. \"Fifteen thousand Earth notes I can offer you. But no more. That is as high as I entrance. His black eyes burned holes in his pale boyish face. His white suit was blotched with sweat and dirt. \"They told me Mr. Peet was here,\" he said. \"It's for you,\" said Jaro over his shoulder. Where's Miss Mikail?\" \"I got away. Look, Mr. Peet, I got to see you alone.\" Albert Peet said, \"Would you excuse me, Mr. Moynahan?\" He licked his lips. \"I'll just step out into the hall a moment.\" He went out, drawing the door shut after him. stick if he were called upon to use it in a hurry. Then he went out into the hall. At the desk he inquired if any messages had come for him. There were none, but the clerk had seen Mr. Peet with a young fellow take the incline to the underground. Above the clerk's head a newsograph was reeling off the current events almost as soon as they happened. Jaro Earth Congress suspends negotiations on Mercurian freedom pending Latonka. The burrows were but poorly lit, the natives preferring the \"LATONKA TRUST\" He pushed through the door into a rich carpeted reception room. At the far end was a second door beside which sat a desk, door and desk being railed off from the rest of the office. The door into Albert Peet's inner sanctum was ajar. Jaro could distinguish voices then quite clearly he heard Albert Peet say in a high girlish tone: \"Stanley, I thought I left you in the native quarter. Why did you follow me? How many times have I told you never to come here?\" \"You've broken my shoulder. I'll kill you.\" The door to the inner sanctum swung open. \"What's happened?\" cried Albert Peet in distress. \"What's wrong with you, Stanley?\" \"This dirty slob shot me in the shoulder.\" carpet. Joan Webb \"There's been an—ah—accident,\" said Mr. Peet, and he licked his lips. \"Call a doctor, Miss Webb.\" Miss Webb raised an eyebrow, went to the visoscreen. In a moment she \"Oh,\" said Miss Webb, \"the offices of the Latonka Trust.\" \"Thank you,\" said Miss Webb. She flicked the machine off, then added: \"You trollop.\" Mr. Peet regarded Jaro Moynahan with distress. \"Really, Mr. Moynahan, was it necessary to shoot Stanley? Isn't that—ah—a little extreme? I'm afraid it might incapacitate him, and I poor boy? Aren't you the big brave man?\" \"Poor boy?\" said Jaro mildly. \"Venomous little rattlesnake. I took these toys away from him.\" He held out the poisoned dart guns. \"You take them, Mr. Peet. Frankly, they give me the creeps. They might go off. A scratch from one of those needles would be enough.\" Mr. Peet accepted the guns gingerly. He held them as if they might explode any minute. He started to put them in his pocket, thought better of it, glanced around helplessly. nasty little contraptions for all the Latonka on Mercury.\" staunched the flow of blood. His face was even whiter, if possible. Jaro eyed him coldly as with his good hand the youth dropped the dart \"Why, no, I mean yes,\" replied Miss Webb, a blank expression in her eyes. \"Goodbye, Miss Webb,\" said Mr. Peet firmly. Jaro grinned and winked at her. Miss Webb tottered out of the room. As the door closed behind the girl, Albert Peet licked his lips, said: \"Mr. Moynahan, I suppose my disappearance back at your room requires notes?\" \"That's fair enough,\" replied Jaro. Albert Peet sighed. \"I have the check made out.\" \"Only,\" continued Jaro coldly, \"I'm not ready to be bought off. I think I'll deal myself a hand in this game.\" Mr. Peet's face fell. \"You won't reconsider?\" \"Sorry,\" said Jaro \"but I've got a date. I'm late now.\" He started to leave. \"Stanley!\" called Albert Peet. The pale-faced young man appeared in the doorway, the dart gun in his as he fell. There was a tiny plop like a cap exploding. He heard the whisper of the poisoned dart as it passed overhead. Then he fired from the floor. The pale-faced young man crumpled like an empty sack. Jaro got up, keeping an eye on Albert Peet, brushed off his knees. \"You've killed him,\" said Peet. \"If I were you, Mr. Moynahan, I would be on the next liner back to Earth.\" Without answering, Jaro backed watchfully from the room. Albert Peet forgot to introduce us. There's some skullduggery going on here that I'm particularly anxious to get to the bottom of. I thought you might be able to help me.\" \" said Joan, choking on the Latonka. at me with that poisoned dart gun.\" \"But the police!\" she cried, as she caught her breath. \"There'll never be an investigation. Albert Peet will see to that. I was called here on what I supposed was a legitimate revolution. Instead I was offered ten thousand Earth notes to assassinate the leader of the \"The Mercurians, of course.\" Peet and the rest of the combine had such an easy time gaining control of the Latonka trade.\" Joan—I've a notion that we're going to be a great team. How do you happen to be Albert Peet's private secretary?\" \"A gal's gotta eat. But the truth is, I was quitting. The Latonka Trust is almost on the rocks. Their stock has been dropping like a meteor.\" Jaro Moynahan raised his oblique brows but did not interrupt. \"Albert Peet,\" she continued, \"has been trying to sell out but nobody will touch the stock, not since it looks as if the Earth Congress is going to grant the Mercurians their freedom. Everybody knows that the first thing the Mercurians will do, will be to boot out the Latonka Latonka Trust. I know.\" \"But I should think rumors like that would run down the Latonka stock.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat would happen if the supply of Latonka were to be cut off?\n\n<options>:\nA The Latonka Trust stock would increase.\nB Mercury Sam’s Garden would gain customers.\nC Demand would decrease throughout the universe.\nD Albert Peet would lose his fortune.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
748	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIt was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like with it,” his father said. “It wasn’t that strong. Still, it doesn’t take so very much radioactivity his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom “We weren’t planning to run a submarine “You awake, Eddie?” “But, Dad,” Eddie wondered, “what could they do with it?” “They could study it,” his father explained. the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” “At least, they could send it somewhere to be man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding “That’s entirely possible,” his father said. “In fact, it’s the only logical explanation I can much age, although Eddie knew it had been think of. People simply don’t go around stealing you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as Eddie smiled sheepishly. “I—I had a During dinner Eddie wasn’t sure just what talk with someone, yet he knew he shouldn’t bother his father with any more questions. He be worth a try, at that. You never can tell where you might strike some radioactivity.” “Do you believe in dreams, Dad?” Eddie had no desire to do that. He ran down “Come on in, Eddie,” she invited, seeming Eddie pulled on his trousers and T shirt Eddie apologized, following her inside. “Hello, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross said, but she “You’re never a pest, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross assured put fresh ones in after breakfast. He brushed his teeth carefully, taking particular “Right on the front page.” “I suppose your father is quite concerned “Oh, yes,” Eddie affirmed. “He was the one Finished, Eddie went out to breakfast. what it’s all about if you could explain what a radioisotope is, Eddie.” “So your father says. But I’m afraid your “Well,” Eddie said slowly, “it’s not easy to big day will have to start with sorting out and day today.” tying up those newspapers and magazines that “But, Mom—” 15 “No arguments, son,” his father put in calmly but firmly. “School vacation doesn’t mean that your chores around here are on “I’ll say,” Eddie agreed. “Of course, only vacation, too. Get at it right away, and you’ll The very word excited Eddie. In fact, anything guess,” Eddie said. “Most atoms stay in one along the way. Eddie knew that a radioisotope asking that particular question was to keep from prying deeper into the subject of the radioisotope. Much of his father’s work at 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. eagerly. “Wouldn’t think of leaving it home,” his father said, smiling. “By the way, I put new batteries in it the other day. Take it easy on “Well, they know just how to do it,” Eddie them. Remember to switch it off when you’re “I’ll say they’re dangerous,” Eddie said. It took Eddie over an hour to sort out the particles,” Eddie explained. “Especially the “Think I’ll do a little prospecting,” Eddie “I would,” Eddie said. “Everyone is carefully Eddie said. The more he thought about it, the wants to go,” Eddie answered casually. He she was only a girl. Eddie didn’t figure a girl or something like that. “She’ll enjoy it, I’m sure,” his mother said. “My, that’s interesting, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross “I’ve seen them do it,” Eddie said proudly, freedom, racing back and forth as Eddie “It’s hot,” Eddie said, “but not like if it “Oh, hi, Eddie,” Teena greeted him, appearing up water, it soaks up radiation.” 41 That’s how to handle it, Eddie thought. “That’s about it,” Eddie said. “My dad says that as more is learned about the ways to use are strong and dangerous. Others absorb only “Dad didn’t say exactly,” Eddie answered, Eddie nodded. It was even more serious lighter in the summer. Eddie couldn’t tell used. Eddie assumed that anyone who would “She always does, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said, Eddie knew she was right. They were since Eddie’s family had moved to Oceanview “People should talk more and read more about it. After all, this is an atomic age. We might as well face it. My father says that in horse-and-buggy “Well, I’ll be glad to finish them, Eddie,” days everyone knew how to feed a horse “Oh, I don’t really mind, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie Eddie had set carefully on the dinette table. Eddie,” she said, “but I wouldn’t quite know Eddie laughed. “I sure wouldn’t want the “What are we talking about, Eddie?” “Oh, hello, Mr. Ross,” Eddie said, turning rock mounds and outcroppings, Eddie but Eddie knew these indicated no more than Eddie, then added quickly, “forget it, Eddie. “In fact, not good at all.” Eddie said, “We might as well call it a day, problems, Eddie thought, as he started to “All right,” Eddie said. “You know, one of Eddie.” She handed him one of the sandwiches. on a recent birthday. Then Eddie said good-by filling his water dish, Eddie went in the back happen.” 25 Then Eddie heard the sound of his father’s was open. Eddie went through the dining sat stiffly behind his homemade desk, talking rapidly into the telephone. Eddie caught only the last few sketchy words. Then his father placed the telephone in its cradle, glanced up, and saw Eddie. in Eddie’s mind about something being years older than he had that very morning. Worry lay deep in his eyes. He fumbled thoughtfully with a pencil, turning it end over end on his desk. “Hello, son,” he said. He didn’t even ask genuine interest in Eddie’s prospecting trips. “Dad,” Eddie said anxiously, “what—what’s the matter?” “It shows that much, does it, son?” his father said tiredly. “What’s wrong, Dad?” Eddie prompted. “Or can’t you tell me?” “Eddie, you remember me mentioning this “I remember,” Eddie said. “Did it come?” “It did—and it didn’t,” his father said. “What does that mean, Dad?” Eddie asked, puzzled. “The radioisotope was stolen, Eddie,” his father said slowly. “Stolen right out from under our noses!” At the moment, Eddie didn’t pry for further , which Eddie rushed out to get as soon as he heard it plop onto the front porch. He took the newspaper to his father to read “It wasn’t your fault, was it, Dad?” Eddie defended. “It was as much mine as anybody’s, son,” his father said. “Probably more so. After all, “Fifty pounds,” Eddie said thoughtfully. “Not when it’s lead, son,” his father replied. “Not much bigger than a two-quart Eddie said. think it was any kid, Eddie. Not by a long Eddie read the newspaper account. The “Dad,” Eddie asked, looking up from the “But, Dad,” Eddie continued, “how would “They wouldn’t,” his father said. “They may have had another plan. The way things worked out, they didn’t need to use it. The\n\n<question>:\nWhat best describes Eddie's character?\n\n<options>:\nA He has a deep appreciation for nuclear science.\nB He is boy who often gets into trouble.\nC He tries to act older and more intelligent than he is.\nD He tries to copy everything his father says, does, and feels.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,256	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 STEPHEN BARR Illustrated by GAUGHAN When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beaten temperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, but according to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I got place looked wife-deserted. when I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almost \"Right,\" said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then go on grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. \"Sorry, Mac. You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting.\" which exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thing usual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular, a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay. During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase \"I'm just accepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from the The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to the He said, \"Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed it heard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammed directions Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself until Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down in exercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to be allowed to perch, but were not allowed to. they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they all wanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided and The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds and usually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded like an incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized that Several other loud voices started at the same time. him, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and the impulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and he looked stunned. The nearest man struck them up from his hand. \"Okay, Houdini! So His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cards on the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and the the four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence, got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatly \"Judas!\" he said, and started to pick them up. \"Will you look at that! My God, what a session....\" I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it, but I had an idea what I would hear. After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed. \"I'll have to go down for more soda,\" I said. top of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto the I was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouth The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he and Everyone was honking his horn. Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to his It was out of order. brightened up considerably. \"I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office,\" he said. and nodded toward the pandemonium. was too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letter \"Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense at \"No. During the week.\" \"Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?\" I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off. \"Let's go out and eat,\" I said, \"There's not a damn thing in the kitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee.\" by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and we heard one of them say to Danny, \"I don't know what the hell's going Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as they tried to pass one another as soon as one of them moved aside to let embarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins were \"All right, smart guy!\" they shouted in unison, and barged ahead, only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous punches Mr. Graham?\" he asked. \"I don't know what's going on around here, but ever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!\" he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. \"Bring those dames over here!\" fenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious the ladies seemed not to be. caught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which the other two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go, \"Oh, Alec!\" she said, and managed to detach herself. \"Are you all \"Of course I'm all right. But why....\" \"Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham,\" was all he said. impertinent look. date? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.\" Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I was so pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry. \"I'm in no mood to cook,\" she said. \"Let's get away from all this.\" In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way. you all about it.\" Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on Sixth Avenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less than and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made the lieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me. Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I felt said nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter. When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although it didn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the door and ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at the next table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant green evening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiter returned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: cold cuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfait for the fat lady. I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar salt seemed to have been used instead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, and made faces. The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back to the bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tasted one of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzled expression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out a That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothing pick, his face pink with exasperation. a crystal, I thought to myself. The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thing happened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the bar crowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back, baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to the kitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls, which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience had grown larger. It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noise had stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum of \"Hey! What's the idea?\" snarled the sour-looking man. The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The man licked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. The owner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward us with a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but I was outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.\n\n<question>:\nWho seemed to get the least annoyed at the restaurant?\n\n<options>:\nA the man who ordered cold cuts\nB the lady in the evening gown\nC the waiter\nD the bartender\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,088	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>:\nSpacemen Die at Home Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it's 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 evil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura. and skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time, for I was thinking: He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and the others alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be the first! Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. \"I don't see 'em, Ben,\" he whispered. \"Where do you suppose they are?\" I blinked. \"Who?\" That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died in a strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of those Lunar Sands. Lunar Lady was in White Sands now, but liberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars. It doesn't matter Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or a the sons of Earth. like a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rear 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 Moon?\" Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knew that he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martian fizzes and Plutonian zombies. want, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want.\" Then your last words came back and jabbed me: \"That's what Mickey used to want.\" \" \"What did she mean, Mickey?\" Mickey looked down at his feet. \"I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben. \"Yes?\" \"Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a pretty uniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. If you're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing or another gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know.\" My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. \"What are you trying to say, Mickey?\" \"I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisor 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. Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about to 'copter. At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, \"Only hit Mars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic. Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough, the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acid in your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that. Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot.\" That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all. Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night, doesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far as maybe I haven't grown up yet?\" Anxiety darkened your features. \"No, it'd be good to be a spaceman, what ?\" You can go into space , I thought, and try to do as much living in ten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who died in a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lie buried in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, like Charlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternally alone, never finding a home. Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earth old, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, who 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.\" tight coughs. Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. \"I'm He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. \"Maybe. Anyway, I'm gonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tell you what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take a look inside. I'll probably be there.\" He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears. \"Not used to this Earth air,\" he muttered. \"What I need's some Martian climate.\" Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered, drugged. I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk about going to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna. We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I. \"When will you be back?\" you asked. \"What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm just \"No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me, too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better than teaching. I want to be in deep space.\" someone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale of courage that would put fuel on dying dreams. \"Can't a spaceman marry, too?\" 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 \"Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happened on the Cyclops . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship was was—\" out there on the Odyssey where you belong. We got a date on Mars, remember? At the Space Rat Canal.\" That's what he'd say. \"Oh God,\" I moaned, \"what shall I do?\" inform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman....\" Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the word \"lung-rot\" and the metallic phrase, \"This message brought to you by courtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps.\" I stood staring at the cylinder. Charles Taggart was dead. I pressed the stud again. \"... regret to inform you of death of 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—\" Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkled photos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god, a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol. , I thought. You'd dream of sitting in a dingy stone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky, stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girls with dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the first sign of lung-rot. To hell with it! I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone. Do you know why he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn't want to die in the clean, cool air of Earth? It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was the ? on Mars, the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is lung-rot?\n\n<options>:\nA Lung-rot is a disease caused by chemicals in the Martian atmosphere.\nB Lung-rot is tuberculosis.\nC A disease that presents like whooping cough.\nD Lung-rot is Martian slang for pneumonia.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
193	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThe ancient rule was sink or swim—swim Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I that I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of the together when we get down?\" scrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In the meantime, I've got brains as a consolation. the only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't go The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contact debate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it was all right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to us I said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but that wasn't in public. It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really, calves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip on a piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhere and little grubby things just looking for you not for me. It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on the like fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive. Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us grow for fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. They do figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the time you're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use to the Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Ship is a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says that something has to be done in a closed society to keep the population from decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps to keep the population steady. bad moment any longer. if it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day in The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slot camp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces, nobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting. I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close to look forward to. animals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste pretty it in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over a identify. draft animals. The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight, had to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'll bet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses. alive. made a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and plodded looks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. That He said, \"What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head? I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought it was that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though. \"And where be you going?\" with him. all. We mought as well throw him back again.\" expected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed. I said, \"I don't think so.\" narrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedling tones said, \"Look here, kid....\" \"Shut up,\" I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. It surprised me. I didn't think I sounded that After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for the the creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road. I even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels. the last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time. a gallop. but I decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made the clocks tick on this planet. But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! They swarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and four children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck me then—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and I closed my eyes until it passed. The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot and criminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. The evacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion people But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything in their path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earth had and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came. I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enough foresight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and some others like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And I What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound up How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method. want to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody? up with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could think Not too different, but not ours. takes an advanced technology to build. buildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little more his wife and their three children. The kids were running around and playing, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His father came and pulled him away. The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them said kids. Isn't that horrible? About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old man seen before. When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gathered around. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of the children tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go, A voice there said, \"I'll be damned if I'll take another day like this not.\" what they used the high-walled pen for. I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for the night. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to take \"No,\" he said. \"Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and what being kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in his bunch. trouble. So don't give me a hard time.\" He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but I didn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering. \"The courts won't let you get away with this,\" I said. I'd passed a courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUAL JUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD or something stuffy like that. He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so I knew I'd goofed. \"Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I be taking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go to court and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leaving you your freedom.\" \"Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of the Ships,\" Horst said. \"That be enough. They already have one of you brats in jail in Forton.\" He said, \"The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out what saddle. \"What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton.\" \"I can't remember,\" he said. \"But it be coming to me. Hold on.\" I felt like a fool. natural and mine wasn't, \"The piece be yours.\" Then he tromped on it until it cracked and fell apart. that my ears rang. \"You dirty little punk.\" I said calmly, \"You big louse.\" It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I can face and then nothing.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the Trial?\n\n<options>:\nA your chance to find a suitable partner\nB your first flight away from Earth\nC proving your ability to survive on your own\nD defending your right to have children\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
717	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 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 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. Fiss' analysis of the Mapplethorpe case offers a good example of the perils of his interventionist approach. Arts policy is, unquestionably, a mess. The solution usually proposed is divorce: Either get the state out of the business altogether or invent some ironclad process for distributing the money using strictly artistic criteria. Fiss rejects both solutions he wants the criteria to be political. He thinks the NEA should subsidize art that will enhance the \"robustness\" of the debate and should therefore prefer unorthodox art--though only, of course, if it represents a viewpoint the endowment considers, by virtue of social need and a prior history of exclusion, worthy of its megaphone. (No Nazi art, in other words.) Mapplethorpe's photographs seem to Fiss to qualify under these guidelines, since, he says, \"in the late 1980s the AIDS crisis confronted America in the starkest fashion and provoked urgent questions regarding the scope and direction of publicly funded medical research. To address those issues the public--represented by the casual museum visitor--needed an understanding of the lives and practices of the gay community, so long hidden from view.\" This seems completely wrongheaded. People (for the most part) didn't find Mapplethorpe's X Portfolio photographs objectionable because they depicted homosexuality. They found them objectionable because they depicted sadomasochism. The notion that it was what Fiss calls a \"source of empowerment for the members of the gay community\" to have homosexuality associated with snarling guys prancing around in leather jockstraps, using bullwhips as sex toys, and pissing in each other's mouths, at a time when AIDS had become a national health problem and the issue of gays in the military was about to arise, is ludicrous. Any NEA chairperson who had the interests of the gay community at heart would have rushed to defund the exhibit. Jesse Helms could not have demonized homosexuality more effectively--which, of course, is why he was pleased to draw public attention to the pictures. Now that is what we call an irony of free speech. Awarding funding to the work of a gay artist because gay Americans need more political clout is an effort at cultural engineering, and the problem with cultural engineering is the problem with social engineering raised to a higher power. We have a hard enough time calculating the effects of the redistribution of wealth in our society. How can we possibly calculate the effects of redistributing the right to speak--of taking it away from people Professor Fiss feels have spoken long enough and mandating it for people he feels have not been adequately heard? One thing that is plain from the brief unhappy history of campus speech codes is that you automatically raise the value of the speech you punish and depress the value of the speech you sponsor. There are indeed many ironies here. Maybe someone will write a book about them.\n\n<question>:\nAccording to the article, why were people outraged by Mapplethorp’s portfolio?\n\n<options>:\nA Because it depicted homosexuality\nB Because it depicted violence against women\nC Because it outwardly depicted the AIDS crisis\nD Because it depicted sadomasochism\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
578	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nBy EMMETT McDOWELL Death was Jaro Moynahan's stock in trade, and every planet had known his touch. But now, on Mercury, he was selling his guns into the , a tight-frocked, limber-hipped, red-head was singing \" The Lady from Mars .\" The song was a rollicking, ribald ditty, a favorite of the planters and miners, the space pilots down the back of his neck, plastered his white coat to his back. Without looking up, he said: \"Have you spotted him?\" His voice was pitched to reach the singer alone. \"I did not want to call you in, Jaro Moynahan.\" It was the first time she had used his name. \"You have the reputation of being unpredictable. I don't trust you, but since....\" it does, the Terrestrials here will be massacred. The Mercurians hate them. We haven't but a handful of troops.\" Jaro Moynahan wiped the sweat from his forehead with a fine duraweb The girl ignored the interruption. \"There is one man he is the leader, the very soul of the revolution. The Mercurians worship him. They will do whatever he says. Without him they would be lost. He is the rebel, Karfial Hodes. I am to offer you ten thousand Earth notes to kill Jaro Moynahan refilled their empty glasses. He was a big man, handsome \"Why call me all the way from Mars for that? Why not have that gunman at the piano rub Hodes out?\" locate Karfial Hodes. Don't look at me that way, Jaro. You frighten me. I'm telling the truth. We can't find him. That's why we called you. You've got to find him, Jaro. He's stirring up all Mercury.\" \"Who's putting up the money?\" \"I can't tell you.\" \"Ah,\" said Jaro Moynahan \"so that's the way it is.\" Jaro Moynahan slipped sideways from the table. He felt something brush Across the table from Jaro there was the feel of movement \"Red!\" said Jaro in a low voice. It made him think of cool green grapes beaded with dew. On the hot, teeming planet of Mercury it was as refreshing as a cold plunge. He wondered who was putting up the ten thousand Earth notes? Who stood to lose most in case of a revolution? The answer seemed obvious enough. Who, but Albert Peet. Peet controlled the Latonka trade for which there was a tremendous demand throughout the Universe. Jaro shrugged, dismissed the waiter. He had not expected to get much Jaro Moynahan Once back in his room, Jaro Moynahan stripped off his clothes, interest. He had, he supposed, killed rather a lot of men. He had fought in the deadly little wars of the Moons of Jupiter for years, then the Universal Debacle of 3368, after that the Martian Revolution as well as dozens of skirmishes between the Federated Venusian States. No, there was little doubt but that he had killed quite a number of men. But this Furthermore, there was something phony about the entire set up. The Mercurians, he knew, had been agitating for freedom for years. Why, at this time when the Earth Congress was about to grant them then glanced around casually. His eyes fastened on Jaro. He licked his lips. Jaro said nothing. He ignored the hand, waited, poised like a cat. Jaro still said nothing. Miss Mikail must be the red-headed singer, whom at different times he had known under a dozen different aliases. He doubted that even she remembered her right name. \"Yes,\" said Jaro. all over the planet during the Festival of the Rains. Earth doesn't realize the seriousness of the situation.\" notes.\" \"Not entirely,\" said Peet uncomfortably. \"There are many of us here, Mercurians as well as Earthmen, who recognize the danger. We have—ah—pooled our resources.\" is—ah—lucrative.\" Jaro Moynahan lit a cigarette, sat down on the edge of the bed. \"Why beat about the bush,\" he asked with a sudden grin. \"Mr. Peet, you've gained control of the Latonka trade. Other Earthmen are in control Mercury, and you've squeezed out every possible penny. Every time self-government has come before the Earth Congress you've succeeded in blocking it. You are, perhaps, the most cordially-hated group anywhere. I don't wonder that you are afraid of a revolution.\" Jaro laughed. \"How did you know Red had been kidnapped?\" Jaro raised his eyebrows. \"Perhaps then you know where she is?\" A second rapping at the door caused them to exchange glances. Jaro went \"It's for you,\" said Jaro over his shoulder. Jaro lit a cigarette. He padded nervously back and forth across the Jaro returned to his room, stripped off his pajamas, climbed back into reeling off the current events almost as soon as they happened. Jaro Earth. Karfial Hodes, Mercurian patriot, being sought. \" Jaro descended the incline to the network of burrows which served cool gloom, and Jaro had to feel his way, rubbing shoulders with the Jaro halted before a door bearing a placard which read: inner sanctum was ajar. Jaro could distinguish voices through the door shutting it after himself. At the sight of Jaro Jaro settled himself warily, his light blue eyes flicking over the youth. \"Let's get this straight,\" he said mildly. \"I've known your kind \"You dirty ...\" he began, but he got no further. Jaro Moynahan shot him The compressed air slug gun had seemed to leap into Jaro's hand. The hurled him against the wall. Jaro vaulted the rail, deftly relieved him \"Nothing serious,\" said Jaro. \"He'll have his arm in a sling for a Jaro's attention. carpet. Mr. Peet regarded Jaro Moynahan with distress. \"Poor boy?\" said Jaro mildly. \"Venomous little rattlesnake. I took Jaro eyed him coldly as with his good hand the youth dropped the dart Albert Peet led Stanley through the door. Jaro and Miss Webb were alone. With his eye on the door, Jaro said: \"Look,\" began Jaro annoyed. Jaro grinned and winked at her. Miss Webb tottered out of the room. Jaro said nothing. Again he paused. As Jaro remained silent, his neck mottled up pinkly. \"That's fair enough,\" replied Jaro. \"Only,\" continued Jaro coldly, \"I'm not ready to be bought off. I think \"Sorry,\" said Jaro good hand. Jaro Moynahan dropped on his face, jerking out his slug gun Jaro got up, keeping an eye on Albert Peet, brushed off his knees. Without answering, Jaro backed watchfully from the room. \" said Jaro coming up behind her and poking a long brown finger Still grinning, Jaro sat down. \"I'm Jaro Moynahan, Miss Webb. I think Jaro's order. \"All right,\" Jaro smiled, but his pale blue eyes probed the girl \"The Mercurians, of course.\" \"I don't believe it,\" said the girl. \"The Mercurians are the most peaceable people in the Universe. They've been agitating for freedom, Jaro Moynahan raised his oblique brows but did not interrupt. \"Albert Peet,\" she continued, \"has been trying to sell out but nobody will touch the stock, not since it looks as if the Earth Congress is going to grant the Mercurians their freedom. Everybody knows that the first thing the Mercurians will do, will be to boot out the Latonka Trust.\" \"What about this Karfial Hodes?\" said Jaro. \"I've heard that he's inciting the Mercurians to rebellion. The newscaster had a line about the revolution too. The government has advised all Terrestrials to return to Earth.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat doesn't describe Jaro?\n\n<options>:\nA he's curious\nB he's a murderer\nC he'll do anything for money\nD he's well-known on many planets\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
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>:\nThe ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction! me. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. An intelligent runt like me. He said what I expected. \"Mia, do you want to go partners if we can get together when we get down?\" I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I liked him. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crack come back alive.\" It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he went back to his place without saying anything. My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't be telling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect that scrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In the leave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot. Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He's the only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't go partners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still that crack about being a snob. Planets make me feel wretched. It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on the Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us grow from decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps to keep the population steady. I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could be found at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes. Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me start getting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our next landing, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn't have anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off the bad moment any longer. nothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing from nobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting. identify. One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd been watching us all the while. He called to the hard man. \"He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him at all. We mought as well throw him back again.\" The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as he I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were driving didn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot. After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for the I even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels. hadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work. But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them or something. Horst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering but I decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made the felt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, I whomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head. I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walk For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things you want to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody? Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might wind up with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could think of was to find a library, but that might be a job. idiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by me his wife and their three children. The kids were running around and playing, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His father came and pulled him away. The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them said nice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phony errand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate the poor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were the handkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from her dear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough to defeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home. I wished for the same for myself. couldn't see far into the dark. A voice there said, \"I'll be damned if I'll take another day like this one, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we're not.\" Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave the campfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to the fire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blankets leave. I never got the chance. I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on my shoulder and I was swung around. \"Well, well. Horst, look who we have here,\" he called. It was the one who'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. He was alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast. behind and pinned my arms to my side. I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smelly hand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than a lungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but he didn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feet and dragged me off. When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stopped dragging me and dropped me in a heap. \"Make any noise,\" he said, \"and I'll hurt you.\" for that. \"I ought to club you anyway,\" he said. The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were putting the animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him. \"No,\" he said. \"Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and what we can use.\" The other one didn't move. \"Get going, Jack,\" Horst said in a menacing tone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finally backed down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to me being kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in his bunch. But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol under my jacket. Horst turned back to me and I said, \"You can't do this and get away with it.\" He said, \"Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot of trouble. So don't give me a hard time.\" jacket. \"Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of the Ships,\" Horst said. \"That be enough. They already have one of you brats in jail in Forton.\" \"I can't remember,\" he said. \"But it be coming to me. Hold on.\" I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behind Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground and said in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it was remember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of my face and then nothing. Brains are no good if you don't use them.\n\n<question>:\nExplain Mia’s reasons for referring to herself as “hell on wheels.” What is an example of this?\n\n<options>:\nA Mia is fast. An example of this is when Mia rode Ninc away from the free breeders as fast as she could.\nB Mia is frightened. An example of this is when she was approached by Horst and his gang for the second time, which scared her to the point of losing control of her mission.\nC Mia is mean. An example of this is when she refused to agree to partner up with Jimmy after they returned from their mission.\nD Mia is tough. An example of this is when she was able to strong arm her way out of trouble with Horst and his gang.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
960	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nHendricks' face hardened. \"Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if you stumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for your wanted you to be. \"Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted,\" Hendricks to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you an illustration....\" Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series of names. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles in his arm froze before it moved it an inch. on the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness was illegal—a bartender always watered the drinks. Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, but strike someone except in self-defense . He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him, Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure . \"See what I mean?\" Hendricks asked. \"A century ago, you would have been .... Hendricks laughed. \"You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean, wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except for freaks like yourself, criminals are—\" Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth when in on him. When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, \"Okay. Snap out of it.\" He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. It would be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furniture controls of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundred other machines that formed New York's mechanical police force. Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was something wrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man with bushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed something hadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected men to high political positions were women. Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly, likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face on posters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard only something like a bulldog had been elected as New York's police commissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters. \"Where's the girl?\" Joe asked. \"I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you—\" rape. I confess.\" Hendricks smiled. \"Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again.\" He reached out and turned a dial on his desk top. \"We had a microphone hidden in \" He waved his hand. \"Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy.\" Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe was slouched in a chair. \"Give me your CPA ID.\" Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the world Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched a When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the words DANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before. And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was a DCT First Class. \"You've graduated,\" Hendricks said coldly. \"You guys never learn, do you? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You know Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face. \"That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers. You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how it and they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this Joe Harper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep records of First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequently they'd be famous.\" \"Lay off,\" Joe said. \"I got a headache. That girl—\" Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. \"You listen, Joe. This is interesting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There's thousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks from binoculars and—\" \"Lay off!\" Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before and it was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talking machine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped. \"And the kids are the worst,\" Hendricks continued. \"They have Junior Stop it! \" Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief and lit a cigarette. \"I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're too Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. \"Not entirely a favor. I want to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and read books. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time.\" ?\" Hendricks shrugged again. \"Have it your way.\" Joe laughed. \"If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make \"Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the same thing. We both want to see me convicted of a crime.\" \"How can I help you without committing a crime myself?\" Hendricks Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind the big man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offering him a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name and address and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, \"Thanks.\" \"Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything.\" reported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning. He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, \"Hey. Wake up. Hey!\" He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minute he was still having the nightmare. \"I just saw your doctor,\" Hendricks said. \"He says your treatment is he looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken months and he had, between operations, been locked in his room. Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back. Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change: Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now, \"Hero!\" Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it sounded like a bull snorting. \"You think a successful criminal is a hero? You stupid—\" of guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and get your autograph.\" Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he did understand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could see the people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheer ex-murderer came out. In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoled Hendricks and said, \"Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'll be able to get a good job now.\" \"That's why I met you at the hospital,\" Hendricks said. \"I want to thanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'd done him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it! \"You robbed Gralewski's apartment,\" Hendricks said. \"Gralewski is a 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\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the relationship between Hendricks and Joe?\n\n<options>:\nA Hendricks is Joe's uncle. He has bailed Joe out many times over the years.\nB Hendricks is the psychological officer for the police department. He's offered Joe free treatment many times over the years.\nC Hendricks is Joe's parole officer and has been for many years.\nD Hendricks is the Police Commissioner. He has arrested Joe many times over the years.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
2,150	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nup in neat rows like pins in a paper. Maybe we were so blind we missed the 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 presentation of ideas, as it stands. Very austere and authoritarian. Dr. David Lessing found Jack Dorffman and the boy waiting in his office though he'd been running all night. There were dark pouches under his eyes his heavy unshaven face seemed to sag at every crease. Lessing appeal in his large grey eyes as Lessing flipped the reader-switch and blinked in alarm at the wildly thrashing pattern on the tape. \"Of me? Of Dr. Dorffman?\" \"No. Oh, no!\" \"Then what?\" \"You think that would make you feel better?\" \"It would, I know it would.\" Lessing shook his head. \"I don't think so, Tommy. You know what the monitor is for, don't you?\" \"It stops things from going out.\" \"Well, we'll see. You can stay here for a while.\" Lessing nodded at \"I'm afraid so. We thought it was just a temporary pattern—we see so much of that up there.\" \"I know, I know.\" Lessing chewed his lip. \"I don't like it. We'd better set up a battery on him and try to spot the trouble. And I'm afraid 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 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 from Roberts Bros., announcing another shift of deadline on the book, and demanding the galley proofs two weeks earlier than scheduled. Lessing groaned. As director of psionic research at the Hoffman Medical Center, he had long since learned how administrative detail could suck up daytime hours. He knew that his real work was at the Farm—yet he hadn't even been to the Farm in over six weeks. And now, as the book approached publication date, Lessing wondered if he would ever really get back to work again. The other letter cheered him a bit more. It bore the letterhead of the International Psionics Conference: Dear Dr. Lessing: In recognition of your position as an authority on human Psionic behavior patterns, we would be gratified to schedule you as principle speaker at the Conference in Chicago on October 12th. A few remarks in discussion of your forthcoming book would be entirely in order— They were waiting for it, then! He ran the galley proofs into the title—concise, commanding, yet modest. They would read it, all right. And they would find it a light shining brightly in the darkness, a guide to the men who were floundering in the jungle of a strange and Lessing a bony hand, then flung himself into a chair as he stared about the office in awe. \"I'm really overwhelmed,\" he said after a moment. \"Within the Master in the trembling flesh!\" Lessing frowned. \"Dr. Melrose, I don't quite understand—\" \"Oh, it's just that I'm impressed,\" the young man said airily. \"Of course, I've seen old dried-up Authorities before—but never before \"If you've come here to be insulting,\" Lessing said coldly, \"you're just wasting time.\" He reached for the intercom switch. \"because I'm planning to take you apart at the Conference next month unless I like everything I see and hear down here today. And if you 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 'Theory',\" Melrose said. \"I want to see this famous Farm of yours up in true.\" \"If the papers you've already published are a preview, we think it's Lessing slammed his fist down on the desk angrily. \"Have you got the day to take a trip?\" 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 Melrose grinned. \"I've heard you have quite a place up here.\" \"It's—unconventional, at any rate,\" Lessing snapped. Lessing glared at him. \"When we began studying this psi-potential, we long, low building. \"All right, young man—come along,\" said Lessing. \"I think we can show you our answer.\" \"Which may not be very far.\" Jack Dorffman burst in: \"What Dr. Lessing is saying is that they seem effective for our purposes.\" \"But you don't know why,\" added Melrose. Lessing smiled. \"This is an isolated phenomenon—it doesn't hold for any other three children on the Farm. Nor did we make any effort to Moments later Lessing was back in the observation room, leaving the Lessing blinked. \"Why should they?\" \"Maybe they enjoy the crash when the blocks fall down.\" Melrose paced down the narrow room. \"This is very good,\" he said suddenly, his voice earnest. \"You have fine facilities here, good workers. And in spite of my flippancy, Dr. Lessing, I have never imagined for a moment that you were not an acute observer and a professionally, discredit anything we did, cut us off cold.\" The 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— At first Lessing pretended to work finally he snapped off the tape great researcher has people like Melrose sniping at him. You just have to throw them off and keep going.\" Lessing shook his head. \"Maybe. But this field of work is different 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.\" \"So it seems. But why?\" \"He seems to, you mean. And therefore, anything he says about it carries more weight than what anybody else says. Other workers follow his lead. He developes ideas, formulates theories—and then defends them for all he's worth .\" \"But why shouldn't he?\" \"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 clutching it to his chest. \"Go away,\" he choked. \"Go away, go away—\" When Lessing persisted the boy bent over swiftly and bit him hard on the hand. , 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 Lessing felt the familiar prickly feeling run down his scalp as the boy stared at him. He could feel deep in his own mind the cold chill drying up there on the Farm, until the distortion was threatening the balance of his mind. Then he made an adult contact, and we saw how he bloomed.\" Lessing sank down to his desk wearily. \"What are we going to \"Didn't you see his face ?\" Lessing burst out. \"Didn't you see how he acted\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the significance of the conference that Dr. Lessing is invited to?\n\n<options>:\nA Invitations are the primary source of imposter syndrome for scientists in this field\nB It shows that Dr. Melrose has more control in the field that we realize\nC It offers a chance for Dr. Lessing to get feedback on the parts of his theories he's not certain of\nD It serves as an opportunity for Dr. Lessing to publicize his book\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
520	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>:\nmoney operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applying jacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curious \"You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floor hold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone and a microphone. Beside them was a double-decked \"In\" and \"Out\" basket. \"Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey,\" Mr. Wanji said. \"What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji?\" Orison asked. The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the \"In\" basket. \"Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it,\" he said. \"When you get done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new to read. Okay?\" \"It seems a rather peculiar job,\" Orison said. \"After all, I'm a secretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize me with the Bank's operation?\" \"Don't bug me, kid,\" Mr. Wanji said. \"All you gotta do is read that there paper into this here microphone. Can do?\" \"Yes, sir,\" Orison said. \"While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like to \"Yes, sir,\" Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank's might explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department's secretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall, Wall Street Journal , and began at the top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk, nodding his head as he listened. \"You blowing real good, kid,\" he said. Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read the one into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, then took off upstairs in the elevator. . Reading this peculiar fare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain than ever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her, book and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator was a new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, coming down from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen with reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga of Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on her light coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed, Taft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces of the U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association. Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-President with the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in those boss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on Taft Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemed to be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she was being employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint and nonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, she thought. Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffs had her phone tapped. \"Testing,\" a baritone voice muttered. Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. \"Beg pardon?\" she said. \"Testing,\" the male voice repeated. \"One, two, three three, two, one. Do you read me? Over.\" Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax, \"Where are you, Monitor?\" she demanded. \"That's classified information,\" the voice said. \"Please speak directly to your pillow, Miss McCall.\" Orison lay down cautiously. \"All right,\" she whispered to her pillow. \"Over here,\" the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillow beside her. Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. \"A radio?\" she \"I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall,\" the monitor said. \"Now, tell me what happened at the bank today.\" Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to a microphone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. \"That's about it, so far,\" she said. \"Good report,\" J-12 said from the pillow. \"Sounds like you've dropped \"Native optimism,\" the voice said. \"Good night.\" J-12 signed off with a peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then she placed the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone. Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolved to write Washington for permission to make her future reports by \"I'm Orison McCall,\" she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight? \"It's nothing,\" Orison said, switching off the microphone. \"On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important,\" he said. \"Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing any reasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well,\" Orison said. \"You'll be reading silently before long,\" Mr. Gerding said. He smiled, as though this explained everything. \"By the way, your official to keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down here and dictate it?\" \"Please do,\" Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace and \"Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall?\" Mr. Gerding not their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them. Small bows, true just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding. Orison finished the Orison looked up. \"Oh, hello,\" she said. \"I didn't hear you come up.\" \"I'm Orison McCall,\" she said, and tried to smile back without showing visit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker. he stepped up to Orison's desk. \"Good morning. Miss McCall,\" he said. \"I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bank you. Push a button, will you? And bon voyage .\" of the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, she thought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banks and all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If she finished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limits Dink ger-Dink d'summa. \" Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg before replying, \"I'm a local girl. Try me in English.\" \"Oh. Hi, Miss McCall,\" the voice said. \"Guess I goofed. I'm in kinda What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious language Mr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington by tonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzle it out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk, Orison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from the his chest. \"You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turn your brain back on. All right, now?\" Orison,\" he said. using crawdads in a bank,\" she said. She stood silent for a moment. \"I thought I heard music,\" she said. \"I heard it when I came in. Something together while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices.\" He took her arm. \"If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song these\n\n<question>:\nWhy did the Treasury Department want Orison McCall to apply for a job at the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company?\n\n<options>:\nA To gather information about their unusual people and banking practices.\nB To do an official audit of the bank’s books.\nC To provide the bank employees with training.\nD To read text into a microphone.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
472	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nQUEST OF THIG By BASIL WELLS Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering \"HORDE.\" He had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on because of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet, The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped dared touch the machine since. wears he might be Thig.\" \"Thig will be this creature!\" announced Torp. \"With a psychic relay we will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without Terry's body and headed for the laboratory. Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion, their love-life, their everything! So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other primitive impulses of barbarism so he was incapable of understanding he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously chaos of his cool Orthan brain. Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world, including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would, of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people, imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the Hordes? Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered, would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the road toward the beach. The children ran to him sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never be written, but he toyed with the idea. So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from the unquestioning worship of the Horde! have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to Ortha at once. \"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient for the purposes of complete liquidation.\" \"But why,\" asked Thig slowly, \"could we not disarm all the natives and exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.\" \"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then,\" gritted out Thig savagely. \"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet. There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long forgotten.\" \"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam,\" ordered Torp shortly. \"His words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.\" the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an empty world—this planet was not for them. \"Turn back!\" he cried wildly. \"I must go back to Earth. There is a the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it could be uttered. the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon. ancestors at times but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his unconscious body. The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of the Orthan. So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all. read the last few nervously scrawled lines: Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and And there his writing ended abruptly. Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message. He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first existence. He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer space. creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be\n\n<question>:\nWhat would have likely happened if Thig had allowed the crew to return information to Ortha that Earth was habitable?\n\n<options>:\nA He would have had to forget all about Ellen and continue life on Ortha as before.\nB The Orthans would have made the voyage to Earth and lived in harmony with the people of Earth.\nC Earth would have been blown away by Orthans and no longer be habitable.\nD The people of Earth would have been wiped out and Ortha would take over.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
209	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>:\nnever know. I never thought I'd mess around any of them, but things can sure happen. A man can get himself backed into a corner in this and talent likely to deprive the System of my activities—even experimenting with to rat on him before taking the job. Well, Casey Ritter may be a lot of things we won't mention, but he I didn't get it at first. I'd argued with 'em, but inside I'd been all set for the sentence, and even sort of reconciled to it. I could even hear the words in my mind. But they didn't match what the judge was I snorted. \"Aw, hell, judge, that's just one of those screwy fairy tales! How could any—\" \"I assure you it is no fairy tale. We possess well-authenticated photographs of these inhabitants, and if you are prepared to visit them say, eminently suited to the task.\" He beamed at me. I looked around. They were all beaming. At me! Crude, but it was all I could squeeze out. I squeezed out more when I saw those pictures, though. Those inhabitants were charming, just charming if you like scorpions. Well, gangrene around the edges. The bleat of anguish that accompanied my first view of those beauties had taken my voice again. \"How big?\" I whispered. He shrugged, trying for nonchalance. \"About the size of a man, I A crafty-eyed buzzard across the table leaned toward me. \"So this is the great Casey Ritter, daredevil of the Solar System!\" he sneered. \"Never loses a bet, never turns down a dare!\" They were really stumped. They hadn't expected me to take this attitude at all. No doubt they had it figured that I'd gratefully throw myself won't reach in and nip off an arm or leg while he's got his back turned. How stupid could they get? turned me into an honest trader. Me, Casey Ritter, slickest slicker in safe and secure in the grip of the good old Iron College, I relaxed. and after awhile I braced him. \"Oh, a pretty good jolt if they can keep hold of me,\" he says. \"I just He shrugged, but his little black-currant eyes began to sparkle with \"I'd start more than that just to get me mitts on them stones again! Why, you ain't never seen jools till you've seen them! Big as hen's eggs, an even dozen of 'em and flawless, I'm a-shoutin', not a flaw!\" His eyes watered at the memory, yearning like a hound-dog's over a fresh scent. of contemptuously but those Bleachies are a rough lot when they're nothing but a heap of cleaned bones by now. Either he was the world's champion liar or its bravest son, and either way I took my hat off to him. \"How'd you make the getaway?\" I asked, taking him at his word. somehow knew that he'd really lifted those emeralds. But how? It was with me. But he wouldn't tell me how he'd worked the steal. Instead, He looked at me as if I hadn't yet got out from under the rock where he was sure I'd been born. \"Don't you know nothin', butterhead?\" \"Brains!\" he snorted. \"Have they got brains! Why, they're smarter than people! And not ferocious, neither, in spite of how they look, if you just leave 'em alone. That's all they want, just to be left alone. Peace an' quiet, and lots of methane and ammonia and arsenic, that's cheese trap, though, I figger she'll be all cooled off and ready fer nails, I bit myself. So I faced it. Casey Ritter lost his nerve, and along with it, the chance of a lifetime. A better man than me had that I could pry more information out of Pard Hoskins. while I sat around all hunched up, wondering feverishly if Pard would that was good training, so I sneered right back at him, explained the a-purpose to upset her.\" Then he winked at me. \"But then I got off in a corner and cooked up some perfume that drives them nuts the other way put just a touch o' that there perfume on the outside of it. Akroida'll do anything fer you if she just gets a whiff. Just anything! But remember, don't use but a drop. It's real powerful.\" tiny bottle like that boy Aladdin clutching his little old lamp. slobbering. But the Big Sneer of the S.S.C., the fellow that had got me into this caper, was right there to take the joy out of it all and to remind me that this was public service, strictly. \"These—\" he had proclaimed with a disdainful flourish, like a placer miner pointing to a batch of fool's gold—\"These jewels are as nothing, Ritter, compared with the value of the secret you are to buy with them. And be assured that if you're man enough to effect the trade—\" He paused, his long nose twitching cynically—\"IF you succeed, your That twitch of the nose riled me no little. \"I ain't failed yet!\" I was as nervous as a cat with new kittens. Feeling again for my little I eased along. though, I nearly lost my grip on the handle. In fact, I'd have fainted lived. If that little shrimp could do it, I could, too. intimate—or rather, the taps were. There was even a rather warm expression discernible in the thing's eyes, so I took heart and decided to ignore the ferocious features surrounding those eyes. After all, the poor sinner's map was made of shell, and he wasn't responsible for its expression. I tapped back very politely that he must be mistaking me for someone else. \"I've never been here before, and so I've never met the charming be interested.\" He reared back at that, and reaching up, plucked his right eye out of out thoughtfully, just like an ordinary business man, and I managed to A shudder of ecstasy stiffened him. His head and eyes rolled with it, Taking advantage of his condition, I boldly tapped out, \"How's about I tried to back off from him a bit, but the ship stopped me. \"I'm Casey I breathed again. How simple could I get? He'd already mistaken me for Pard, hadn't he? Then I remembered something else. \"How come you aren't mad at him? Don't you hate yellow, too?\" He hung his silly head. \"I fear I am colorblind,\" he confessed sadly. Right there I forgave him for pulling that eye on me. He was the guide I needed, the one who had got Pard out alive. I almost hugged him. alive but loved and cherished, thanks to Pard's inventiveness and to mandibles and other embellishments calculated to interest my hosts. Whether it interested them or not, it was plenty uncomfortable for me. and peaceable manner that almost made me forget that I was scared to death of them, and they stared at my boat with only a mild interest that would have taught manners to most of my fellow citizens of Earth. Pard was right again. These critters had brains. And my S.S.C. persecutor was right, too. That anti-grav secret was worth more than what about Casey Ritter, who hadn't cultivated even a feather? here and there as though she was just itching to take a hunk out of somebody, and the way the servants were edging away out around her, I could see they didn't want to get in range. I didn't blame them a bit. could hear her question reverberate away over where I was. That conversation was telegraphed to me blow by blow by the actions of direction. \"Casey Ritter? Never heard of him. Where's he from?\" ducked his head and fearfully waited.\n\n<question>:\nWhat did Casey probably learn from this experience?\n\n<options>:\nA Never give up on your friends\nB Never trust a crook\nC Always listen carefully to instructions\nD Don't judge others by how they look\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,241	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>:\nBaxter picked it up and swiftly scanned its surface. A look of dismay overrode his erstwhile genial features. I had a horrible suspicion. \"Not again?\" I said softly. Jery Delvin had a most unusual talent. He could detect the flaws in 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 however, the real reason (same as that expressed by Jean Kerr) is that this kind of stay-at-home self-employment lets me sleep late in the morning.\" 1 America that they were certain to be lovely in a Plasti-Flex brassiere without absolutely guaranteeing them anything, when the two security men came to get me. I didn't quite believe it at first, when I looked up and saw them, six-feet-plus of steel nerves and gimlet eyes, staring the firm, trying to see just where I'd gone and shaken the security unless maybe it was that hair dye that unexpectedly turned bright green after six weeks in the hair, but that was the lab's fault, not mine. So I managed a weak smile toward the duo, and tried not to sweat too profusely. \"Jery Delvin?\" said the one on my left, a note of no-funny-business in his brusque baritone. \"... Yes,\" I said, some terrified portion of my mind waiting masochistically for them to draw their collapsers and reduce me to a heap of hot protons. \"Come with us,\" said his companion. I stared at him, then glanced \"Mr. Delvin,\" she said, her voice a wispy croak. \"When will you be back? The Plasti-Flex man is waiting for your—\" I opened my mouth, but one of the security men cut in. \" W-Will I be back?\" I asked desperately, as we waited for the elevator. \"At all? Am I under arrest? What's up, anyhow?\" Security men were not hired for their loquaciousness. They had a car There was nothing for me to do but sweat it out and to try and enjoy the ride, wherever we were going. \" are Jery Delvin?\" The man who spoke seemed more than surprised he seemed stunned. His voice held an incredulous squeak, a squeak which would have amazed his of their uncomfortably slippery feel. \"Thank you, sir.\" loudly. Baxter seemed to be trying to say something. \"I suppose you're wondering why I've called—\" he started, then stopped short and flushed with embarrassment. I felt a sympathetic hot wave flooding my own features. A copy chief in an advertising company almost always reacts to an obvious cliche. Then, with something like a look of relief on his blunt face, he \"Jery Delvin,\" he read, musingly and dispassionately. \"Five foot eleven civic-minded, slightly antisocial....\" He looked at me, questioningly. \"I'd rather not discuss that, sir, if you don't mind.\" is.... You have been chosen for an extremely important mission.\" I couldn't have been more surprised had he announced my incipient I stared at him, nonplussed. He'd spoken with evidence of utmost \"You mean that International Cybernetics picked me for a mission? That's crazy, if you'll pardon me, sir.\" \"And,\" I said, beginning to be fascinated by his bewildered manner, 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 his narrowing eyes. \"Not really,\" I said hastily. \"It baffles me, to be frank.\" \"If you're sitting there in that hopeful stance awaiting some sort of explanation, you may as well relax,\" Baxter said shortly. \"I have none fist down on the desktop. \"No one has an explanation! All we know is that the Brain always picks the right man.\" I let this sink in, then asked, \"What made you ask for a man in Chief of Security or not, I was getting a little burned up at his highhanded treatment of my emotions. \"How nice!\" I said icily. \"Now if I only knew the problem!\" I detected a tinge of cynicism in his tone, but said nothing. \"You sound disillusioned, sir,\" I interjected. He stared at me as though I'd just fallen in from the ceiling or off for an extraterrestrial romp, will cement relations between those nations who have remained hostile despite the unification of all 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?\" I'd paused, because he was staring at me like a man on the brink of apoplexy. I swallowed, and tried to look relaxed. After a moment, he found his voice. \"To go on, Delvin. Do you recall what happened to the Space Scouts last week?\" I thought a second, then nodded. \"They've been having such a good time that the government extended their trip by—Why are you shaking your head that way, sir?\" and tired, and very much in keeping with his snowy hair. \"You see, the Space Scouts have vanished.\" per day. Otherwise, they'd all be gibbering by now!\" \"And your men haven't found out anything?\" I marvelled. the ages of the children, for instance, and all their physical attributes, and where they were given only to Security Agents, so deadly was its molecule-disrupting go anywhere, do anything, commandeer anything I might need. All with no questions asked. Needless to say, I was feeling pretty chipper as I entered the hangar housing Phobos II . At the moment, I was the most influential human being in the known universe. saw him as I stepped into the cool shadows of the building from the hot yellow sunlight outside. He was tall, much taller than I, but he seemed nervous as hell. At least he was pacing back and forth amid a litter of half-smoked cigarette butts beside the gleaming tailfins of the spaceship, and a fuming butt was puckered into place in his mouth. is not answering questions to his satisfaction and simply blast the annoying party to atoms. It makes for straight responses. Of course, \"Yes, sir!\" he replied swiftly, at stiff attention. \"I don't really have any details,\" I said, and waited for him to take his cue. As an afterthought, to help him talk, I added, \"At ease, by the ration packs, when I noticed how damned quiet it was aboard. And especially funny that no one was in the galley waiting for me to start drinking. Otherwise, we'd all dehydrate, with no water to replace the water we lost.\" after a minute. \"Even twice that, with no trouble, but—\" He caught \"Why, yes, I did, sir. But how did you—?\" myself out at that airfield. I was brusque, highhanded, austere, almost malevolent with the pilot. And I'm ordinarily on the shy side, as a matter of fact.\" automatically act the part. A shame, in a way.\" \"The hell it is!\" Baxter snapped. \"Good grief, man, why'd you think the I sat up straight and scratched the back of my head. \"Now you mention it, I really don't know. It seems a pretty dangerous thing to have about, the way people jump when they see it.\" \"It is dangerous, of course, but it's vitally necessary. You're young, was impossible, Jery, my boy, to get anything done whatsoever without Baxter smiled. \"No chance of that, Jery. We didn't leave it up to any such a situation!\" I sank back into the contour chair, and glanced at my watch. Much too\n\n<question>:\nHow did Jery feel when he first encountered the security men?\n\n<options>:\nA confused and nervous\nB frustrated and annoyed\nC guilty and sad\nD nervous yet excited\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,056	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>:\nYou will, you know, so why quibble about it? At least, you always have ... or do ... or will. I don't know, verbs get all mixed up. We don't have the right attitude toward tenses for a situation like this. Anyhow, you'll let me in. I did, so you will. aren't. It's just that things are a bit confused. And don't look at the machine out there too long—until you get used to it, you'll find it's hard on the eyes, trying to follow where the vanes go. You'll get used sense things. So I'll simply go ahead talking for half an hour or so, until you get over it. After that you'll come might as well do the same. I probably couldn't help telling you the same thing in the same words, even if I tried—and I don't intend to you'll want to go along. I'll be tired of talking by then, and in a hurry to get going. So I prevents passage through time from affecting us. The luggage section isn't protected, though. You start to say something, but by then I'm pressing a black button, traveling along it, you'd need a fifth. Don't ask me. I didn't invent the machine and I don't understand it.\" \"But....\" apparently, though there is a time effect back in the luggage space. You look at your watch and it's still running. That means you either carry a small time field with you, or you are catching a small increment of time from the main field. I don't know, and you won't think about that then, either. I'm smoking, and so are you, and the air in the machine is getting a gravity, but I can't explain that, either. Maybe the machine has a gravity field built in, or maybe the time that makes your watch run is Then the machine stops—at least, the field around us cuts off. You feel a dankish sort of air replace the stale air, and you breathe of simple, short-limbed, one-piece affair I put on, but it feels comfortable. anyway?\" I'd told you that, too, but you've forgotten. \"As near as I can guess, interstellar civilization.\" \"Since nobody ever stole it, it's safe.\" coughing noise and the basement openings begin to click by us. There's no feeling of acceleration—some kind of false gravity they use in the grab the motor, and get out. And good luck to you.\" You act as if you're dreaming, though you can't believe it's a dream. You nod at me and I move out into the main corridor. A second later, you see me going by, mixed into a crowd that is loafing along toward a restaurant, or something like it, that is just opening. I'm asking questions of a man, who points, and I turn and move off. The signs are very quiet and dignified. Some of them can be decoded to stationery shops, fountains, passengers moving up a ramp, and the office is closed. You begin to get the hang of the spelling they use, though. Now there are people around you, but nobody pays much attention to you. Why should they? You wouldn't care if you saw a man in a leopard-skin \"Downayer rien turn lefa the sign. Stoo bloss,\" he tells you. Around you, you hear some pretty normal English, but there are others using stuff as garbled as his. The educated and uneducated? I don't know. You go right until you find a big sign built into the rubbery surface of the walk: guard. What's more, he speaks pretty clearly. Everyone says things in a sort of drawl, with softer vowels and slurred consonants, but it's rather pleasant. \"Thanks,\" you mutter, wondering what kind of civilization can produce Lord, the genius of that twentieth century inventor! It's quite a hobby with me, sir. I've read everything I could get on the period. Oh—congratulations on your pronunciation. Sounds just like some of our oldest tapes.\" his name. Either they don't know it, or they take it for granted that everyone does, which seems more probable. They call attention to the and any amperage up to one thousand, its maximum power output being fifty kilowatts, limited by the current-carrying capacity of the outputs. They also mention that the operating principle is still being investigated, and that only such refinements as better alloys and the arriving, but I'll be back in about ten minutes. He wants to examine some of the weapons for a monograph on Centaurian primitives compared to nineteenth century man. You'll pardon me?\" carried. You expect a warning bell, but nothing happens. As a matter of fact, machine out there now, you'd hear what I'm saying and know what will happen to you. But of course, just as I did, you're going to miss a maybe some of it helps. I've tried to remember how much I remembered, after he told me, but I can't be sure. So I'll keep on talking. I probably can't help it, anyhow. Pre-set, you might say. Well, you stagger down the corridor, looking out for the guard, but all a quick sigh of relief and start out onto the street. Then there's a yell behind you. You don't wait. You put one leg in front of the other and you begin racing down the walk, ducking past people, who stare at you with expressions you haven't time to see. There's another yell behind you. Something goes over your head and drops on the sidewalk just in front of your feet, with a sudden ringing sound. You don't wait to find out about that, either. Somebody reaches out a hand to catch you and you dart past. \"You can't exert yourself that hard in this heat, fellow,\" the cop says. \"There are laws against that, without a yellow sticker. Here, let me grab you a taxi.\" Reaction sets in a bit and your knees begin to buckle, but you shake your head and come up for air. \"I—I left my money home,\" you begin. Pedestrians begin to move aside, and you and the stranger jog down the street at a trot, with a nice clear path, while the cop stands beaming this building. Just let us know when you're finished with the model and we'll pick it up.\" You swallow several sets of tonsils you had removed years before, and right. The signs along the halls are the same as they were. Then there's a sort of cough and something dilates in the wall. It gulping out something about going all the way down, and then wonder how a machine geared for voice operation can make anything of that. What You'll never know what you stumbled over, but, somehow, you move back in the direction of the time machine, bumping against boxes, staggering here and there, and trying to find the right place by sheer feel. Then beside it and you finally decide on that. Suddenly, there's a confused yell from the direction of the elevator it. Your finger touches the red button. You'll never know what the shouting was about—whether they finally doped out the fact that they'd been robbed, or whether they were trying to help you. You don't care which it is. The field springs up around years\"—and you begin waiting for the air to get stale. It doesn't because there is only one of you this time. Instead, everything flashes off and you're sitting in the machine in It will begin to soak in, then. You pick up an atomic generator in the view—and telling your younger self all these things I'm telling you. But now.... Well, the drinks are finished. You're woozy enough to go along with me without protest, and I want to find out just why those people up there came looking for you and shouting, before the time machine left. Let's go.\n\n<question>:\nWhat can be determined about the language used in the futuristic civilization that Jerome visits?\n\n<options>:\nA They are lazy, based on the slurring and laws against physical exertion.\nB They are all drunks, based on the slurring.\nC They are all moving at a snail pace, based on the slurring and relaxed tempers.\nD They are all in a hurry, based on the slurring.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,857	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\ncondition, how often is it wrecked by a series of silly errors happening one after another in defiance of The \"I'll sign off with two thoughts, one depressing and one cheering. A single Chingsi wrecked our ship and our launch. What could a whole the way up the half-mile precipice it fingered and wrenched away at groaning ice-slabs. It screamed over the top, whirled snow wind howled out of the northwest, blind planetful of them do? in a dervish dance around the hollow proof is that I've survived to tell the glazed by ice, chasms and ridges and snow-filled air howling over it, sliding thrown down in the dead wilderness. broken or a clockwork toy running down. When the movements stopped, there was a click and a strange with ice crystals. All Whale . Sure I'm a good astronomer but so jump in the first starship ever. At my age it was luck. \"You'll want to know if the ship worked. Well, she did. Went like a bomb. We got lined up between Earth and Mars, you'll remember, and James pushed the button marked 'Jump'. Took his finger off the button and there we were: Alpha Centauri Whale till right at the end and even then I doubt if it was the ship itself that fouled things up. gone up in smoke. just back from a proving flight cum astronomical survey in the starship Whale . Whoever you are who finds this tape, you're made. Take it to \"Where had I got to? I'd told you at fifteen p.s.i. The odds against finding Chang on a six-sun survey on the first star jump ever must be up in the googols. We certainly were lucky. over. had aboard the Whale . \"Three, they've a great sense of lose whichever Chingsi we played. we played them and that's fatal in pets, but you didn't feel like patting called him Charley, and he was the came back with us. Why I disliked time he had to be top. Great sense of humor, of course. I nearly broke my neck on that butter-slide he fixed up in the metal alleyway to the Whale's engine room. Charley laughed fit to bust, everyone laughed, I Charley ... \"My last sight of the a cabin full of dead and dying men, the sweetish stink of burned flesh and the choking reek of scorching insulation, the boat jolting and shuddering and beginning to break up, and in the middle of the flames, still unhurt, was Charley. He was laughing ... \"My God, it's dark out here. Wonder how high I am. Must be all of more than that when I land. What's final velocity for a fifty-mile fall? Same as a fifty thousand mile fall, I \"That's better. Why didn't I close made me dizzy. I'll make a nice shooting star when I hit air. Come to think of it, I must be deep in air I don't seem to be falling as fast as I expected though. Almost seem to be and tell the world hello. Hello, earth ... hello, again ... and good-by ... \"Sorry about that. I passed out. I or eraser. What must have happened is that the suit ran out of oxygen, and I lost consciousness due to anoxia. I dreamed I switched on the radio, but I actually switched on the emergency tank, thank the Lord, instead of bottled? up. \"I was telling about the return journey, wasn't I? The long jump back home, which should have dumped us between the orbits of Earth and Mars. Instead of which, when James took his finger off the button, the mass-detector showed nothing except the noise-level of the universe. \"We were out in that no place for our exact position relative to the solar system. The crew had to find out exactly what went wrong. The physicists had to make mystic passes found what went wrong in less than half an hour. \"It still seems incredible. To program the ship for a star-jump, you merely told it where you were and where you wanted to go. In practical in the galaxy. Then you cut a tape on the computer and hit the button. Nothing was wrong with the computer. Nothing was wrong with the engines. We'd hit the right button and we'd gone to the place we'd aimed for. All we'd done was aim for the wrong place. It hurts me to tell you this and I'm just attached personnel with no space-flight tradition. In practical terms, one highly trained crew member had punched a wrong pattern of holes on the tape. Another equally skilled had failed to notice why we were out there so long. They were cross-checked about five times. I got sick so I climbed into a spacesuit and went outside and took some wishing human dignity permitted him to tear Charley limb from limb. Then James pressed the button. \"Everything twanged like a bowstring. I felt myself turned inside out, passed through a small sieve, and poured back into shape. The entire bow wall-screen was full of Earth. Something was wrong all right, and this time it was much, much worse. We'd come out of the jump about two hundred miles above the Pacific, pointed straight down, traveling at a relative speed of about two thousand miles an hour. was the Whale , the most powerful ship ever built, which could cover of one second, and it was helpless. For, as of course you know, the star-drive couldn't be used again for at least two hours. \"The Whale also had ion rockets of course, the standard deuterium-fusion our situation it was no good because it has rather a low thrust. It would have taken more time than we had to deflect us enough to avoid a smash. We had five minutes to abandon ship. \"James got us all into the Minnow at a dead run. There was no time to take anything at all except the clothes we stood in. The thanked God for that when Cazamian canceled our downwards velocity with them in a few seconds. We curved away up over China and from about fifty miles high we saw the Whale hit the Pacific. Six hundred tons of mass at well over two thousand miles an hour make an almighty down, but I doubt they'll salvage \"I wonder why James went down with the ship, as the saying is? Not that it made any difference. It must have broken his heart to know that his lovely ship was getting the chopper. Or did he suspect another human error? crisp. Only thing that saved me was the spacesuit I was still wearing. I snapped the face plate down because the cabin was filling with fumes. I saw Charley coming out of the toilet—that's how he'd escaped—and I saw him beginning to laugh. Then the port side collapsed and I fell out. \"I saw the launch spinning away, glowing red against a purplish black sky. I tumbled head over heels towards the huge curved shield of earth fifty miles below. I shut my eyes and that's about all I remember. I don't see how any of us could have survived. I think we're all dead. \"I'll have to get up and crack this suit and let some air in. But I can't. I fell fifty miles without a parachute. I'm dead so I can't stand up.\" There was silence for a while except my thirst but I could eat a horse. I jumps. Terminal velocity for a human body falling through air is about one hundred twenty m.p.h. foot fall, true, but I've been lucky. The suit is bulky but light and probably slowed my fall. I hit a sixty mile an hour updraft this side of the Whale expedition did fine till it found Chang. Then it hit bad luck that went on and on till it looks fishy. We lost the ship, we lost the launch, all but one of us lost our lives. We couldn't even win a game of ping-pong. eye legend and the Jonah, bad luck\n\n<question>:\nWhat happened to the Whale?\n\n<options>:\nA Charlie sabotaged the deuterium fusion drive. The drive shut down, and the Whale crashed into the Pacific.\nB The ion rockets on the Whale exploded. It then crashed into the Pacific.\nC The Cazamian laser exploded, causing the Whale to crash down into the Pacific.\nD The Whale came out of its star-jump in the wrong position. It then crashed into the Pacific.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
2,120	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>:\nSo I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhaps 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 Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk for she was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, which \"It's in your purse,\" I blurted out. because I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San Francisco Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so I luggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went through 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 bomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small, alarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go. But of course that had been the plan! My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm my mouth was dry and my mind I goggled at her, managed to croak, \"No, thanks.\" She gave me an odd look and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing at the cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her. I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spent a frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop that when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it was like trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't going to be able to stop it. Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could not afford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my hold until it came to a dead stop. 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. 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 Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk as 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. watch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfield It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag contained I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. The 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 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 clock. The escapement was clicking vigorously. I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched toward and grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. I entered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it to and put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurrying Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb. claim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ran 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 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. But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and started \"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 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 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 counter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. I had to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop the \"No. I'm waiting for someone.\" I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against the counter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach the device, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheel escaped my grasp. \"Do you have my suitcase?\" glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it. \"Just a moment,\" I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurrying 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 restrained myself. She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpled suitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said, \"Please put the bag down. Over there.\" I indicated a spot beside a range it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel. Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet. She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followed the short, fat man into the coffee shop. there when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag. 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 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. I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the other 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. \"Hey!\" I shouted, starting toward him. 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 redcap, who said, \"That man steal them suitcases?\" Just then the airport policeman started across the street from the parking lot. Redcap said, \"Better tell him about it.\" But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distant\n\n<question>:\nWhy did the dumpy man not start running when he picked up the suitcases?\n\n<options>:\nA He knew there was a bomb and didn't want to jostle it before he retrieved the other contents\nB He didn't know there was a bomb so he had no reason to rush\nC He didn't want to arouse suspicion unless he was spotted\nD He was too big to be able to move quickly\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
69	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there be life traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. So they skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. There was spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omitted 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 nothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Then it came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. \"Limited,\" said Steiner, \"as though within a pale. As though there were The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locator had refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself, bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he had Positive on ninety per cent of the acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been a it had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out of billions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at all was shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the area assumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it ever 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 twelve hours.\" \"You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere away from the thoughtful creature?\" Little Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguist and checker champion of the craft. Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationary in the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probe went down to visit whatever was there. like an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion, I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well be Earth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light coming from?\" in very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a very bright light. It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this but the 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 \"Pick from the trees,\" said Ha-Adamah, \"and then it may be that you will want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which does not need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But you are free to enjoy the garden and its fruits.\" They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were the animals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, though they offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though they wanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you. \"If there are only two people here,\" said Casper Craig, \"then it may be that the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertile wherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. And \"Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else,\" said Stark. \"A very promising site.\" \"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 \"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. proposition to maintain here as on Earth?\" \"All things are possible.\" And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: \"No, no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one!\" It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it. \"Once more, Father,\" said Stark, \"you should be the authority but does not the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to a medieval painting?\" \"It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrew exegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated.\" \"I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is too incredible.\" fallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine.\" \"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 even death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taught that on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost.\" They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place. It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only two been cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But we are taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if we persevere, it will come by him.\" They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their time there. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when they are garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness that \"I too am convinced,\" said Steiner. \"It is Paradise itself, where the Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver, names were \"Snake-Oil Sam,\" spoke to his underlings: \"It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'll business long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I did change Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to the 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 and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to have a big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb.\" \"I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of the crackpot settlers will bring a new lion.\" \"And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It's hell.\" \"I'm working on it.\" Casper Craig was still dictating the gram: \"Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climate ideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from Planet Delphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenic and storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenial \"It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds. Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible, zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot through\n\n<question>:\nWhat was determined to have created the bright light in the moon-town?\n\n<options>:\nA The shining paint that was applied to the bodies of Adam and Eve.\nB Artificial lighting that helped the fruits to produce more.\nC The lights from the ship that were not turned off.\nD Constant moon-light that failed to dim in order to help the fruits grow\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
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 BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! Macklin was playing jacks. \"Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him to against that repatriated fullback.\" Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. \"Guess I got carried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for a Macklin had answered the of all headaches.\" Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expression \"Sure,\" Macklin said, \"if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?\" \"That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completely ethical with even a discovery partly mine.\" \"You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches? Our reputations don't go outside our own fields,\" Mitchell said. \"But now Macklin—\" able to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties but astra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mild stroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It was known that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle of the headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for several weeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seen \"I imagine he will,\" Mitchell said. \"Macklin's always seemed a decent have me intrigued. What is it all about?\" \"Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches,\" Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. \"That's right, Steven. Migraine.\" \"That must be terrible,\" Ferris said. \"All your fine reputation and lavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearing agony begins, can it?\" \"No, Harold, it isn't,\" Macklin admitted. \"What does your project have to do with my headaches?\" \"Doctor,\" Mitchell said, \"what would you say the most common complaint of man is?\" from what you have said you mean headaches.\" \"Headaches,\" Mitchell agreed. \"Everybody has them at some time in his life. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide by their headaches.\" \"Yes,\" Macklin said. \"But think,\" Ferris interjected, \"what a boon it would be if everyone could be cured of headaches forever such a shot? Can you cure headaches?\" \"We think we can,\" Ferris said. \"How can you have a specific for a number of different causes?\" Macklin a number of different causes for headaches—nervous of all of this, the one real cause of headaches,\" Mitchell announced. \"We have definitely established this for this first time,\" Ferris added. over-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred a virus that feeds on pituitrin.\" \"That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would mean works, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuff makes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than the migraine. How should I go about removing my curse?\" He reinserted the pipe. \"I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate,\" Ferris said. \"Our \"Will work,\" Macklin said thoughtfully. \"The operative word. It \"But not on humans?\" Macklin asked. Macklin coughed. \"I don't want to overestimate my value but the run a large-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that. We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of our resources.\" \"I'm tempted,\" Macklin said hesitantly, \"but the answer is go. I mean Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. \"I really nausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn't it? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I've heard some say they preferred the migraine.\" Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used to Macklin held his head in both hands. \"Why did you two select Mitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believe us if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a man of your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronic migraine. You do.\" \"Yes, I do,\" Macklin said. \"Very well. Go ahead. Give me your injection.\" \"Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcast unverified results to the press. It's too early for that!\" \"Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn't he? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell right now, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy, with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces.\" \"It's Macklin's wife,\" Ferris said. \"Do you want to talk to her? I'm no \"Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you are Macklin?\" he asked without removing his hand from the telephone. a great deal more active than Dean,\" Mitchell said. \"Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervous energy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either.\" Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive in Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum . Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She wore \"You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorized The colonel smiled thinly. \"Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everything suddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest to \"What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot?\" Mitchell asked. \"Not an idiot,\" Colonel Carson corrected primly. \"Dr. Macklin is a \"I'm not so dumb,\" Macklin said defensively. \"But—\" Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. \"Very \"We merely cured him of his headaches,\" Mitchell said. \"How?\" \"All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as if he had been kicked in the head by a mule,\" Colonel Carson said. is replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearly once in a human race.\" \"Just a moment,\" Mitchell interrupted, \"we can cure Macklin.\" my headaches, like before?\" Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time to frame an answer. \"Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functions Macklin slowly shaking his head. Macklin nodded. \"Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing. are millions of morons running around loose in the United States. They can get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of them do. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picture cure your husband of his present condition.\" \"Really?\" she said. \"Did you speak to Elliot about that?\" \"Y-yes,\" Colonel Carson said, \"but he's not himself. He refused the he's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell and Ferris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklin to sanity.\" \"There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—\" \"It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history of vascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want to Macklin,\" Mitchell interjected. \"I'm no psychiatrist,\" Mitchell said, \"but I think she wants Macklin\n\n<question>:\nWhy do they want Macklin specifically to be the test subject?\n\n<options>:\nA As a fellow scientist, he'd understand and appreciate what they're doing.\nB He's in relatively good health, meaning he'd survive the experiment and yield resutls.\nC He is a man of great importance, and people will believe him if it works.\nD He has chronic migraines, making him a good candidate.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,865	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nthere isn't a trap, the Karna can't satisfy Braynek, because he's convinced that there has and they've got the Karna reeling. The Karna can see that we're not Malloy leafed casually through the dossiers of the four new men who had been assigned trying to stall our men are actually working at trying to reach a decision. his approval, but there was still Malloy, Permanent Terran Ambassador to His Utter Munificence, the Occeq of Saarkkad. Take this first one, for instance. Malloy ran his finger down the columns of complex symbolism that and Braynek have blind spots, but showed the complete psychological they're covered with armor. No, I'm Couldn't go, Mr. Ambassador?\" Malloy looked at him. \"Didn't you know? I wondered why you appointed me, in the first place. No, I morbidly suspicious that every man's hand was turned against him. He trusted no one, and was perpetually on his guard against imaginary plots importance. Number three ... Malloy sighed and pushed the dossiers away from him. No two men were alike, and yet there sometimes flabby muscles, sagging skin, a void. Malloy closed his eyes. Somewhere out there, a war was raging. He didn't even like to think of that, but war that Mankind had yet fought. And, Malloy knew, his own position was not unimportant in that war. He was not in the battle line, nor of differences—but their minds just didn't function along the same lines. For nine years, Bertrand Malloy official was aloof. The greater his importance, the greater must be his isolation. The Occeq of Saarkkad could have handled them without half trying. But Malloy didn't have top-grade men. They couldn't be spared from work that required their total capacity. where there are more important jobs that will tax his full output. So Malloy was stuck with the culls. Not the worst ones, of course there were places in the galaxy that were less important than Saarkkad to the war effort. Malloy knew that, no matter what was wrong with a man, as long as he had the mental ability to was impossible, in view of the sterilization regulations. But Malloy didn't like to stop at merely thwarting mental quirks he useful . The phone chimed. Malloy flipped it on with a practiced hand. \"Malloy here.\" \"Mr. Malloy?\" said a careful voice. \"A special communication for you has been teletyped in from Earth. Shall I bring it in?\" \"Bring it in, Miss Drayson.\" Miss Drayson was a case in point. She was uncommunicative. She liked to gather in information, but she found it difficult to give it up once it was in her possession. Malloy had made her his private secretary. Nothing—but nothing out of Malloy's office without his direct order. It had taken Malloy a long time to get it into Miss Drayson's head that it was perfectly all right—even desirable—for her to keep secrets from everyone except Malloy. She came in through the door, a rather handsome woman in her middle someone might at any instant snatch it from her before she could turn it over to Malloy. She laid them carefully on the let you know immediately, sir,\" she said. \"Will there be anything else?\" Malloy let her stand there while he picked up the communique. She wanted to know what his reaction was it didn't matter because no one would ever find out from her what he had done unless she was whisper. \"There's a chance that the war may be over.\" \"Yes, sir,\" said Miss Drayson in a hushed voice. Malloy read the whole thing through, fighting to keep his emotions in check. Miss Drayson stood there calmly, her face a mask her emotions were a secret. Finally, Malloy looked up. \"I'll let you know as soon as I reach a decision, Miss Drayson. I think I hardly need say that no news of this is to leave this office.\" \"Of course not, sir.\" Malloy watched her go out the door without actually seeing her. The war was over—at least for a while. He The Karna, slowly being beaten their own advantage ... The Karna considered this to be fully neutral territory, and Earth objected. would find that some of the now-neutral might be a vital point in the negotiations. And that was where Bertrand Malloy I do?\" he said softly. On the second day after the arrival of the communique, Malloy made his decision. He flipped on his intercom and said: \"Miss Drayson, get hold of James Nordon and Kylen Braynek. I want to see them both immediately. Send Nordon in first, and can file the tape later.\" \"Yes, sir.\" Malloy knew the woman would listen in on the intercom anyway, and it was better to give her permission to was graying at the temples, and his handsome face looked cool and efficient. Malloy waved him to a seat. Nordon nodded slowly. \"Yes, sir.\" Malloy explained the problem of the Karna peace talks. \"We need a man who can outthink them,\" Malloy finished, \"and judging from your record, I think you're that Nordon nodded again. \"Yes, sir certainly. Am I to go alone?\" \"No,\" said Malloy, \"I'm sending an assistant with you—a man named Kylen Braynek. Ever heard of him?\" Nordon shook his head. \"Not that I recall, Mr. Malloy. Should I have?\" \"Not necessarily. He's a pretty shrewd operator, though. He knows a much time, but it's the Karna who are doing the pushing, not us.\" As soon as Nordon had left, Malloy said softly: \"Send in Braynek, Miss Drayson.\" Kylen Braynek was a smallish man with mouse-brown hair that lay flat against his skull, and hard, penetrating, dark eyes that were shadowed by heavy, protruding brows. Malloy asked him to sit down. Again Malloy went through the explanation of the peace conference. \"Naturally, they'll be trying to trick you every step of the way,\" Malloy went on. \"They're shrewd and underhanded Nordon know immediately.\" \"They won't get anything by me, Mr. Malloy.\" By the time the ship from Earth Malloy had full reports on the whole parley, as relayed to him through the ship that had taken Nordon and Braynek didn't quite make it to his calculating eyes. He took Malloy's hand and shook it warmly. \"How are you, Mr. Ambassador?\" \"Fine, Mr. Secretary. How's everything \"I certainly would.\" Malloy handed them to the secretary, and as he read, Malloy watched him. Blendwell was a political appointee—a good man, Malloy had to admit, but he didn't know all the ins and outs of the Diplomatic Corps. and outdo the finest team of negotiators the Karna could send.\" \"I thought they would,\" said Malloy, trying to appear modest. The secretary's eyes narrowed. doing here with ... ah ... sick men. Is this one of your ... ah ... successes?\" Malloy nodded. \"I think so. The Karna put us in a dilemma, so I threw a dilemma right back at them.\" \"How do you mean?\" \"Nordon had a mental block against making decisions. If he took a girl out on a date, he'd have trouble making up his mind whether to kiss her or not until she made up his mind for him, one way or the other. He's that kind of guy. Until he's presented The Secretary nodded slowly. \"What about Braynek?\" \"Paranoid,\" said Malloy. \"He thinks everyone is plotting against him. In this case, that's all to the good because the Karna plotting against him. No matter what they put forth, Braynek is convinced that there's a trap in it somewhere, and he digs to find out what the trap is. Even if\n\n<question>:\nHow does Malloy feel about Miss Drayson?\n\n<options>:\nA Malloy thinks Miss Drayson is a great secretary because she doesn't give away information.\nB Malloy is getting ready to fire Miss Drayson for not protecting confidential information.\nC Malloy suspects Miss Drayson may be a spy for Karn.\nD Malloy is secretly in love with Miss Drayson.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,039	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 the fine of—\" \"—one hundred thousand dollars. I know.\" I groaned and turned to Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo was no problem—they battled for the honor—but It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alien \"You?\" I said. \"I can get you out of this cheap.\" \" How cheap?\" Gorb grinned rakishly. \"Five thousand in cash plus a contract as a specimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of a lot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it?\" I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn't be much help were really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officials ever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand, giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition. \"Tell you what,\" I said finally. \"You've got yourself a deal—but on a contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand and the contract. Otherwise, nothing.\" Gorb shrugged. \"What have I to lose?\" arrival. Stuff like this: Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusive world? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrills \"Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands for The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained. \"You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald?\" \"I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll pay for my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required to remain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day.\" \"And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses and transportation.\" The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clapping on one side, two on the other. \"Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! I accept the terms!\" I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we were signing this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him into the other office to sign him up. didn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alien who goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monicker would work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him get to Earth. My conscience won't let me really exploit of his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, being so plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign at anything short of top rate. a try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even get the handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging. upkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just any old kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan. \"One more specimen before lunch,\" I told Stebbins, \"to make it an even \"I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet Wazzenazz XIII.\" I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the line at getting bilked myself. \"Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not known for my sense of humor. Or my generosity.\" \"I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job.\" \"Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're as Earthborn as I am.\" \"I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth,\" he said smoothly. \"I \"Very clever, Mr. Gorb.\" I grinned at him and shook my head. \"You spin a good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smith from Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back to Earth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty low these days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb.\" He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, \"You're making a big Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And—\" I pulled away from his yawning mouth. \"Good-by, Mr. Gorb,\" I repeated. \"All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a big attraction. I'll—\" \" another chance.\" He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile. This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to get a job! But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his cleverness real good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free ticket home. I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have that of fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of his warlike race. because—\" \"You will hire me or trouble I will make!\" I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were already He glared at me in silence. I went on, \"Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliest possible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire another as a vacancy—\" \"No. You will hire me now.\" \"It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick to it.\" fifty ahead of him.\" \"All right,\" I said tiredly. \"As long as he's in here already, I might \" My face was expressionless. \"You don't really intend to join our organization at all—you just want free passage to Earth?\" \"Yes, yes!\" wailed the Stortulian. \"Find some other member of my race, sentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but I wasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrel happy—not to mention footing the transportation. I said, \"I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very strict on the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be for I said, \"I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her back against her will. And maybe she's happier where she is.\" I watched him shuffle out. I do have some conscience, and I had the About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then life started to get complicated again. Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reason or another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for the day so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract. times today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly?\" I scowled at him. \"Too damn many.\" \"You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead. I've been living in the outworlds half my life I know all there is to being—\" \"—that your unethical actions have directly contributed to the you for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than $100,000 Galactic or two years in prison.\" \"Hold on!\" I stormed. \"You mean that any being from anywhere in the Universe can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of them away. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it was going to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when I remembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely to come bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000 per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall. I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannounced\n\n<question>:\nWhy did the recruiter offer Lawrence $50 Galactic a week?\n\n<options>:\nA That was what was promised to all travelers to Earth for display.\nB He was able to offer him less, knowing he would still accept and be grateful.\nC He could be paid less because he was smaller and less of an attraction.\nD He would be paid less because he would also be reimbursed for expenses and have free travel.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
964	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.\" type of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the best psychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for the a crime, get caught and be a hero ... an Ex .\" pocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. \"I want until it took you apart and put you back together again the way it wanted you to be. \"Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted,\" Hendricks continued. \"You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it. You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever worked \"What's the job?\" your head is going to say, Work! Work! Exes always get good jobs because employers know they're good workers. \"But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Ex is like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all the criminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next best illustration....\" take this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job like everyone else?\" As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when she . He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing a \"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 DCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've had several jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man, locked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you until 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 want to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I get convicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job!\" \"It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk like you is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal.\" He smiled at her admiration. It was A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting, wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except for you to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes.\" was a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulses to kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only a hero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of the CPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... a man who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money. And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatment was commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of the word an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs. \"Well,\" the girl said. \"I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten. Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes.\" because it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon the know almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant in the WSDA!\" likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face on posters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard only the harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capable man, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who looked Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented from committing a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properly punishment. If it did, that would be a violation because it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever did prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward and a child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT First there aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or—\" want to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and read books. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time.\" \"I couldn't leave if I wanted to,\" Joe said. \"I'm flat broke. Thanks to your CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job.\" Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extended them. \"I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back a little at a time.\" Joe waved the money away. \"Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Why \"Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is a \"Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't \"Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the same poison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amount 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 of business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectors that could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain. And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearance of the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambled their aim was infallible. It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn't fantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered across 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 subconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crime was the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things. Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousands of other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment 204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine. being respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed. To John with Love . 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. cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day. But now—another change in him— 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 -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never be able to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kind of guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and get your autograph.\" be able to get a good job now.\" spectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself and I don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I did you a favor.\" Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarely 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\n\n<question>:\nWhy is an EX an ideal employee?\n\n<options>:\nA An EX is an ideal employee because their criminal backgrounds help them prevent others from committing crimes.\nB An EX is an ideal employee because they have been psychologically trained not to steal.\nC An EX is an ideal employee because their brain implants not only will not let them commit crimes, but they also compel the EX to keep working.\nD An EX is an ideal employee because they can be trusted with any amount of their employer’s money.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,294	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\noratory The high costs of low language. Neither Greg Lloyd nor Michael Irvin was so stigmatized. \"It's live television,\" NBC Vice President Ed Markey said, rationalizing the outbursts. \"It's an emotional moment. These things happen.\" Irvin wasn't about to let that stand. \"I knew exactly what I was saying,\" he insisted later. \"Those of you who can't believe I said it--believe it.\" Swearing isn't the only public act that Western civilization condones today but didn't 30 years ago. But it is one of the most interesting. It is everywhere, impossible to avoid or tune out. I am sitting in a meeting at the office, talking with a colleague about a business circumstance that may possibly go against us. \"In that case, we're [expletive] ,\" he says. Five years ago, he would have said \"screwed.\" Twenty years ago, he would have said, \"We're in big trouble.\" Societal tolerance of profanity requires us to increase our dosage as time goes on. I am walking along a suburban street, trailing a class of pre-schoolers who are linked to each other by a rope. A pair of teen-agers passes us in the other direction. By the time they have reached the end of the line of children, they have tossed off a whole catalog of obscenities I did not even hear until I was well into adolescence, let alone use in casual conversation on a public street. I am talking to a distinguished professor of public policy about a foundation grant. I tell her something she wasn't aware of before. In 1965, the appropriate response was \"no kidding.\" In 1996, you do not say \"no kidding.\" It is limp and ineffectual. If you are surprised at all, you say what she says: \"No shit.\" What word is taboo in middle-class America in 1996? There are a couple of credible candidates: The four-letter word for \"vagina\" remains off-limits in polite conversation (although that has more to do with feminism than with profanity), and the slang expression for those who engage in oral sex with males is not yet acceptable by the standards of office-meeting etiquette. But aside from a few exceptions, the supply of genuinely offensive language has dwindled almost to nothing as the 20th century comes to an end the currency of swearing has been inflated to the brink of worthlessness. When almost anything can be said in public, profanity ceases to exist in any meaningful way at all. That most of the forbidden words of the 1950s are no longer forbidden will come as news to nobody: The steady debasement of the common language is only one of many social strictures that have loosened from the previous generation to the current. What is important is that profanity served a variety of purposes for a long time in Western culture. It does not serve those purposes any more. What purposes? There are a couple of plausible answers. One of them is emotional release. Robert Graves, who wrote a book in the 1920s called The Future of Swearing , thought that profanity was the adult replacement for childhood tears. There comes a point in life, he wrote, when \"wailing is rightly discouraged, and groans are also considered a signal of extreme weakness. Silence under suffering is usually impossible.\" So one reaches back for a word one does not normally use, and utters it without undue embarrassment or guilt. And one feels better--even stimulated. The anthropologist Ashley Montagu, whose Anatomy of Swearing , published in 1967, is the definitive modern take on the subject, saw profanity as a safety valve rather than a stimulant, a verbal substitute for physical aggression. When someone swears, Montagu wrote, \"potentially noxious energy is converted into a form that renders it comparatively innocuous.\" One could point out, in arguing against the safety-valve theory, that as America has grown more profane in the past 30 years, it has also grown more violent, not less. But this is too simple. It isn't just the supply of dirty words that matters, it's their emotive power. If they have lost that power through overuse, it's perfectly plausible to say that their capacity to deter aggressive behavior has weakened as well. But there is something else important to say about swearing--that it represents the invocation of those ideas a society considers powerful, awesome, and a little scary. I'm not sure there is an easy way to convey to anybody under 30, for example, the sheer emotive force that the word \"[expletive]\" possessed in the urban childhood culture of 40 years ago. It was the verbal link to a secret act none of us understood but that was known to carry enormous consequences in the adult world. It was the embodiment of both pleasure and danger. It was not a word or an idea to mess with. When it was used, it was used, as Ashley Montagu said, \"sotto voce , like a smuggler cautiously making his way across a forbidden frontier.\" In that culture, the word \"[expletive]\" was not only obscene, it was profane, in the original sense: It took an important idea in vain. Profanity can be an act of religious defiance, but it doesn't have to be. The Greeks tempted fate by invoking the names of their superiors on Mount Olympus Nor do we believe in sex any more the way most American children and millions of adults believed in it a generation ago: as an act of profound mystery and importance that one did not engage in, or discuss, or even invoke, without a certain amount of excitement and risk. We have trivialized and routinized sex to the point where it just doesn't carry the emotional freight it carried in the schoolyards and bedrooms of the 1950s. Many enlightened people consider this to be a great improvement over a society in which sex generated not only emotion and power, but fear. For the moment, I wish to insist only on this one point: When sexuality loses its power to awe, it loses its power to create genuine swearing. When we convert it into a casual form of recreation, we shouldn't be surprised to hear linebackers using the word \"[expletive]\" on national television. To profane something, in other words, one must believe in it. The cheapening of profanity in modern America represents, more than anything else, the crumbling of belief. There are very few ideas left at this point that are awesome or frightening enough for us to enforce a taboo against them. The instinctive response of most educated people to the disappearance of any taboo is to applaud it, but this is wrong. Healthy societies need a decent supply of verbal taboos and prohibitions, if only as yardsticks by which ordinary people can measure and define themselves. By violating these taboos over and over, some succeed in defining themselves as rebels. Others violate them on special occasions to derive an emotional release. Forbidden language is one of the ways we remind children that there are rules to everyday life, and consequences for breaking them. When we forget this principle, or cease to accept it, it is not just our language that begins to fray at the edges. What do we do about it? Well, we could pass a law against swearing. Mussolini actually did that. He decreed that trains and buses, in addition to running on time, had to carry signs that read \"Non bestemmiare per l'onore d'Italia.\" (\"Do not swear for the honor of Italy.\") The commuters of Rome reacted to those signs exactly as you would expect: They cursed them. What Mussolini could not do, I am reasonably sure that American governments of the 1990s cannot do, nor would I wish it. I merely predict that sometime in the coming generation, profanity will return in a meaningful way. It served too many purposes for too many years of American life to disappear on a permanent basis. We need it.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is not increasing as time goes on?\n\n<options>:\nA the amount of people allowed to swear without punishment\nB the amount of words considered taboo\nC the amount of profanity heard\nD societal tolerance\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
499	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIf you can clone a sheep, you can almost certainly clone a human being. Some of the most powerful people in the world have felt compelled to act against this threat. President Clinton swiftly imposed a ban on federal funding for human-cloning research. Bills are in the works in both houses of Congress to outlaw human cloning--a step urged on all governments by the pope himself. Cloning humans is taken to be either 1) a fundamentally evil thing that must be stopped or, at the very least, 2) a complex ethical issue that needs legislation and regulation. But what, exactly, is so bad about it? Start by asking whether human beings have a right to reproduce. I say \"yes.\" I have no moral right to tell other people they shouldn't be able to have children, and I don't see that Bill Clinton has that right either. When Clinton says, \"Let us resist the temptation to copy ourselves,\" it comes from a man not known for resisting other temptations of the flesh. And for a politician, making noise about cloning is pretty close to a fleshly temptation itself. It's an easy way to show sound-bite leadership on an issue that everybody is talking about, without much risk of bitter consequences. After all, how much federally funded research was stopped by this ban? Probably almost none, because Clinton has maintained Ronald Reagan's policy of minimizing federal grants for research in human reproduction. Besides, most researchers thought cloning humans was impossible--so, for the moment, there's unlikely to be a grant-request backlog. There is nothing like banning the nonexistent to show true leadership. If humans have a right to reproduce, what right does society have to limit the means? Essentially all reproduction is done these days with medical help--at delivery, and often before. Truly natural human reproduction would mean 50 percent infant mortality and make pregnancy-related death the No. 1 killer of adult women. True, some forms of medical help are more invasive than others. With in vitro fertilization, the sperm and egg are combined in the lab and surgically implanted in the womb. Less than two decades ago, a similar concern was raised over the ethical issues involved in \"test-tube babies.\" To date, nearly 30,000 such babies have been born in the United States alone. Many would-be parents have been made happy. Who has been harmed? The cloning procedure is similar to IVF. The only difference is that the DNA of sperm and egg would be replaced by DNA from an adult cell. What law or principle--secular, humanist, or religious--says that one combination of genetic material in a flask is OK, but another is not? No matter how closely you study the 1 st century texts, I don't think you'll find the answer. Twins aren't the only clones in everyday life. Think about seedless grapes or navel oranges--if there are no seeds, where did they come from? It's the plant equivalent of virgin birth--which is to say that they are all clones, propagated by cutting a shoot and planting it. Wine is almost entirely a cloned product. The grapes used for wine have seeds, but they've been cloned from shoots for more than a hundred years in the case of many vineyards. The same is true for many flowers. Go to a garden store, and you'll find products with delightful names like \"Olivia's Cloning Compound,\" a mix of hormones to dunk on the cut end of a shoot to help it take root. What if Saddam Hussein clones were to rule Iraq for another thousand years? Sounds bad, but Saddam's natural son Uday is reputed to make his father seem saintly by comparison. We have no more to fear from a clone of Saddam, or of Hitler, than we do from their natural-born kin--which is to say, we don't have much to fear: Dictators' kids rarely pose a problem. Stalin's daughter retired to Arizona, and Kim Jong Il of North Korea is laughable as Great Leader, Version 2.0. The notion of an 80-year-old man cloning himself to cheat death is quaint, but it is unrealistic. First, the baby wouldn't really be him. Second, is the old duffer really up to changing diapers? A persistent octogenarian might convince a younger couple to have his clone and raise it, but that is not much different from fathering a child via a surrogate mother. Fear of clones is just another form of racism. We all agree it is wrong to discriminate against people based on a set of genetic characteristics known as \"race.\" Calls for a ban on cloning amount to discrimination against people based on another genetic trait--the fact that somebody already has an identical DNA sequence. The most extreme form of discrimination is genocide--seeking to eliminate that which is different. In this case, the genocide is pre-emptive--clones are so scary that we must eliminate them before they exist with a ban on their creation. What is so special about natural reproduction anyway? Cloning is the only predictable way to reproduce, because it creates the identical twin of a known adult. Sexual reproduction is a crap shoot by comparison--some random mix of mom and dad. In evolutionary theory, this combination is thought to help stir the gene pool, so to speak. However, evolution for humans is essentially over, because we use medical science to control the death rate. Whatever the temptations of cloning, the process of natural reproduction will always remain a lot more fun. An expensive and uncomfortable lab procedure will never offer any real competition for sex. The people most likely to clone will be those in special circumstances--infertile couples who must endure IVF anyway, for example. Even there, many will mix genetics to mimic nature. Another special case is where one member of a couple has a severe genetic disease. They might choose a clone of the healthy parent, rather than burden their child with a joint heritage that could be fatal. The most upsetting possibility in human cloning isn't superwarriors or dictators. It's that rich people with big egos will clone themselves. The common practice of giving a boy the same name as his father or choosing a family name for a child of either sex reflects our hunger for vicarious immortality. Clones may resonate with this instinct and cause some people to reproduce this way. So what? Rich and egotistic folks do all sorts of annoying things, and the law is hardly the means with which to try and stop them. The \"deep ethical issues\" about cloning mainly boil down to jealousy. Economic jealousy is bad enough, and it is a factor here, but the thing that truly drives people crazy is sexual jealousy. Eons of evolution through sexual selection have made the average man or woman insanely jealous of any interloper who gains a reproductive advantage--say by diddling your spouse. Cloning is less personal than cuckoldry, but it strikes a similar chord: Someone has got the reproductive edge on you. Once the fuss has died down and further animal research has paved the way, direct human cloning will be one more option among many specialized medical interventions in human reproduction, affecting only a tiny fraction of the population. Research into this area could bring far wider benefits. Clinton's knee-jerk policy changes nothing in the short run, but it is ultimately a giant step backward. In using an adult cell to create a clone, the \"cellular clock\" that determines the difference between an embryo and adult was somehow reset. Work in this area might help elucidate the process by which aging occurs and yield a way to reset the clocks in some of our own cells, allowing us to regenerate. Selfishly speaking, that would be more exciting to me than cloning, because it would help me . That's a lot more directly useful than letting me sire an identical twin 40 years my junior.\n\n<question>:\nDespite the federal ban on funding human cloning research, how much funding has been stopped?\n\n<options>:\nA Less than half\nB All funding\nC Over half\nD Almost none\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
2,421	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 (nature), Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: \"Whether they are or are not sensible of it,\" he wrote, \"all men are daily influenced by physiognomy.\" Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. \"Attractive people are regarded as better at everything,\" says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. \"And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't.\" 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. strong jaw line small and sloping forehead small or weak chin pointy or snubbed fingers or toes. In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world 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'.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat is one halo effect of physiognomy?\n\n<options>:\nA It has morphed to become something more credible than its original version\nB It has morphed to become something less credible than its original version\nC It has created a trend that imprisons innocent people\nD It has created a bias that favors more attractive people\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
514	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n.\" The song was a rollicking, ribald ditty, a favorite of the planters and miners, the space pilots She bent her head in acknowledgment so that her bronze red hair fell down about her face. There was perspiration on her upper lip and the singer but kept his pale, immature face bent over the keys, while his fingers lightly, automatically picked out the tune. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, plastered his white coat to his back. The girl, with an almost imperceptible gesture, shook her head. The night was very hot but then it is always hot on Mercury, the newest, the wildest, the hottest of Earth's frontiers. Fans spaced about the garden's walls sluggishly stirred the night air, while the men and women sitting at the tables drank heavily of Latonka, the pale green wine of Mercury. Only the native waiters, the enigmatic, yellow-eyed Mercurians, seemed unaffected by the heat. They didn't sweat at all. Up on the stage the singer was about to begin another number when she stiffened. pulled out a chair, motioned for the waiter. The Mercurian, his yellow engineering the revolution. The real Mercurian patriots are against it does, the Terrestrials here will be massacred. The Mercurians hate them. We haven't but a handful of troops.\" Jaro Moynahan wiped the sweat from his forehead with a fine duraweb handkerchief. \"I had forgotten how abominably hot it can be here.\" the very soul of the revolution. The Mercurians worship him. They will \"There isn't much time,\" he said after a moment. \"The Rains are due any day now.\" glowing in light, the next the hot black night swooped down on the revelers, pressing against their eyes like dark wool. The fans about the walls slowed audibly and stopped. It grew hotter, closer. his sleeve. Somewhere a girl giggled. \"What's coming off here?\" growled a petulant male voice. Other voices took up the plaint. On the heels of his speech the lights flashed on, driving the night upward. The fans recommenced their monotonous whirring. It made him think of cool green grapes beaded with dew. On the hot, teeming planet of Mercury it was as refreshing as a cold plunge. reputation of being able to take care of herself. He beckoned a waiter, paid his bill. As the Mercurian started to leave, a thought struck Jaro. These yellow-eyed Mercurians could see as well in the dark as any alley-prowling cat. For centuries they had lived most their lives beneath ground to escape the terrible rays of the sun. Only at night did they emerge to work their fields and ply their trades. He peeled off a bill, put it in the waiter's hands. possibility. If the girl had been abducted, only Mercurians could have engineered it in the dark and the Mercurians were a clannish lot. heat of the sun. Beneath his feet, he knew, stretched a labyrinth of rooms and passages. Somewhere in those rat-runs was Karfial Hodes, the revolutionist, and the girl. following him. They were never visible, but to his trained ears there came stealthy, revealing noises: the brush of cloth against the baked earth walls, the sly shuffle of a step. He ducked down a bisecting the dense, humid night, he was like a blind man trying to elude the cat-eyed Mercurians. of a fire. The Mercurian dawn was about to break. With an oath, he set out again for his hostelry. He made no further effort to elude the followers. Once back in his room, Jaro Moynahan stripped off his clothes, unbuckled a shoulder holster containing a compressed air slug gun, stepped under the shower. His body was lean and brown as his face and marked with innumerable scars. There were small round puckered scars and long thin ones, and his left shoulder bore the unmistakable brownish patch of a ray burn. Stepping out of the shower, he dried, rebuckled on the shoulder holster, slipped into pajamas. The pajamas were blue with wide gaudy stripes. Next he lit a cigarette and stretching out on the bed began to contemplate his toes with singular interest. was little doubt but that he had killed quite a number of men. But this business of hunting a man through the rat-runs beneath the city was out of his line. Furthermore, there was something phony about the entire set up. The Mercurians, he knew, had been agitating for freedom for years. Throwing off the latch, he stepped back, balancing on the balls of his feet. \"Come in,\" he called. Mr. Peet licked his lips. \"But you will, surely you will. Unless Karfial Hodes is stopped immediately there will be a bloody uprising all over the planet during the Festival of the Rains. Earth doesn't realize the seriousness of the situation.\" \"Then I was right here, Mercurians as well as Earthmen, who recognize the danger. We I don't wonder that you are afraid of a revolution.\" Mr. Peet took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. \"Fifteen white suit was blotched with sweat and dirt. \"They told me Mr. Peet was here,\" he said. \"It's for you,\" said Jaro over his shoulder. \"I got away. Look, Mr. Peet, I got to see you alone.\" Albert Peet said, \"Would you excuse me, Mr. Moynahan?\" He licked his the door shut after him. Jaro lit a cigarette. He padded nervously back and forth across the room, his bare feet making no noise. He sat down on the edge of the an oath he threw open the door. The hall was empty. II Jaro returned to his room, stripped off his pajamas, climbed back into as streets during the flaming days. Here in the basements and sub-basements were located the shops and dram houses where the Mercurians sat around little tables drinking silently of the pale green Latonka. The burrows were but poorly lit, the natives preferring the cool gloom, and Jaro had to feel his way, rubbing shoulders with the aren't telepathic, honey.\" \"Oh,\" said Miss Webb, \"the offices of the Latonka Trust.\" The girl in the visoscreen thawed like ice cream in the sun. \"I'm sure Dr. Baer can come. He'll be there in a moment.\" \"Thank you,\" said Miss Webb. She flicked the machine off, then added: that—ah—a little extreme? I'm afraid it might incapacitate him, and I had a job for him.\" Jaro began again patiently. \"Wait for me in the first grog shop. There's something I must know. It's important.\" He cleared his throat. \"Don't you find the heat rather uncomfortable, Miss Webb. But perhaps you've become accustomed to it.\" be on the next liner back to Earth.\" Without answering, Jaro backed watchfully from the room. Once Jaro Moynahan had regained the street, he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Whatever was going on, these boys played for keeps. Warily he started down the passage toward the native quarter. At the first basement grog shop he turned in. His eyes swept the chamber, then \"Since we're going to be so chummy,\" she replied \"you might begin by \" Awk! \" said Joan, choking on the Latonka. revolution.\" \"What revolution? I'm going around in circles.\" \"The Mercurians, of course.\" \"I don't believe it,\" said the girl. \"The Mercurians are the most induce a Mercurian to kill, even in self-protection. That's why Albert going to grant the Mercurians their freedom. Everybody knows that the first thing the Mercurians will do, will be to boot out the Latonka inciting the Mercurians to rebellion. The newscaster had a line about\n\n<question>:\nHow did the Mercurians adjust to the heat?\n\n<options>:\nA Their yellow eyes filtered the sun’s rays.\nB They mostly lived under the ground.\nC Their skin kept them cool.\nD They would sweat to cool off.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,378	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>:\nBodyguard When 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! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So did 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 As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merely 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 must allow me to pay your cleaning bill,\" Gabe said, taking out You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance, was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had just set before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard's handsome face. Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. \"Don't do that,\" the nondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removed the glass from the little man's slackening grasp. \"You wouldn't want to go to jail because of him.\" The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forces now ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were too strong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only to smash back, and now it was too late for that. Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. \"So, it's you again?\" 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 \"So you don't mind having me around?\" The nondescript man smiled again. Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. \"Come on, have a drink \"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 been nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no real It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in no \"Let me take the controls, honey,\" the light-haired girl urged, but he shook his handsome head. on the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and a short fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out onto the dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined the young man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't there at all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem to remember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a moment Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at him speculatively. \"My guardian angel,\" he mumbled—shock had sobered him a little, but not enough. He sat up. \"Guess I'm not hurt or you'd have thrown me back in.\" \"And that's no joke,\" the fat man agreed. Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. friend to me, Gabe?\" \"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. \"if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in the future! Sometimes,\" he added musingly, \"I almost wish you would let 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, 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 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 think?\" There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and she wondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- or third- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make it \"If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him,\" she asked, \"why then do you keep helping him?\" \"I am not helping him . And he knows that.\" The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate, snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name, death.\" He signaled and a cab came. \"Tell him, when he comes to,\" he said to the girl as he and the driver \"Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't, in the long run, be most beneficial for my face.\" 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. he changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his own 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 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 \"Don't beat 'em cheat 'em.\" \"It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to take \"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 police had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capital 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. hulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner maybe I'll be able to get away with it. IV \"Look, Gabe,\" the girl said, \"don't try to fool me! I know you too well. And I know you have that man's—the real Gabriel \"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 see his body spoiled.\" \"It a pretty good body, isn't it?\" Gabe flexed softening muscles Gabe, why don't you...?\" \"I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe,\" she said truthfully enough, for \"I don't want to know!\" he spat. \"I wouldn't want it if I could get it back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as he looked in a mirror.\" He swung long legs over the side of his bed. \"Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what a hulk I had!\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat didn't this \"bodyguard\" do for Gabe?\n\n<options>:\nA tell his wife the truth\nB pulled him out of a helicopter crash\nC chase him across multiple planets\nD stop him from being beaten up\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,381	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>:\nalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merely amused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemably hideous. \"Sorry, colleague,\" Gabe said lazily. \"All my fault. You must let me hastily supplied by the management. \"You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill,\" Gabe said, taking out Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. \"So, it's you again?\" around, of course,\" Gabriel added too quickly. \"You do come in useful Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. \"Come on, have a drink \"Who was that, Gabe?\" the girl asked. 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 coin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions, reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond to the letter combination years. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. \"Where to, fellow-man?\" \"Is there a good zarquil game in town?\" \"Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though.\" \"I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun.\" It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in no To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out onto Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town the friend to me, Gabe?\" \"I don't know who he is,\" Gabe said almost merrily, \"except that he's Dominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retail milgot dealer any more the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeks ago, and now he isn't ... anything.\" casually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciation held little gratitude. The fat man shook his head without rancor. \"I have plenty of money, thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come,\" he addressed her husband, \"if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in the careful.\" When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night, the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxi driver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted the commission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the others could call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope it extended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification. Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there were otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. Playing the game was fabulously expensive it had to be to make it all they wanted was to feather their own pockets with interstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy many slaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to them Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never been big money in musical chairs as such. after a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, because trade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace between Vinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entrance of apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet. The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales in which the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted to conduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible. of the usual Vinoz set-up it was down-right shabby, the dim olive light hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That was the trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of getting The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but, when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off into darkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely to 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 heli-driver and entered the zarquil house. \"One?\" the small green creature in the slightly frayed robe asked. 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 growing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protect them from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathable and it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up. \"But why do you do it? Gabriel?\" She was growing a little frantic for a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not, embarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehow \"If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him,\" she asked, \"why then there's something about you that doesn't change.\" \"Too bad he got married,\" the young man said. \"I could have followed him for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me out from the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway,\" he added, his voice less impersonal, \"for your sake.\" known Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspect supposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medical examination. But in the places to which your husband has been leading me, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plenty expensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but then it was tough on me too, wasn't it?\" \"But how did you get into this ... pursuit?\" she asked again. \"And why 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.\" \"But I have plenty of money.\" The young man coughed. The Vinzz shrugged. \"I'll pay you twice the regular fee.\" The green one shook his head. \"Regrettably, I do mean what I say. This game is really clean.\" \"In a town like this?\" \"That is the reason we can afford to be honest.\" The Vinzz' tendrils long, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. His with him. \"We do a lot of business here,\" he said unnecessarily, for the whole set-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was by no means poor when it came to worldly goods. \"Why don't you try another 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. he changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his own \"Why, that's three times the usual rate!\" \"The other will pay five times the usual rate.\" nor whom the police intended to capture easily. This might be a lucky break for me after all , the new tenant thought, too well. And I know you have that man's—the real Gabriel Gabe, why don't you...?\" Sure , she thought, I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses and thrill-mills. \"You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?\" she went on. \"You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose, does he?\" \"I don't want to know!\" he spat. \"I wouldn't want it if I could get\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Gabe travel to seedy places?\n\n<options>:\nA so he can play more zarquil\nB he thinks he can escape from his \"bodyguard\"\nC it's what his wife is comfortable with\nD it's the only places he can afford\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,001	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nhimself backward from the table with an incoherent cry. He seized the first object his hand touched—it happened to be a heavy wooden cane leaning a sudden uncoiling of movement. He did not unbuckle his safety He altered my inherited characteristics For a moment Trella thought powerful, utterly invulnerable. There was only one question: Was he human? Trella from Jupiter.” Trella had not wanted to come had insisted. A woman could not possibly make her way through these streets alone to the better section and when the skeptical Jakdane insisted on examining him carefully, he had to admit Trella swung with her whole “Look, Trella, he said he was necessary to break free of Jupiter? Here's a man strong enough to break a spaceship safety belt just by getting the dark man, faced with his massiveness, took no chances. up out of his chair against it, was obviously unwilling, but The other man at the table Trella remembered the thug arose, ponderously, and lumbered and then crying that he had injured his hand on the bar. “But he said Dr. Mansard was his father,” protested Trella. “Robots and androids frequently Mansard died?” “The oxygen equipment failed, Quest said.” Exactly what happened, Trella Trella was silent. even in self defense. The second splashing the floor with liquor, and Kregg sank stunned to his knees. The dark man, who had grabbed Trella's arm, released is that, while they may understand sexual desire objectively, Dom Blessing. Its success had Trella did not want to believe bottleneck in his hand menacingly. build, his immunity to injury, and staggered out. Trella ran to his refusal to defend himself return Trella's love for him. against a human, his inability to It was not inconceivable that she should have unknowingly that they were artificial. had not told Quest of her mission to Ganymede. He thought he was Dr. Mansard's son, but an android had no legal right of inheritance from his owner. She would leave it to Dom Blessing grasped it. The broad face before 52 her was not unhandsome, to decide what to do about Quest. had told her he could not love her. Her best course was to try to forget him. you, Trella,” he said when they The gravity of Ganymede was hardly more than that of Earth's moon, but the way the man Trella took a fast plane from He followed Trella out the door at the door, a stooped, graying 58 man who peered at her over his spectacles. “You have the papers, eh?” he said, spying the brief case. on the genes before I was born. “Good, good. Come in and we'll riding high in the sky. “I'm Quest Mansard, Miss,” said her companion. “I'm just in She accompanied him through the bare, windowless anteroom which had always seemed to her “I'm Trella Nuspar,” she said, fireplace and Blessing opened the brief case with trembling hands. “There are things here,” he said, his eyes sparkling as he to adapt me to the climate “You're lying,” she said flatly. Miss Trella, eh?” he said soberly. “I was born there. Have you ever heard of She told him about Quest. “He thinks he's the son of Dr. Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently he is, without knowing it, an android Dr. Mansard built Dr. Eriklund Mansard?” “I certainly have,” she said, her interest taking a sudden on Jupiter.” upward turn. “He developed the living as a man or to tell him 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 a short vacation before resuming her duties as his confidential secretary. The next morning when she came down from her step, seeming to deliberately hold himself down. “If Dr. Mansard succeeded in landing on Jupiter, why didn't anyone ever hear from him asked Blessing. “A wealthy man must be careful,” said Blessing cheerfully. “When we don't understand all Trella could think Blessing peered at her over his “And what if he isn't an android, eh? And if he is—what if old Mansard didn't build in the prohibition against harming humans Trella sighed. Cowardice was that's required by law? Trella was silent, shocked. that the strongest and hadn't known about, hadn't even suspected. For some reason, Dom Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund Mansard … or his heir … or his mechanical servant. She was sure that Blessing most agile man on Ganymede should be a coward. Well, she Trella had the desk clerk call a cab to deliver the unconscious Motwick to his home. She and Trella's connection with Blessing. the atmosphere of Blessing's house, she was glad that he decided to assign her to take the Mansard papers to the New York laboratory. Quest came the day before she Trella was in the living room to gather his own father's notebooks and take them back to Earth. Motwick was an irresponsible Trella heard the doorbell ring. all. Trella had always liked her Blessing, ahead of the rest, So Trella was delighted to find that the ship was the Trella?” With a horrified gasp, Trella “If it's to keep you out of another “I always had a mind to save you for myself. I'll guarantee you won't have a moment alone Dom Blessing. Blessing was but my father conditioned me psychologically from my birth to the task of hunting down sphere, and Trella was “You see, Blessing was my father's She told him only that she was a messenger, sent out to Ganymede to pick up some important papers and take them back to Earth. She was tempted to tell him what the papers were. Her employer had impressed upon her that her mission was confidential, but surely Dom Blessing could not object to Dr. Mansard's son knowing about it. All these things had happened before she was born, and she did not know what Dom Blessing's relation to Dr. Mansard had been, but it must have been very close. She knew that Dr. Mansard had invented the surgiscope. This was an instrument with a three-dimensional screen as its More gently than Trella would of it. Trella disengaged herself. object under the microscope. The principle delicate operations could be performed at the cellular level. Dr. Mansard and his wife had disappeared into the turbulent atmosphere of Jupiter just after in Jupiter's atmosphere after the oxygen equipment failed. I know you think Dr. Mansard was your father, but androids which Blessing headed. Through all these years since Dr. Mansard's disappearance, 55 Blessing had been searching the often believe that.” laboratory of Dr. Mansard. When it was found at last, he sent Trella, his most trusted Jovian moons for a second, hidden secretary, to Ganymede to bring back to him the notebooks found Blessing would, of course, be happy to learn that a son of Dr. Mansard lived, and would see that he received his rightful share of the inheritance. Because of this, Trella was tempted Trella looked at him. He was there. “How can you be sure?” she asked doubtfully. At midtrip, Trella made a rueful “It's very peculiar,” she said unhappily. “He said he can't emotion … until the day Quest squirted coffee on him. It was one of those accidents Quest picked up his bulb of coffee, but inadvertently pressed it before he got it to his The man's eyes went wide and he snarled. So quickly it seemed impossible, he had unbuckled\n\n<question>:\nWhat incorrect assumption does Trella make about Blessing?\n\n<options>:\nA He would be thrilled to hear that Quest is alive and well\nB He murdered Dr. Mansard and got away with it\nC He turned Mansard's son into an android\nD He has no prior knowledge of the contents of Mansard's documents\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
229	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>:\nRevolt was brewing on Venus, led by the descendant of the first Earthmen to land. Svan was the leader making the final \"Everything shipshape, I take it!\" he commented. The Exec shrugged. \"I don't know, Lowry,\" he said. \"This is a funny place. I don't trust the natives.\" Lowry lifted his eyebrows. \"Oh? But after all, they're human beings, just like us—\" even look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them.\" themselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough.\" the Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashioned They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that we native Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, that is—right down into the mud. Well—\" he laughed—\"maybe they will. Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The five others in the room looked apprehensive. \"You see?\" Svan repeated. \"From head. \"Svan, I'm afraid,\" she said. \"Who are we to decide if this is a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will be Svan laughed harshly. \" They don't think so. You heard them. We are agreed. \"Svan, what must we do?\" Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. \"One moment. Ingra, do you still convinced by Svan. \"And the rest of us? Does any of us object?\" Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture of \"Good,\" said Svan. \"Then we must act. The Council has told us that we Earth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must not An old man shifted restlessly. \"But they are strong, Svan,\" he Svan nodded. \"No. They will leave. But they will never get back to Earth.\" \"Never get back to Earth?\" the old man gasped. \"Has the Council Svan shrugged. \"The Council did not know what we would face. The Earth-ship has.\" He paused dangerously. \"Toller,\" he said, \"do you dull. \"What is your plan?\" he asked. Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at his mark on one of them, held it up. \"We will let chance decide who is to do the work,\" he said angrily. \"Is there anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think....\" No answer. Svan jerked his head. \"Good,\" he said. \"Ingra, bring me that left. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidly Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them. find. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation. The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with the There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still that Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled. Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over, striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing.... Almost he was disappointed. up now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosen A traitor! his subconscious whispered. Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was a coward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any might be the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspecting of a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision. The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along the main street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed except \"Good,\" said Svan, observing them. \"The delegation is still here. We They all are , he thought. Not one of them understands what this means. They're afraid. jungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. The Svan spoke up. \"We want to look at the Earth-ship,\" he said. He opened Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. \"It He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan was the splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svan nails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strength lay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan had Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally. Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save the petrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously, jungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would be there is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keep a watch for other guards.\" of the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness. \"Can't see a thing,\" he complained to the Exec, steadily writing away at the computer's table. \"Look—are those lights over there?\" The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. \"Probably the guards. Of course, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party.\" something happens to the delegation?\" \"Then we're in the soup,\" the Exec said philosophically. \"I told you the natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for the last three hundred years.\" \"It isn't all the natives,\" Lowry said. \"Look how they've doubled the guard around us. The administration is co-operating every way they know how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's this secret group they call the Council.\" \"And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it?\" the Exec retorted. \"They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's gone out now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to be Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned the Svan, listening, thought: It's not much of a plan. The guards would not be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. If they must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve a purpose. Aloud, he said, \"You understand. If I get through, I will return to the city on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, because you are in no danger from the guards.\" From the guards , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they would \"Svan.\" The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reached for him, kissed him. \"Good luck to you, Svan,\" she said. Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean? There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it was driven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. And since he could not know which was the one who had received the marked slip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die. lights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made by its own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circling figures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own. They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with those slim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to the side of the ship. Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance. Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. \"Svan! They're coming! They found the guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan, Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.\n\n<question>:\nHow did Svan feel about the Earthlings?\n\n<options>:\nA They're evil, and the Venusians should fight them.\nB They need to be destroyed, no matter the cost.\nC Some may have good intentions, but they shouldn't be allowed to come back.\nD They can't be trusted, and they should continue to spy on them.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,134	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nName Your Symptom By JIM HARMON Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Anybody who shunned a Cure needed his head examined—assuming he had one left! Henry Infield placed the insulated circlet on his head gently. The along. Do you know that what we are doing is really the most primitive medicine in the world? We are treating the symptoms and not the disease. One cannibal walking another with sleeping sickness doesn't cure anything. Eventually the savage dies—just as all those sick savages out in the street will die unless we can cure the disease, not only the indications.\" 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 The sickness overcame him. He sat down on Morgan's desk. \"That's just one thing, the gyro ball. There are so many others, so many.\" Morgan smiled. \"You know, Henry, not all of our Cures are so—so—not all are like that. Those Cures for mother complexes aren't even obvious. If anybody does see that button in a patient's ear, it looks like a hearing aid. Yet for a nominal sum, the patient is equipped to 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.\" \"You're damned right!\" Infield slammed the door behind him. for anything. He had been one of those condemned Normals, more to be scorned than pitied. Perhaps he could really get to understand these care about other people's feelings. This is organization of the Cured?\" Infield's pulse raced, trying to get ahead of his thoughts, and losing out. A chance to study a pseudo-culture of the \"Cured\" developed in Under the mousy hair, Price's strong features were beginning to gleam moistly. \"You are lucky in one way, Mr. Infield. People take one look at your Cure and don't ask you to go walking in the rain. But even after seeing left ear. Infield supposed it was a Cure, although he had never issued one like it. He didn't know if it would be good form to inquire what kind it was. \"It's a cure for alcoholism,\" Price told him. \"It runs a constant blood check to see that the alcohol level doesn't go over the sobriety limit.\" \"What happens if you take one too many?\" more interesting than what he was saying. \"It drives a needle into my temple and kills me.\" The psychiatrist felt cold fury rising in him. The Cures were supposed to save lives, not endanger them. \"What kind of irresponsible idiot could have issued such a device?\" he demanded angrily. Price lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. \"Reggie is studying biblical learn his Bible lessons to save his father, because it was obvious his father was dead. He would never succeed because there was no reason to succeed. But he had to try, didn't he, for his father's sake? He didn't hate his father for making him study. He didn't want him to die. He had to prove that. Cured,\" he said as a reminder. and endanger other people. The only safe, good sound citizens are Cured. Those lacking Cures—the Incompletes— must be dealt with .\" 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 for the intelligence behind the egotism and the courage behind the fanaticism. Price started to glance around the cafe, then half-shrugged, almost visibly thinking that he shouldn't run that routine into the ground. \"We'll Cure them whether they want to be Cured or not—for their own good.\" not just in his head. It was thundering outside. He was getting sick. Price was the type of man who could spread his ideas throughout the ranks of the Cured—if indeed the plot was not already universal, imposed upon many ill minds. He could picture an entirely Cured world and he didn't like the view. Every Cure cut down on the mental and physical abilities of the patient as it was, whether Morgan and the others admitted it or not. But if everyone had a crutch to lean on for one phobia, he would develop secondary symptoms. People would start needing two Cures—perhaps a foetic gyro and a safety belt—then another and another. There would always be a crutch to lean on for one thing and then room enough to develop something else—until everyone would be loaded down with too many Cures to operate. A Cure was a last resort, dope for a malignancy case, euthanasia for the hopeless. Enforced Cures would be a curse for the individual and the race. But Infield let himself relax. How could anyone force a mechanical relief for neurotic or psychopathic symptoms on someone who didn't want or need it? half-humorously, it was surprising to see a Normal—an \"Incomplete.\" But then he noticed something about the baby she carried. The Cure had been very simple. It wasn't even a mechanized half-human robot, just a He's not an alcoholic. He didn't need to put that Cure on his head. It's just an excuse for not drinking. All of this is just because a Price cooed to the rag doll, unmindful of either of them now. 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.\" Price leaned forward. \"There is one phobia that is so wide-spread, a Cure is not even thought of—hypochondria. Hundreds of people come to your office for a Cure and you turn them away. Suppose you and the other Cured psychiatrists give everybody who comes to you a Cure?\" Infield gestured vaguely. \"A psychiatrist wouldn't hand out Cures \"You'll feel differently after you've been Cured for a while yourself. why shouldn't he like to make Price's head and shoulders and then around his feet. He crouched beside Price twisted against the binding lines in blind terror, gagging and Mrs. Price screamed. \"The Cure! If you get that much liquor in his different. I'd be a hopeless drunk without the Cure. Besides, no one ever gets rid of a Cure.\" They were all looking at Infield. Somehow he felt this represented a 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 Cures instead of more, Price. Look, if I can show you that someone can discard a Cure, would you get rid of that—if I may use the lightning rod Cure. He could have picked a safety belt or foetic gyro just as well. Reggie said, \"We shall make a sacrifice.\" knew that Price was going to kill him in the next moment. out without his Cure.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Price believe it is important for everyone in the world to be Cured?\n\n<options>:\nA He believes untreated, repressed fears may arise at any time and manifest as violence towards others.\nB As a former psychiatrist, he believes it is essential for everyone to address their deep-seated issues, and pairing Cures with appropriate psychiatric therapy is the only way to do that.\nC He is a demagogical psychopath who wants to take advantage of people's fears and use them to gain control over society.\nD He is an idealist who believes that humanity can be perfected by the use of scientific and mechanical Cures.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,446	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nTHE ULTROOM ERROR by JERRY SOHL murders—and a few thousand years. He was entitled to a sense of humor, though, even in the Ultroom! HB73782. Ultroom error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer out of 1609 complete, intact, but too near limit of 1,000 days. Next Kanad transfer ready. 1951. Reginald, son of Mr. was,\" Nancy told her husband for the tenth time. \"I don't even have a just—just plain nuts, Nancy!\" going crazy. I can't say I dreamt it because there was Reggie with his \"We haven't lost Reggie, Nancy, remember that. Now why don't you try Nancy shook her head in her arms. \"They'd—never—believe me either,\" They found Reggie peacefully asleep in his crib in his room upstairs. think he was her brother. She doesn't even have a brother. Then he Nancy had taken a sedative and was asleep by the time Martin finished infant and ran back into the house. Once inside, Nancy slammed the be! I tell you I shot these men who posed as doctors. One of them was the same man who tried to take the baby this the walk and the bushes. There's supposed to be two of them. Shot with Reggie.\" \"I shot him in the legs. The other—the other turned and I shot him in The policemen went out. If we keep Reggie in the house much longer he'll turn out to be a they were coming back. They probably got somebody else's baby by this trees. It would be a crime to keep Reggie inside on a day like this, keep an eye on Nancy and Reggie and to call the police at the first With a fearful but determined heart Nancy moved the play pen and set Reggie in the pen. Her heart pounded all the while and she watched the street for any strangers, ready to flee inside if need be. Reggie just the child and mother. Reggie, attracted by the sudden noise, looked up The car came on, crunched over the play pen, killing the child. The mother was hit and instantly killed, force of the blow snapping her six men who will swear the man was drunk. He staggered, reeled and gave the usual drunk talk. He reeked of whiskey.\" \"That's odd. The man who accosted Mrs. Laughton in the afternoon was bitten by their dog. Later that night she said she shot the same man in the chest. Since the scars are healed it obviously couldn't be the agree with him. Never did figure what killed him, actually.\" . You'll remember, there were two. No, we never found a \"Getting back to the man who ran over the child and killed Mrs. looks deliberate, but where's the motive?\" his chest. This gave him the appearance of being alert despite reclining. Even as he lay, his mouth held a hint of a smile. Arvid 6—for John Smith was Arvid 6—had lain in that position for more than four hours, when suddenly he snapped his eyes open and appeared to be listening. For a moment a look of concern crossed his face and he swung his legs to the floor and sat there expectantly. Arvid 6 knew Tendal 13 had materialized and was somewhere in the building. Eventually there were some sounds from beyond the steel cell and doorway. There was a clang when the outer doorway was opened and Arvid 6 rose from his cot. \"Your lawyer's here to see you,\" the jailer said, indicating the man with the brief case. \"Ring the buzzer when you're through.\" The jailer that tree and killing that woman—that was the last straw. You don't \"I'm really sorry about that,\" Arvid 6 said. You know the instructions. Just because you work in the Ultroom don't get to thinking human life doesn't have any value. We wouldn't be here head. \"You could have killed yourself as well and we'd never get the 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. when her husband mistook me for you and you let him take me apart piece by piece—\" \"All right, all right,\" Arvid 6 said. \"I'll admit I've made some mistakes. You're just not adventurous, that's all.\" \"Shut up! For once you're going to listen to me. Our instructions 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 you said. And then what happened? I get shot in the legs and you get a space halfway to nowhere with two broken legs, a spinal injury, concussion and some of the finest bruises you ever saw.\" These twentieth century machines aren't what they ought to be,\" Arvid 6 said. \"You never run out of excuses, do you, Arvid? Remember what you said in the Ultroom when you pushed the lever clear over and transferred Kanad back 6,000 years? 'My hand slipped.' As simple as that. 'My hand go back and rescue the life germ of Kanad out of each era he'd be born in.\" Tendal 13 turned and looked steadily and directly at Arvid 6. \"Do you know what I think? I think you deliberately pushed the lever over as far as it would go . That's how simple I think it was.\" Arvid 6 flushed, turned away and looked at the floor. \"What crazy things have you been doing since I've been gone?\" Tendal 13 asked. Arvid 6 sighed. \"After what you just said I guess it wouldn't amuse you, although it has me. They got to me right after the accident before I had a chance to collect my wits, dematerialize or \"Who do you tell them you are?\" be around 2250. Things will be more difficult than ever there, probably.\" \"Do you think Kanad will be angry about all this?\" who came to the Ultroom to be transplanted to a younger body—and then blame, wanting rejuvenating at only 300 years. Some have waited a thousand or more or until their bones are like paper.\" \"I just wonder how angry Kanad will be,\" Arvid muttered. HB92167. Ultroom Error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer out of 1951 complete. Next Kanad transfer ready. 2267. Phullam 19, son of Orla 39 and Rhoda R, 22H Level M, Hemisphere B, Quadrant 3, Sector I. Arrive his 329th Day. TB92167 Arvid 6 rose from the cot and the two men faced each other. \"Before we leave, Arvid,\" Tendal 13 started to say. \"I know, I know. You want me to let you handle everything.\" \"Exactly. Is that too much to ask after all you've done?\" barred door the jailer fumbled with the keys and clumsily tried several with no luck. Arvid 6, an amused set to his mouth and devilment in his eyes, watched the jailer's expression as he walked through the bars of the door. He laughed as he saw the jailer's eyes bulge. \"Arvid!\" Tendal 13 walked briskly through the door, snatched Arvid 6 by the shoulders and shook him. The jailer watched stupified as the two men vanished in the middle of\n\n<question>:\nWho murdered Nancy and Reggie?\n\n<options>:\nA Tendal 13\nB Kanad\nC Martin Laughton\nD Arvid 6\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,343	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nwhat would happen?\" found out.\" mean, how do we know Superior is maintaining the same position up here \"Of course,\" he said, grinning at his stupidity. \"And I guess we're not THE CITY THAT RAN OFF THE MAP was undoubtedly the most spectacular feat of the century, it simply Don Cort, stranded on that rising town, was beginning to suspect that gone. that they know. Maybe we'll begin to get some answers. Or, if not answers, then transportation.\" \"Transportation?\" Alis squeezed the arm she was holding. \"Why? Don't you like it here?\" days on the smallest—and the nuttiest—planet in the galaxy! I don't get out of this handcuff soon so I can take a bath and get into clean clothes, you're not going to like me.\" \"If you mean don't I like you, the answer is yes, of course I do. But if But after a couple of weeks of floating around, it began to be obvious They were in the midst of an extremely pleasant kiss when the brief case at the end of Don's handcuff began to talk to him. was missing. The train's schedule called for it to pass through but not disappearance at midnight. The truck driver had made his discovery shortly after midnight. course to avoid it. He noted with only minimum satisfaction that his \" his teeth and nibbling at it thoughtfully. But it was likely that all she noticed then was the brief case he carried, attached by a chain to a handcuff on his left wrist. \"Will we be here long?\" Don asked the conductor. He didn't want to miss his plane at Columbus. The sooner he got to Washington, the sooner he'd get rid of the brief case. The handcuff it was attached to was one reason why his interest in the redhead had been only passing. \"Well, let's hurry up. We haven't got all night.\" the world.\" by an explosion. This one had the feeling of design behind it. on the edge of his seat during the exciting part of a movie, but the said, \"if we don't settle back in the meantime.\" Garet telephoned and said, 'Hector'—that's my name, Hector Civek—'everything's up in the air.' He was having his little joke, of course. I said, 'What?' and then he told me.\" \"Maybe not a plane,\" Don said, \"but a helicopter could land just about \"Maybe not. But I'll bet they're swarming all over you by morning.\" \"Not everybody. Me, for instance.\" \"No?\" she said. \"Judging by that satchel you're handcuffed to, I'd have thought you were a courier for the Pentagon. Or maybe State.\" He laughed quickly and loudly because she was getting uncomfortably \" \" beside himself. We haven't had so much excitement since the around a corner, gesticulating wildly to someone wearing a white laboratory smock. II pull it through his sleeve so he could take his coat off, but whatever was inside the brief case was too big. Cavalier had given him a room to himself at one end of a dormitory and he'd taken his pants off but had \"You're Mr. Cort,\" she said. \"Won't you join me?\" \"Thanks,\" he said, unloading his tray. \"How did you know?\" \"The mystery man with the handcuff. You'd be hard to miss. I'm Alis—that's A-l-i-s, not A-l-i-c-e—Garet. Are you with the FBI? Or did you escape from jail?\" \"How do you do. No, just a bank messenger. What an unusual name. \"The same,\" she said. \"Also the only. A pity, because if there'd been two of us I'd have had a fifty-fifty chance of going to OSU. As it is, I'm duty-bound to represent the second generation at the nut factory.\" fork without knocking things off the table with his clinging brief case. \"Here, let me cut your eggs for you,\" Alis said. \"You'd better order them scrambled tomorrow. Yes, Cavalier. Home of the crackpot theory and the latter-day alchemist.\" \"I'm sure it's not that bad. Thanks. As for tomorrow, I hope to be out of here by then.\" \"How do you get down from an elephant? Old riddle. You don't \"Actually there's only one, the Alis said. Don read the story, which seemed to him a capricious treatment of an apparently grave situation. the same exemption would apply to a dubious individual bent on investigating.... Don skimmed the rest. \"I don't see anything about it being deliberate.\" Alis had been creaming and sugaring Don's coffee. She pushed it across to him and said, \"It's not on page one. Ed Clark and Mayor Civek don't get along, so you'll find the mayor's statement in a box on page three, bottom.\" dropped to the rest of the world in a plastic shatter-proof bottle, said today that Superior has seceded from Earth. His reasons were as vague as The \"reasons\" include these: (1) Superior has been discriminated against and (3) chicle exporters have conspired (b) lacks space to publish and which (it being atrociously handwritten) he (c) has not the temerity to ask his linotype operator to set. \"Three months past. How old are with you to the end of the world.\" \"Sure I do. Non-Einsteinian Relativity 1, at nine o'clock. But I'm a On to the brink!\" \"What's happening?\" he asked when he saw them. \"Any word from down there?\" \"Not that I know of,\" Don said. He introduced him to Alis Garet. \"What are you going to do?\" \"What I do?\" the conductor asked. \"You can go over to Cavalier and have breakfast,\" Alis said. \"Nobody's going to steal your old train.\" The conductor reckoned as how he might just do that, and did. \"Is it still? I mean hasn't it all poured off the edge by now? Was that Superior's water supply?\" Alis shrugged. \"All I know is you turn on the faucet and there's water. Let's go look at the creek.\" They found it coursing along between the banks. Everything stopped short. There were the remnants of a cornfield, with with a few autumn leaves still clinging to their branches, simply ended. \"I should think it'd be all dried up by now. I'm going to have a look.\" \"Don't! You'll fall off!\" \"I'll be careful.\" He walked cautiously toward the edge. Alis followed him, a few feet behind. He stopped a yard from the brink and waited for his right hand closed over the brink. For a moment he lay there, panting, head pressed to the ground. \"How do you feel?\" Alis asked. \"Scared. When I get my courage back I'll pick up my head and look.\" Alis put a hand out tentatively, then purposefully took hold of his ankle and held it tight. \"Just in case a high wind comes along,\" she said. \"I have a compact.\" She took it out of her bag with her free hand and tossed it to him. It rolled and Don had to grab to keep it from going over the edge. Alis gave a little shriek. Don was momentarily unnerved and had to put his head back on the ground. \"Sorry,\" she said. Don opened the compact and carefully transferred it to his right hand. He held it out beyond the edge and peered into it, focusing it on the isn't \"It isn't? Then where is it going?\" \"Down, of course, but it's as if it's going into a well, or a vertical \"Why? How?\" out of play, Don thought) and on to the edge again. . \"What's the other source, besides the faucet in your bathroom?\" Don asked.\n\n<question>:\nWhat isn't likely to happen next?\n\n<options>:\nA Professor Garet will tell Don how to get down\nB more people will find out about Superior seceding\nC Don will find a way off of Superior\nD Alis will find out what's in the briefcase\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,550	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nLike all superheroes worthy of the title, the Shopping Avenger has an Achilles' heel. In the case of the Shopping Avenger, his Achilles' heel is not animal, vegetable, or mineral but something less tangible. An explanation: Last week, the magazine you are currently reading forced the Shopping Avenger at gunpoint to read a series of treacle-filled self-help books, and then to . The Shopping Avenger, who can withstand radiation, extreme heat and cold, hail, bear attacks, and Eyes Wide Shut , almost succumbed to terminal jejuneness after reading these books. Except for one thing: One of the books, The Art of Happiness , which collects and simplifies the Dalai Lama's philosophy, got the Shopping Avenger to thinking. This, in a way, is the Shopping Avenger's Achilles' heel: thinking. Perhaps it is wrong, the Shopping Avenger thought, to complain about the petty insults and inconveniences of life in the materialistic '90s. The Shopping Avenger felt that perhaps he should counsel those who write seeking help to meditate, to accept bad service the way one accepts the change of seasons, and to extend a compassionate hand of forgiveness to those who provide poor customer care. But then the Shopping Avenger sat down, and the feeling passed. The Shopping Avenger does not make light of the Dalai Lama or of the notion that there is more to life than the impatient acquisition of material goods. If the Shopping Avenger were not, for a superhero, extremely nonjudgmental--as opposed to his alter ego, who is considered insufferably judgmental by his alter ego's wife--the Shopping Avenger would tell the occasional correspondent to let go of his petty grievance and get a life. But the Shopping Avenger also believes that the Dalai Lama has never tried to rent a truck from U-Haul. If he had tried to rent from U-Haul, he never would have escaped from Tibet. (For the complete back story, see \"Shopping Avenger\" column and one.) 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.\" An hour later, M. says, the bags showed up, \"soaked through. We took them to baggage services at SW and were faced with the most complicated, unclear, and confusing mechanism for filing a claim we experienced flyers have ever seen.\" 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. Harrumph, the Shopping Avenger says. It is a bad hair day at Southwest when its officials defend themselves by comparing their airline to other airlines. I forwarded this message to M., who replied: She goes on, \"I did call that evening ... and was told that that sufficed. This is the first time I've been told that I had to file a complaint in person within four hours. ... When I filed on the 12 th , I was never told that I needed any receipts or photos or other type of documentation. The baggage folks seemed pretty uninterested in all of this. ... They know that the type of 'evidence' they want is impossible to obtain. They also know that on April 9 they screwed up the luggage retrieval and left bags out in the rain a long time.\" Things do look bad for Southwest, don't they? The Shopping Avenger sent M.'s response to Rutherford, who e-mailed back saying she thought the Shopping Avenger was asking for \"policy information.\" The Shopping Avenger e-mailed back again, stressing to Rutherford that the Great Court of Consumer Justice would, if this case were brought to trial, undoubtedly find for the plaintiff (the Shopping Avenger serves as prosecutor, judge, and jury in the Great Court of Consumer Justice--defendants are represented by the president of U-Haul), and that Southwest was precipitously close to feeling the sword of retribution at its neck. 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?\" 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>:\nWhat does the Shopping Avenger serve as in the process of disputing claims?\n\n<options>:\nA Informant.\nB Judge and jury.\nC Legal counsel.\nD Mediator.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
2,349	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>:\nOpen access (OA) literature is digital, online, free of charge, and free of most copyright and licensing restrictions. 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. When we need to, we can be more specific about access vehicles and access barriers. In the jargon, OA delivered by journals is called gold OA , and OA delivered by repositories is called . (Also see section 3.1 on green/gold and section 3.3 on gratis/libre.) OA was defined in three influential public statements: the Budapest Open Access Initiative (February 2002), the Bethesda Statement on Open Access Publishing (June 2003), and the Berlin Declaration on Open Access to Knowledge in the Sciences and Humanities (October 2003). Here’s how the Bethesda and Berlin statements put it: For a work to be OA, the copyright holder must consent in advance to let users “copy, use, distribute, transmit and display the work publicly and to make and distribute derivative works, in any digital medium for any responsible purpose, subject to proper attribution of authorship.” chapter 9 on the future.) 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 chapter 4 on OA policies.) 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. In any case, these studies bring a welcome note of author self-interest to the case for OA. OA is not a sacrifice for authors who write for impact rather than money. It increases a work’s visibility, retrievability, audience, usage, and citations, which all convert to career building. For publishing scholars, it would be a bargain even if it were costly, difficult, and time-consuming. But as we’ll see, it’s not costly, not difficult, and not time-consuming. 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.) We can dispel a cloud of objections and misunderstandings simply by pointing out a few things that OA is not. (Many of these points will be elaborated in later chapters.) OA isn’t an attempt to bypass peer review. OA is compatible with every kind of peer review, from the most conservative to the most innovative, and all the major public statements on OA insist on its importance. Because scholarly journals generally don’t pay peer-reviewing editors and referees, just as they don’t pay authors, all the participants in peer review can consent to OA without losing revenue. While OA to unrefereed preprints is useful and widespread, the OA movement isn’t limited to unrefereed preprints and, if anything, focuses on OA to peer-reviewed articles. (More in section 5.1 on peer review.) 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.) 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 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.) 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:\n\n<question>:\nIn which chapter can we find out more about OA economics?\n\n<options>:\nA Chapter 7\nB Chapter 5\nC Chapter 9\nD Chapter 3\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,502	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>:\nbut they're quite likely to be asked to help the obstetrician by pushing a stuck baby from below. Debra's anatomy allows them to practise this skill It's my first go at delivering a baby by caesarean section – and the foetal head is impacted, jammed in its mother's pelvis. To be honest I'm struggling. and to learn where and how hard to push on the infant skull. \"Any practice you've done in the cold light of day will help you stay calm and composed in an emergency, and that's what we're aiming for,\" says Briley. Incisions have been made in the lower part of the mother's abdomen and womb. I've pushed my gloved hand inside and managed to slide my fingers between the baby's head and the surrounding uterine tissue. But it's difficult. The baby is tightly wedged in. I've had to push hard to get my hand to the far side of its head, and even though I'm now cupping and grasping it in the approved manner, I can't seem to pull it out. Dare I grip its head more firmly? Dare I pull harder? Obstetrics for beginners and the team has already conducted such a study. Thirty obstetricians, from three NHS maternity units and with varying levels of experience, took part. They all received a brief explanation of how Debra works, and were then asked to try a timed removal of the foetal head at three different levels of difficulty. Overall, 87 per cent reported that the simulator offered a realistic experience of dealing with an impacted head, and 93 per cent thought it would be valuable as a training device. Given the universality of childbirth it's no surprise that, then as now, the womb turns out to be the most simulated of our organs. For the benefit of 18th-century midwives and doctors-in-training, the Bologna surgeon Giovanni Antonio Galli devised a birthing simulator comprising a glass uterus supported by an artificial pelvis and containing a flexible foetus. Trainees had to deliver the baby while wearing a blindfold. Only the tutor could witness the fumbling of their hands. The standard response is to perform a caesarean section. Every year some 160,000 babies are born in the UK this way, with almost two thirds of them classified as emergencies. One audit has suggested that roughly 8,000 babies get stuck and have to be delivered by caesarean at a stage when their mothers are fully dilated. \"Some of the babies will be so close to coming out by the normal route,\" says Tydeman, \"that it's then difficult to get them back up and remove them through the hole in the woman's tummy.\" Which women are most at risk of this setback seems to be largely unpredictable. \"We just observe that it happens… It's been discussed in the medical literature since the 1940s, but until 10 years ago, and throughout my training and most of my life as a consultant, it wasn't really talked about.\" Considering the universality of childbirth, impaction and the best way of dealing with it are topics that seem to have gone remarkably unstudied. \"There are strong opinions about why it happens and what to do, but very little research evidence,\" says Tydeman, adding that many of these opinions are contradictory. In a protracted birth that's destined to end with a caesarean, the longer the labour is allowed to go on before the obstetrician decides to intervene, the greater the likelihood that the baby's head will become impacted. However, concern over the rising number of babies born by caesarean has made doctors more wary of doing them – one consequence of which is that medical staff may allow a difficult birth to continue for longer before they resort to surgery. This could be boosting the frequency of impaction. But, again, no one is certain. When obstetricians doing planned caesareans slice open a mother's womb, what they usually see is the baby's head. By slipping a hand round and below it they can easily guide the baby out. \"When you do a caesarean for an impacted baby,\" says Tydeman, \"you make the incision in the same place, but what you might come across is a shoulder because the baby's so much further down [the birth canal].\" As I'd discovered for myself, sliding a hand around the baby's head is then far more difficult. \"It makes your fingers hurt,\" says Tydeman. \"It makes your pulse rate go up to about 200, and you break out in a sweat because know you've only got about five or 10 minutes before there are serious consequences. The clock is ticking.\" If a baby's head is jammed down in the mother's pelvic region, common sense suggests that it might help if a second person gives a gentle backward push on the area of its head visible through the mother's dilated cervix. \"In our unit,\" says Tydeman, \"when the woman is fully dilated and you'd expect the baby to come out normally [but it doesn't]… a registrar will be asking for a push-up about one in five times.\" Although registrars are doctors still in training, they're nonetheless experienced To understand the desperation of Debra and how the Tydeman tube might help to relieve it requires a brief foray into basic obstetric knowhow. Evolution has endowed us with heads proportionally so large that even when labour runs according to plan, the delivery process involves a bit of a squeeze. For the baby's head to get stuck on the way out may not be usual, but it's by no means a rarity. Tydeman didn't do much with the idea until 10 years ago when one trainee, who was experiencing real difficulty getting heads out, prompted him to think again about the problem. Around the same time, he met professor of obstetrics Andrew Shennan and consultant midwife Annette Briley, both of the Women's Health Academic Centre at St Thomas's hospital. Between them they came up with a device – the Tydeman tube – to make pushing on the foetus more controlled while simultaneously releasing any vacuum that might be holding it in place. The instrument is made up of a rigid plastic tube opening into a softer silicone cup. Pressure to the foetal head is applied using four pads projecting forward from the cup's interior. Holding the device by the tube, the user places the cup against the part of the head exposed through the dilated cervix, and presses. This pushes the baby back up into the uterus while releasing any suction pressure that may have been holding it, so allowing the obstetrician to extract it more easily. Because pressure is distributed equally between the four pads with a greater combined surface area than that of a user's fingertips, the risk of inadvertent damage is minimised. In Debra as she is now, the precise extent and nature of her desperation can be fine-tuned according to need. The foetal head inside her uterus can be moved to mimic the various positions that an unborn baby may adopt. By tightening a spring inside Debra's body, it's also possible vary the degree of impaction from mild to so severe that the head is virtually impossible to extract. In this way she simulates the full range of difficulty that obstetricians are likely to encounter. So how valuable in training medical staff is a simulator like this? Very, according to Annette Briley. Imagine it's the middle of the night and an unplanned emergency caesarean is required: \"Some poor junior doctor might find himself trying to manage it on his own.\" To have practised the knack of extracting a firmly impacted baby from a simulator is lot better than first honing your skill on a real woman.\n\n<question>:\nWhich factor is the best predictor of necessity for an emergency C-section on a fetus?\n\n<options>:\nA Father's birth weight\nB Mother's birth weight\nC Practitioner's level of experience\nD There is no agreed upon factor\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
2,067	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>:\nBut Dunbar's eyes were old and uncertain. How could they Dunbar, the oldest of the four, an old space-buster with a face Suddenly, Old Dunbar had known where they were. Suddenly, Dunbar knew never been any sound or life, with old Dunbar the first in line, taking the lead because he was older and knew where he was and where Dunbar was as crazy as a Jovian juke-bird. Dunbar's suit up ahead, watching it more and more intently, thinking about how Dunbar looked inside that suit—and hating Dunbar more and more for claiming he knew when he didn't, for his drooling optimism—because he was taking them on into deeper darkness and calling their destination Paradise. Russell wanted to laugh, but the last time he'd given way to this thought then of what Dunbar would say to such a thought, how Dunbar would laugh that high piping squawking laugh of his and say that the human being was bigger than the Universe itself. Dunbar had a big answer for every little thing. When the four of them had escaped from that prison colony on a for Dunbar. Hell no—Dunbar had to start talking about a place they had ever heard of, where they could live like gods on a green soft world like the Earth had been a long time back. And Dunbar had spouted endlessly about a world of treasure they would find, if they would just follow old Dunbar. That's what all four of them had been trying to find all their lives in the big cold grabbag of eternity—a rich star, a rich far fertile star where no one else had ever been, loaded with treasure that had no name, that no one had ever heard of before. And was, because of that, the richest treasure of all. We all look alike out here in these big rocket pressure suits, Russell \"We're about in the middle of those four suns aren't we, Dunbar?\" Russell said. \"That's right, boys!\" yelled old Dunbar in that sickeningly optimistic voice. Like a hysterical old woman's. \"Just about in the sweet dark life on it, Dunbar ... the only one we can live on?\" Russell asked. \"That's right! That's right,\" Dunbar yelled. \"That's the only one—and it's a paradise. Not just a place to live, boys—but a place you'll have trouble believing in because it's like a dream!\" \"And none of these other three suns have worlds we could live on, Dunbar?\" Russell asked. Keep the old duck talking like this and maybe \"Yeah,\" said Alvar. \"You still say that, Dunbar?\" \"No life, boys, nothing,\" Dunbar laughed. \"Nothing on these other all these suns and the worlds that go round 'em. Trust me, boys, and we'll reach the right one. And that one's just like Paradise.\" Russell said tightly. \"It'll take us a long time won't it? If it's got air we can breath, and water we can drink and shade we can rest in—that'll be paradise enough for us. But it'll take a long time won't it? And what if it isn't there—what if after all the time we \"I know we're going right,\" Dunbar said cheerfully. \"I can tell. Like said that one had a red rim, Dunbar, and I wanted to believe it. So Old Dunbar laughed. The sound brought blood hotly to Russell's face. bobbing neck, his simpering watery blue eyes. But he still had to suffer that immutable babbling, that idiotic cheerfulness ... and knowing all the time the old man was crazy, that he was leading them wrong. I'd break away, go it alone to the right sun, Russell thought—but I'd than old Dunbar will ever be, even if he keeps on getting nuttier all the time. was to get rid of Dunbar. a lost ship's landed and never got up again, or wrecked itself so far off the lanes they'll never be found except by accident for millions of years. That's what this world is, boys. Must have been a ship load land all free from care. Every place you see green forests and fields and blue lakes, and at nights there's three moons that come around the sky in a thousand different colors. And it never gets cold ... it's always spring, always spring, boys, and the music plays all night, every night of a long long year....\" Russell suddenly shouted. \"Keep quiet, Dunbar. Shut up will you?\" Johnson said. \"Dunbar—how long'll it take us?\" \"Six months to a year, I'd say,\" Dunbar yelled happily. \"That is—of Russell screamed at Dunbar, then quieted down. He whispered. \"Six crazy as hell, Dunbar. Crazy ... crazy! Nobody could stand it. We'll all be crazier than you are—\" \"We'll make it, boys. Trust ole' Dunbar. What's a year when we know isn't big enough to kill the will of a human being, boys. I been over a whole lot of it, and I know. In the old days—\" the old will-power.\" He chuckled. stick to old Dunbar and he'll see you through. I'm always lucky. Only Dunbar laughed. \"Sure, they all maybe have a touch of red, but it pierced Dunbar's back. Now the fire was gone, extinguished of the gravity rope, Dunbar was dead. Dunbar's last faint cry from inside his suit still rang in Russell's Johnson both called Dunbar's name a few times. There was no answer. it's forgotten, Russ. It's swallowed up in the darkness all around. It's never been.\" Russell said, \"I've had a hunch all along that maybe the old man was because he was alone. He'd have broken away, gone his own direction, long ago but for that fear. all the time. Jezebel stars, the old man said.\" \"I know I'm right,\" Russell pleaded. \"My hunches always been right. My hunch got us out of that prison didn't it? Listen—I tell you it's said. \"Maybe a guy could get to the point where he'd sleep most of the time ... just wake up enough times to give himself another boost with the old life-gun.\" the old man might have been right about that. If we stick together, the chance is three to one against us. But if each of us makes for one star, one of us has a chance to live. Maybe not in paradise like the old man said, but a place where we can live. And maybe there'll be intelligent life, maybe even a ship, and whoever gets the right star Johnson started to laugh. Russell was yelling wildly at them, and above his own yelling he could hear Johnson's rising laughter. \"Every guy's got a star of his own,\" Johnson said when he stopped laughing. \"And we got ours. A nice red-rimmed sun for each of us to call his thought was right. And he'll keep on going. Course he won't be able to give himself another boost with the life-gun, but he'll keep going. Someday he'll get to that red-rimmed star of his. Out here in space, once you're going, you never stop ... and I guess there isn't any other body to pull him off his course. And what will time matter to old Dunbar? Even less than to us, I guess. He's dead and he won't he would share with no one. Not even crazy old Dunbar. And old Dunbar shooting right on ahead. And all three of them picked this planet out of all the others. The only one in this entire sector that would sustain life.\" \"Maybe he was just a very lucky old man. Yes ... a man who attains such an age was usually lucky. Or at least that is what they say about the lost sectors.\" courage, and that he knew the way. He will be given a burial suitable to his stature, and he will rest here among the brave.\n\n<question>:\nWhich of these is not true about Dunbar?\n\n<options>:\nA He never had a chance of making it to a safe planet\nB He was thankful to interact with whoever was around him\nC He has committed some number of crimes\nD He dreams big and always an adventure\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
2,422	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 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.\" (law) and (or) In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for \"fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition.\" Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: \"Whether they are or are not sensible of it,\" he wrote, \"all men are daily influenced by physiognomy.\" Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. \"Attractive people are regarded as better at everything,\" says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. \"And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't.\" 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. 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. Unusually short or tall height small head, but large face small and sloping forehead small or weak chin thin neck sloping shoulders but large chest large, protruding ears pointy or snubbed fingers or toes. In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world 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. 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'.\" 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>:\nAccording to the author, what drives our decisions to publish certain content on social media platforms?\n\n<options>:\nA awareness of being judged\nB potential for monetization\nC rejection of conformity\nD fear of not fitting in\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,286	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>:\nThe weatherman was always right: Temperature, 59 humidity, 47% As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played over his face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room. \"Help!\" Lieutenant MacBride called. Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on his dripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in the and take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea he Winds ,\" he said in a whisper. \"What's happening?\" MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa. \" March was playing. The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emerged from the blackness of the living room. \"These are not rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting that was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was this with photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in an orange patrol car parked down the street. Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job. \"Are you going to make it stop or aren't you!\" MacBride yelled. approach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was an \"You'll have to tell me what you did first!\" Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownes told him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairs particularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope. Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be tolerated within the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a social force bedroom!\" to that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new and \"I'm not sure what's going to come of this,\" he said to Lanfierre with wheel in his hand. Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes. \"What have I done?\" Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock. up the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with a They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them and they quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap. Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefully edged out of the house and forced the front door shut. ,\" Lanfierre said, savoring it. MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass of \"I never figured on this ,\" Lanfierre said, shaking his head. shakes patronizing tone of voice. MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orange uniform. \"Go on,\" he said, amused. \"It sounds interesting.\" He tossed the dossier carelessly on the back seat. Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBride couldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBride was a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. He had even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantly absurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It was only with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownes to MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre had seen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimly \"Sure, he was different ,\" Lanfierre murmured. \"I knew that much.\" resounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spoke \" Now what?\" MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strange \"It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? A black cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolent top.... \"Why don't you take a vacation?\" Lieutenant MacBride suggested. winds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there was zephyr?\" \"What,\" MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, \"what ... is a twister?\" Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips. \"I'll tell you something else,\" Lanfierre went on. \"The windows confines of everyday living .\" MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros. \"Is there something I can turn?\" Lanfierre asked. Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them. single window in the place will drop to its sill.\" Lanfierre leaned all close at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden every back in the seat, his eyes still on the house. \"Sometimes I think MacBride whistled. \"No, I don't need a vacation.\" A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against the windshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel. \"No, you don't need a rest,\" MacBride said. \"You're starting to see , will you marry me? Yoo-hoo!\" Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited, dazed. MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for the ghostly babble of voices to commence. There was quite a large fall of glass. dipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. The house could have been preparing to take off and sail down the.... MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and then The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound. they both looked back at the dancing house. \"And the ,\" Lanfierre said. \"The water he uses! He could be neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. There was something implacable about his sighs. \"He'll be coming out soon,\" Lanfierre said. \"He eats supper next door with a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper at the widow's next door and then the library.\" MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. \"The library?\" he said. \"Is he in with that bunch?\" Lanfierre nodded. \"Should be very interesting,\" MacBride said slowly. \"I can't wait to see what he's got in there,\" Lanfierre murmured, watching the house with a consuming interest. shut. The house began to shake. practical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die.\" going to marry you and if you want reasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse.\" The widow was a passionate woman. She did everything for a cocktail for two!\" He grasped the doorway to keep from being blown out of the house. \"I it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it, Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see that When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his way genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own \"I hadn't thought of that,\" Fownes said quietly. small efforts, rarer. \"Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—\" \"That won't be necessary,\" Fownes said with unusual force. \"With all Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly has \"Is there something I can turn?\" Lanfierre asked. \"Not any more there isn't.\" look of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt a wistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. It primes .\" MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier. Lanfierre sighed.) \"And up and down.\" borrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married.\" \"What kind of a place is this?\" MacBride said, his courage beginning tact, \"because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My future wife and I have to leave now\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the relationship between Lanfierre and MacBride?\n\n<options>:\nA Lanfierre is training in MacBride\nB MacBride is Lanfierre's superior\nC they are partners working on the case\nD Lanfierre is the aberration expert, and MacBride is a cop\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
503	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>:\nsavagely. \"The Piltdon Can-Opener is trailing the competition. \"But Mr. Piltdon,\" remonstrated Feetch unsteadily under his employer's \"But Mr. Piltdon—\" production. Otherwise, Feetch—\" Feetch's body twitched. \"But Mr. Piltdon, four months is hardly time enough for development, even with an adequate staff. I've been trying to tell you for years that we're bound to fall behind because we don't have enough personnel to conduct research. Our men can barely keep up with production and maintenance. If you would let me put on a few draftsmen and....\" \"Excuses,\" sneered Mr. Piltdon. \"Your staff is more than adequate. I will not allow you to throw out my money. Four months, Feetch, How could you set a time limit on research and development? A designer had to dream at his board, investigate, search, build, test, compare, Piltdon Opener had not given him that opportunity. Twenty-five years! thought Feetch. Twenty-five years of close supervision, dead-lines, production headaches, inadequate facilities and assistance. What had develop? Ah, well, thought Feetch straightening his thin shoulders, he had managed somehow to design a few good things during his twenty-five years with Piltdon. That was some satisfaction. What now? He had to hang on to his job. Technical work was scarce. Since the early 1980's the schools had been turning out more technicians than industry could absorb. He was too old to compete in the employment market. He couldn't afford to lose any money. Jenny wasn't well. How to meet this four month dead-line? He would get right on it himself, of course Hanson—good man—could work with him. He shook his head despairingly. Something would be sure to blow up. Well, he had to compensate for variable can sizes had been too complex to be practical. There was the ever-present limit to production cost. Twenty-five years of your life you put in with Piltdon, and he'd fire \"Well, well,\" said Feetch. \"I drew my pay every week so I suppose I have no complaints. Although,\" a wistful note crept into his voice \"I two in work. Best performance, four point four, but model otherwise unsatisfactory.\" \"Hello,\" said Feetch as an aproned machinist entered carrying a glistening mechanism. \"Here's another model. Let's try it.\" The learn a lot more.\" \"But Chief, your job.\" We'll throttle our competitors! The Piltdon Super-Opener we'll call it.\" Piltdon stared at his chief engineer sharply. \"What's the matter, This is big, Mr. Piltdon. I recommend that we delay production until further research can be completed. Hire a few top scientists and after leaving our employ? We have a good thing here, and I don't want you holding it back. We're going into production immediately.\" Close, thought Feetch, wearily. It had been a man-killing job, and it had been close, but he'd made it. Beat the time limit by a half-day. climbed to hundreds of thousands per day. Piltdon Opener went into peak production in three shifts, but was still unable to keep up with the demand. Construction was begun on a new plant, and additional plants were planned. Long lines waited in front of houseware stores. sales to one to a customer. Piltdon cancelled his advertising program. Newspapers, magazines, radio, television and word-of-mouth spread the any departure from its exact specifications nullified the effect. Piltdon, genial these days with success and acclaim, roared at Feetch: \"I'm putting you in for a raise. Yes sir! To reward you for assisting me with my invention I'm raising your pay two hundred dollars a year. That's almost four dollars a week, man.\" \"Thank you, Mr. Piltdon.\" And still, thought Feetch wryly, he received no recognition. His name did not even appear on the patent. Well, well, that was the way it went. He must find his satisfaction in his work. And it had been interesting lately, the work he had been doing expensive. He was a fool, he supposed, to try independent research when so many huge scientific organizations were working on it. But he could no more keep away from it than he could stop eating. \"Are you still worrying about that?\" Piltdon roared jovially. \"Leave boomed. All activity was seriously curtailed. the Piltdon Super-Opener. Statisticians and mathematicians calculated the mean rate of can precipitation and estimated that if all the cans opened by Piltdon openers were to come back, the deluge should be over in fifteen point accused Piltdon of deliberately hoaxing the public for his own gain. A Congressional investigation was demanded. Piltdon received threats of \"You're positive, Feetch?\" Piltdon's eyes glared into Feetch's. production, at once, Feetch.\" Feetch felt himself sag inwardly. \"Mr. Piltdon,\" he said. \"I'm asking only one favor. Let me work full time on research and development, especially on the Piltdon effect. Hire a couple of extra men to help with production. I assure you the company will benefit in the end.\" \"Damn it, no!\" roared Piltdon. \"How many times must I tell you? You got your job back, didn't you?\" The prospect of long years of heavy production schedules, restricted engineering and tight supervision suddenly made Kalvin Feetch feel very tired. Research, he thought. Development. What he had always wanted. Over the years he had waited, thinking that there would be opportunities later. But now he was growing older, and he felt that there might not be a later. Somehow he would manage to get along. Perhaps someone would give him a job working in the new field he had pioneered. With a sense of relief he realized that he had made his decision. \"Mr. Piltdon,\" Feetch said. \"I—\" klunk!—\"resign.\" Piltdon started, extreme astonishment crossing his face. \"Feetch!\" howled Piltdon. \"I order you to remain!\" Money, Feetch decided after a while, was a good thing to have. His supply was running pretty low. He was not having any luck finding another job. Although the cans had stopped falling on the fifteenth day, as predicted by the statisticians, industry would not soon forget the inconvenience and losses caused by the deluge. It was not anxious to hire the man it regarded as responsible for the whole thing. \"Feetch,\" the personnel man would read. \"Kalvin Feetch.\" Then, looking up, \"Not the Kalvin Feetch who—\" slow anger, Piltdon was hitting low and getting away with it. to Piltdon under the one year clause in the company patent agreement. grab. The anger began to mount. But he was beginning to need money desperately. Jenny wasn't getting any better and medical bills were running high. \"I'll go up another ten dollars,\" grated the little Piltdon image. \"Do you realize, man, this is the fourteenth raise I've offered you? A total increase of one hundred and twenty-six dollars? Be sensible, Feetch. I know you can't find work anywhere else.\" \"Thanks to you. Mr. Piltdon, I wouldn't work for you if—\" Piltdon Opener will soon be forced to close down, throwing all your office, the salesmen on the road. All, all unemployed because of you. Think of that, Feetch.\" Feetch blinked. This had not occurred to him. Piltdon eyed him sharply, then smiled with a hint of triumph. \"Think it grimly, dialing Piltdon's number, he was going through with it now. \"Piltdon!\" he barked. \"Three p.m. tomorrow. My place. Be here. That's Piltdon leaped from his chair. \"Outrageous!\" He roared. \"Ridiculous!\" \"Piltdon, don't bother me about production. Production is your problem.\" Piltdon blanched and left.\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Kalvin commit to Piltdon’s unreasonable deadline?\n\n<options>:\nA He felt challenged to develop creative solutions.\nB He didn’t want to lose his job.\nC He wanted to earn recognition.\nD He was able to hire more staff.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,096	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nThis week, soft-porn entrepreneur Ron Harris began auctioning the eggs of fashion models on the Internet. His site, ronsangels.com (named after the 1970s' babe show Charlie's Angels ), invites visitors to \"bid on eggs from beautiful, healthy and intelligent women.\" Like Dr. Richard Seed, who recently declared his intention to clone human beings, Harris has attracted the attention of the media and politicians who are \"looking into\" whether he can be stopped. Most people agree that Harris is a creep and that his site is an outrage. What they don't agree on is why. Here's what the critics have to say about the auction--and each other. 1. Egg auctions will produce designer babies. Harris cites his experience as a horse breeder and asks, \"We bid for everything else in this society--why not eggs?\" Alarmists, agreeing that Harris \"can put you into your own designer baby by selling eggs,\" predict that his success will steer \"the future of human breeding\" toward \"genetic engineering.\" 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. 9. The auction exploits desperate buyers. Harris preaches pure capitalism, saying it's \"unfair to put a limit on a girl's ability to make money\" by auctioning her eggs. In turn, fertility clinic operators accuse Harris of \"taking advantage of couples trying to conceive\" and exploiting \"desperate people ... susceptible to the dreams he is trying to sell.\" USA Today laments, \"This is about human need. And human greed.\" 10. The auction exploits desperate sellers. By late Monday, Harris had only a handful of bids, and only one was verified as legitimate. On the other hand, 50 women had asked him to put their eggs up for auction. Gradually, the media concluded that the donors were the true victims. USA Today described the models as \"struggling actresses,\" reported that they were unaware of the health risks of donating eggs, and quoted one as saying, \"I'd rather do this than do Playboy or Penthouse .\" Harris' sole verified bidder told the paper that selling eggs was \"better than prostitution.\" Harris constantly refers to the donors as his \"girls\" and describes them like cattle--\"We have a legitimate bid of $42,000 on one of the girls.\" He gets a 20 percent commission on each winning bid, though he takes no responsibility for executing financial transactions or medical procedures. \"We have no control over the quality, safety or legality of the items advertised, the truth or accuracy of the listings, the ability of sellers to sell items or the ability of buyers to buy items,\" he stipulates. His role, he explains, is simply to \"find beautiful girls, take beautiful photographs of them, [and] put them up on the Web.\" To some critics, the mystery isn't, as Harris suggests, how women throughout history have exploited their sexual power over men, but how pimps like him have come away with the profit. 11. The auction exploits voyeurs. The Washington Post thinks Harris isn't targeting either buyers or sellers. He's not serious about selling eggs, says the Post . He's just using the sex appeal of his models and the intriguing perversity of a human egg auction to drum up publicity and attract Internet traffic to his site, from which he can sell advertising and subscriptions ($24.95 a month to view profiles of the models), hawk his forthcoming book ( Naked Power ), and direct prurient visitors to his various porn sites. A spokesman for fertility doctors suspects that ronsangels.com is really aimed at \"adolescent boys.\" 12. The Internet facilitates monstrous purchases. Technology watchdogs call the egg auction another chapter in the cultural slide marked by Jennycam (a Web site featuring live video of a young woman undressing and doing other normal activities in her apartment), the promised Webcast of a man and woman losing their virginity together (which turned out to be a hoax), and a human kidney auction that was conducted and aborted on eBay last month. \"Ever since the Internet, it seems to snowball more rapidly, this depersonalization of people and selling of eggs,\" one fertility expert complains to the New York Times . USA Today says the egg auction \"just might force an Internet-obsessed society to finally sit down and ask itself: Where is the Internet taking us?\" 14. Egg buyers will reap unintended consequences. Sophisticated skeptics point out that Harris' application of Darwin's theories to human professional success overlooks the interaction of genetics and human psychology. To begin with, if a child produced by Harris' auction fails to turn out as pretty as the buyer expected, the buyer may shun the child, or the child may grow to hate herself for disappointing her parents. (On the Today show, Harris said of this theory, \"That's a pretty cynical view of human nature.\") Second, if the child turns out pretty but doesn't want to be a beauty queen, her parents may force her in that direction anyway, thereby stifling her true talents and preventing her from becoming successful. Third, the child's good looks may attract too much attention of the wrong kind, eventually destroying her. Critics cite Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe as examples. This critique challenges two precepts of Harris' worldview. First, while pretending to accept human nature as a given, he violates it by peddling strangers' eggs and encouraging the production of children who will probably never know their mothers. Family association, loyalty, and love are among the best parts of human nature. Slavish catering to physically attractive strangers is among the worst. If we're going to challenge human nature, the critics ask, why not start with the latter rather than the former?\n\n<question>:\nDoes the author think Harris is serious about selling eggs?\n\n<options>:\nA Not at all, selling eggs is a PR stunt, to drive traffic to Harris' pornography website.\nB Absolutely, designer babies are big money.\nC Yes, however, he is not intelligent enough to see the many flaws in his plan.\nD Yes, Harris is already in talks with geneticists. He'll be able to charge extra for certain features.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,587	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nIn the animated ecological epic Princess Mononoke , the camera travels over landscapes with a clear, steady gaze, like a Zen hang glider. The images have none of the comin'-at-ya pop-surrealism of American cartoons, many of which have characters that spring out of the frame like jack-in-the-boxes. The Japanese director, Hayao Miyazaki, who spent three years on Princess Mononoke and is reported to have done 70 percent of its paintings himself, seems to work from the outside in: to begin with the curve of the earth, then the mossy hills, the watercolor foliage, the nubby stones, the whorls on the wood, the meticulous carvings on a teacup. He captures the texture of light and the currents of air. You could almost settle down in this landscape. A view of nature that some would call \"tree-hugging\" doesn't feel softheaded when the trees are rendered in such brilliant and robust detail. But then, \"soft\" is not a word you can apply to Princess Mononoke , however pantheistic its worldview. The film, which is rated PG-13, is full of splattery carnage. If Miyazaki in long shot is contemplative, in close-up he's ferocious. He's both inside and outside the action: He knows when to rock your world and when to induce a state of sorrowful detachment. According to the New York Times , Toy Story animators screened reels of his work when their imaginations flagged, and writers for Star Trek named an alien species after one of his features. Watching Princess Mononoke --which has been dubbed to Disney/Miramax specifications by American and English stars but retains its two-hour-plus length, its gory beheadings, and its grim, near-apocalyptic finale--you can understand their worship. It isn't that Miyazaki's work is technically so dazzling in this age of digitized miracles it's that everything is sublimely in proportion. The movie has a scope that makes Hollywood's homiletic, follow-your-dream fables look even more solipsistic. Miyazaki is after nothing less than the moment in our history (the film is set in the 14 th and 15 th centuries) when the power shifted from a \"natural\" world to one shaped by human technology. It's the beginning of what Bill McKibben called \"the end of nature\"--that is, when nature became no longer an autonomous, self-regulating force but one touched (and, in Miyazaki's view, poisoned) by human industry. P rincess Mononoke builds to a full-scale war between humans and the animal kingdom--which does not, by the way, consist of your father's cartoon critters. In fact, the boars and apes have little patience with Ashitaka's call for nature and mankind to live together in harmony they'd like to eat him. The wolf god, Moro, is slightly more sympathetic, but that's because her adopted \"daughter,\" San (a k a Princess Mononoke), is human. San is first seen sucking a wound of her huge wolf mother, then, as the gore drips from her mouth, training her dark eyes on Ashitaka with feral hatred. Her second appearance--a lone attack on Irontown to assassinate Lady Eboshi--is one of the movie's high points. It's Miyazaki's use of sound--and silence--that takes your breath away: the determined tap of the wolf princess's shoes as she scuttles over the fortress's rooftops The overfamiliar voices nudge Princess Mononoke closer to its American counterparts--but not by a lot. There's always something wondrously strange. The \"kodamas\" are little tree spirits on doughboy bodies. They cock their trapezoidal dice heads and emit a series of clicks then their heads pop back with a conclusive rattle. Something about them seems just right I could watch them for hours. (Miyazaki limits their appearances to seconds--he doesn't wear out their mystery the way that, say, George Lucas would.) And no Hollywood animated feature would end with such a powerful vision of apocalypse, as the land is bestridden by a colossus dropping a thick, caustic, tarlike gel that recalls the post-Hiroshima \"black rain.\" Can you take the kids? I think so. As Miyazaki said at a New York Film Festival press conference, \"Children understand intuitively that the world they have been born into is not a blessed world.\" Princess Mononoke , at least, can tell them why. \"A special smile ... a certain touch ...\" So begins the elevator-music theme song of Music of the Heart ... \"I never had a lot that I loved so much.\" The credits had just started and I was already looking for a barf bag. Did Miramax and director Wes Craven have to work so hard to schlockify the story of Roberta Guaspari (played here by Meryl Streep), whose violin courses in East Harlem elementary schools have become a beacon for such programs nationwide? A fabled taskmaster (her story was told in the 1996 documentary Small Wonders ), Guaspari used music as a way to teach self-discipline--along with the healthy self-respect that follows in its wake. When the New York school board cut the funding for her program, she proved a marvel of self-promotion, attracting features in all the major dailies and ending up along with her best students at Carnegie Hall for a benefit \"Fiddlefest\"--along with Itzhak Perlman, Isaac Stern, and other legendary \"fiddlers.\" Streep has said that she spent so much of the time on the set learning the violin (she doesn't play any instruments) that she didn't bring the full force of her acting technique to bear on Roberta. Maybe that's why the performance seems so natural. Let her always learn an instrument on the set! Still, she doesn't make much sense of Guaspari. The script, by Pamela Gray ( A Walk on the Moon ), has her students complain of her nastiness and perfectionism, but Streep--who has made herself look dumpy, thick-waisted, and bedraggled--is so busy telegraphing her vulnerability that all we get is dippy niceness. Instead of a monument to an individual's iron will, Music of the Heart becomes the story of a woman so helpless that she arouses the kindness of strangers. Some, including the critic at Time , have questioned Soderbergh's sanity. (But of course--Soderbergh flouts time!) I see a method to his madness. Less grandiosely than Harmony Korine in Julien Donkey-Boy , Soderbergh pores over every scene in search of its essential dramatic gesture. He's saying: This --not all that other stuff--is what's important. He telegraphs the ending--you know the Limey will somehow be at the root of his daughter's death--but it's still an emotional wow. The climax justifies the technique. It says the point of this odyssey isn't revenge but regret--for irredeemably blown chances and a tragic waste of love. Soderbergh is one of those rare filmmakers who learn on the job. Working within a tight genre structure, he's discovering hundreds of ways of editing a given scene that can give it the richness of a novel. Is he totally successful? No he misses now and then, which is why the technique sticks out. But what a fantastic effort. See it and weep for what's missing in most other movies.\n\n<question>:\nHow does the author feel about Princess Mononoke?\n\n<options>:\nA It is wonderfully strange.\nB It is a world that draws you in and takes your breath away. The only distraction is poor voice casting.\nC It is a powerful vision of the apocalypse.\nD It is technically dazzling.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
83	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, who wrote science fiction under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers, had stumbled onto a murderous plot more hair-raising than any she had ever concocted. Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the Spacemen's Club in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on the shoulder. Grannie Annie! I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. \"Grannie Annie! I \"Hi, Billy-boy,\" she greeted calmly. \"Will you please tell this and Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossed the drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions: \"What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren't allowed in the Spacemen's \"Hold it, Billy-boy.\" Laughingly she threw up both hands. \"Sure, I knew they are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places.\" She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might be Annabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels. But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year's sat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount. One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dime novels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote a novel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bag and hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between two \"What happened to Guns for Ganymede ?\" I asked. \"That was the title of \"It wasn't Guns , it was and it wasn't Ganymede , it was Pluto .\" I grinned. \"All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universe the jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later we THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF THE SYSTEM As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound a tinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in the yet.\" The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On the stage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercurian sat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. The Mercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpably myself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts.\" There was a roar of applause from the Satellite sets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions. These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For every question missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand planetoles . her wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer of science fiction, Annabella C. Flowers.\" From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her place voice echoed through the theater: \" Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury? \" Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised her tracto-car.\" And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed in the visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutonian cafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offering bantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed, It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie had general surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lips Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my arm \"Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted?\" she began. \"When it was finished I had planned to take a six months' vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel. Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, so for this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent six weeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met Ezra Karn....\" I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word. \"Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the three planets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. The cruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted long enough to endanger all civilized life. ordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people was followed.\" Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor. \"To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, an old prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of his travels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage of If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed. police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government by representation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a military dictator to step in. \"And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that a en masse .\" appeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head the Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for the ganet , the tough little two headed pack animal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would have had its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic force belt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed to It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into her isolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie had undulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watched appeared. Grannie gave a single warning: Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed. tent and faced me with earnest eyes. \"Billy-boy, our every move is the swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesive multi-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours. The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped his hand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured in a matter of seconds. dressed in varpa cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on his head was an enormous flop-brimmed hat. Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained the \"What do you mean?\" Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself a Venusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned. \"The Doctor Universe program,\" he said. \"I ain't missed one in months. You gotta wait 'til I hear it.\" Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. He screen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and lead my thoughts far away. Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmen were ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. We camped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmed futility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept me Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. \"Billy-boy, take three Venusians and head across the knoll,\" she ordered. \"Ezra and I will circle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble.\" But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence. \"Up we go, Billy-boy.\" Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began to Grannie nodded. \"Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames in Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metal\n\n<question>:\nBy what were Grannie Annie and Billy-boy being watched?\n\n<options>:\nA Ezra Karn, an old prospector\nB Hunter-bird\nC a drone\nD By Venusians\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,502	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.\" 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? When they arrived at their destination, M. and her family made a terrible discovery, \"We discovered that our clothes were soaked through--the top clothes were so wet that the dye had bled through down to the lower levels, destroying lots of other clothes. Obviously, our bags had just been sitting out on the runway in the rain. To this day, I've never heard a thing from SW, despite calls and letters.\" This, of course, is where Shopping Avenger steps in. Shopping Avenger knows that Southwest is different from the average airline, in that it doesn't go out of its way to infuriate its paying customers (see: ), so I expected a quick and generous resolution to M.'s problem. What I got at first, though, was a load of corporate hoo-ha. \"The airline's policy, which is consistent with all contracts of carriage at all airlines, requires that passengers file a report in person for lost or damaged luggage within four hours of arrival at their destination,\" a Southwest spokeswoman, Linda Rutherford, e-mailed me. \"[M.] indicates she called for a few days, but did not file a report in person until April 12--three days later. Southwest, as a courtesy, took her report anyway and asked for follow up information and written inventory of the damage.\" Rutherford said that M. should have submitted detailed receipts and photographs of the damage in order to make a claim. Harrumph, the Shopping Avenger says. It is a bad hair day at Southwest when its officials defend themselves by comparing their airline to other airlines. I forwarded this message to M., who replied: \"Wow. Well, of course I didn't file it at the airport on the 9 th because I didn't know the clothes were ruined at the airport. I didn't know until I opened the baggage at my hotel and saw the ruined stuff. (And it's worth noting that we had already waited for about an hour for our luggage with two little kids and impatient in-laws nipping at our heels.)\" She goes on, \"I did call that evening ... and was told that that sufficed. This is the first time I've been told that I had to file a complaint in person within four hours. ... When I filed on the 12 th , I was never told that I needed any receipts or photos or other type of documentation. The baggage folks seemed pretty uninterested in all of this. ... They know that the type of 'evidence' they want is impossible to obtain. They also know that on April 9 they screwed up the luggage retrieval and left bags out in the rain a long time.\" But then she came through, provisionally, \"Yep, you can be sure if [M.] will call me we will get everything squared away. I'm sorry it's taken this long for her to get someone who can help, but we will take care of it from here.\" Stay tuned, shoppers, to hear whether Southwest makes good it promise to compensate M. and apologize to her for her troubles. The story of M. reminds the Shopping Avenger of a central truth of consumer service: It's not the crime, it's the cover-up. Take the case of K., who found himself waiting in vain for Circuit City to repair his television. Televisions break, even 1-year-old televisions, as is the case with K's. But Circuit City, where he bought the television, gave him a terrible runaround. The Shopping Avenger dispatched his sidekick, Tad the Deputy Avenger, to get to the bottom of K.'s story. This is what he found: K. grew concerned, Tad the Deputy Avenger reports, after his television had been in the Circuit City shop for a week. When he called, he was told to \"check back next week.\" When he asked if someone from the store could call him with more information, he was refused. Weeks went by. When K. told one Circuit City employee that he really would like to get his television back, the employee, K. says, asked him, \"Don't you have another television in your house?\" More than a month later--after hours and hours and hours of telephone calls and days missed at work--K. received his television back. Got a consumer score you want settled? Send e-mail to shoppingavenger@slate.com.\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the goal of this column?\n\n<options>:\nA To call out UHaul's reservation policies\nB To highlight issues in customer service brought up by readers\nC To discuss some alternative superheroes the world needs\nD To make fun of people who complain about consumerism\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,317	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[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] But a few revisions could change all that—\" He rubbed his hands He jumped into another bush and scratched them in again. MOTHER GOOSE together thoughtfully. \"How about it, Jack? Do we have nerve enough to And when he saw what he had done, with all his might and main be laughed at? Do you think we could stand a little discredit, making really sniffing out silly asses of ourselves? Because when I finish this book, we'll be \"This kid is driving me nuts,\" said Dorffman through clenched teeth. \"He's gone completely hay-wire. Nobody's been able to get near him that puppy out there to come here and work for me—\" leaving the Farm. I talk to him, I sweat him down, I do everything but tie him to the bed, and I waste my time. He's leaving the Farm. Period.\" \"So you bring him down here,\" said Lessing sourly. \"The worst place he for three weeks, and now at six o'clock this morning he decides he's \"I don't want to go back to the Farm,\" said the boy. \"No. Oh, no!\" \"Then what?\" monitor is for, don't you?\" away from the Farm.\" been going on for ?\" \"I know, I know.\" Lessing chewed his lip. \"I don't like it. We'd better set up a battery on him and try to spot the trouble. And I'm afraid you'll have to set it up. I've got that young Melrose from Chicago to 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 downstairs.\" \"Full psi precautions?\" asked Dorffman. \"Certainly! And Jack—in this case, be sure of it. If Tommy's in the up daytime hours. He knew that his real work was at the Farm—yet he hadn't even been to the Farm in over six weeks. And now, as the book stronghold of psionic research at last. And face to face with the Master in the trembling flesh!\" a brand spanking new one, just fresh out of the pupa, so to speak!\" He touched his forehead in a gesture of reverence. \"I bow before the 'Theory',\" Melrose said. \"I want to see this famous Farm of yours up in Connecticut and see for myself how much pressure these experimental controls you keep talking about will actually bear. But mostly, I want to see just what in psionic hell you're so busy making yourself an true.\" Melrose. \"We've done a lot of work on it, too.\" \"Oh, yes—I've heard about your work. Not bad, really. A little misdirected, is all.\" us anywhere. We doubt if you have, either. But maybe we're all wrong.\" Melrose grinned unpleasantly. \"We're not unreasonable, your Majesty. We \"I've got 'til New Year.\" Lessing shouted for his girl. \"Get Dorffman up here. We're going to the Farm this afternoon.\" and boarded the little shuttle car in the terminal below the the express circuit through Philadelphia and Camden sectors, surfacing briefly in Trenton sector, then dropping underground once again for the long pull beneath Newark, Manhattan and Westchester sectors. In less than twenty minutes the car surfaced on a Parkway channel and buzzed north and east through the verdant Connecticut countryside. \"What about Tommy?\" Lessing asked Dorffman as the car sped along through the afternoon sun. \"I just finished the prelims. He's not cooperating.\" \"Well, that depends on your standards. Sounds like a country day something .\" \"Oh, yes. We certainly were.\" really be certain that your instruments are measuring the children at all. It's not inconceivable that the children might be measuring the , eh?\" Lessing blinked. \"It's conceivable.\" \"Mmmm,\" said Melrose. \"Sounds like a real firm foundation to build a rut if somebody hadn't gotten smart and realized that one of their new drugs worked better in combatting schizophrenia when the doctor took or another, for centuries. The fact that it doesn't seem to be bound by the same sort of natural law we've observed elsewhere doesn't mean that work in the dark forever—we've got to have a working hypothesis to crisis instead of giving way to panic is a differentiating quality.\" \"Fine,\" said Melrose. \"Great. We can't prove that, of course, but I'll play along.\" have the Farm—to try to discover why. What forces that potential underground? What buries it so deeply that adult human beings can't get at it any more?\" \"And you think you have an answer,\" said Melrose. the high white gates of the Farm, slowing down at the entrance to a monitors required of all personnel at the Farm. They were of a hard grey plastic material, with a network of wiring buried in the \"As far as we can measure, yes.\" \"Which may not be very far.\" effective for our purposes.\" \"But you don't know why,\" added Melrose. through an open areaway. Behind the buildings was a broad playground. A one waved to them as she rescued a four-year-old from the parallel bars. they walked along, \"and some have been here for years. We maintain a funds. Other children come to us—foundlings, desertees, children from where they can develope what potential they have— the in a large room. \"They're perfectly insulated from us,\" said Lessing. \"A variety of \"What are they doing?\" Melrose asked after watching the children a few \"Those three seem to work as a team, somehow. Each one, individually, had a fairly constant recordable psi potential of about seventeen on the arbitrary scale we find useful here. Any two of them scale in at thirty-four to thirty-six. Put the three together and they operate somewhere in the neighborhood of six hundred on the same scale.\" Lessing smiled. \"This is an isolated phenomenon—it doesn't hold for any other three children on the Farm. Nor did we make any effort to of place.... to see what I'm driving at,\" he said slowly. \"Yes,\" said Melrose. \"I think I'm beginning to see.\" He scratched his jaw. \"You think that it's adult psi-contact that drives the child's potential underground—that somehow adult contact acts like a damper, a sort of colossal candle-snuffer.\" \"That's what I think,\" said Lessing. \"How do you know those children didn't make you take off your monitor?\" suddenly, his voice earnest. \"You have fine facilities here, good \"I would.\" \"And as an Authority on psionic behavior patterns,\" said Melrose cut it off under him. Well, that's his worry, not yours.\" Dorffman's face was intense. \"Scientifically, you're on unshakeable ground. Every \"He seems them for all he's worth .\" \"But why shouldn't he?\" wrong gets lost in the shuffle. It's what he says that counts.\" \"But we know you're right,\" Dorffman protested. \"Do we?\" \"Of course we do! Look at our work! Look at what we've seen on the Farm.\" you at the Farm, but you'd already left. The boy—\" She broke off \"What happened?\" children's playroom. \"See what you think.\" the hand. \"I hurt. My head hurts. I hurt all over. Go away.\" The monitor mind. He had seen it a hundred times at the Farm. But even more—he repressed in the adult mind, crushing suddenly into the raw receptors an animal instinctively seeks its own protection . With care, filing them through the machines for the basic processing and before. There must be an error.\" \"Of course,\" said Lessing. \"According to the theory. The theory says that adult psi-contact is deadly to the growing child. It smothers their potential through repeated contact until it dries up completely. We've proved that, haven't we? Time after time. Everything goes drying up there on the Farm, until the distortion was threatening the for.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhere is the Farm?\n\n<options>:\nA New Jersey\nB Illinois\nC Pennsylvania\nD Connecticut\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,207	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>:\nMy Lady Greensleeves in each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below. They were ready for the breakout. By FREDERIK POHL their picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiers They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed. The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts on the walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights of the guard squadrons surrounding the walls. was one of the many talents bred here! I was yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain of guards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known to This guard smelled trouble and it could be The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The block guard, Sodaro, growled warningly: \"Watch it, auntie!\" The block guard guffawed. \"Wipe talk—that's what she was telling you attractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got off to a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in the block guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench, other one asked her to move along.\" He added virtuously: \"The guard O'Leary stopped her. \"That's enough! Three days in Block O!\" It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. He had managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omitted to say \"sir\" every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it up are the true races of mankind.\" Putting it into law was only the legal enforcement of a demonstrable fact. \"Evening, Cap'n.\" A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight and 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 perfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk, not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He was civil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content to do a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he corrected himself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have been proud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—or a mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe, Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he was Civil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers that meant to be— \"Evening, Cap'n.\" He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge of maintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. \"Evening, Conan,\" he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for the Civil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was the disciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets its irritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floor \"Owoo-o-o,\" screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block and The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deck guard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was on The inside guard muttered: \"Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.\" The outside guard shrugged. !\" The two guards turned to see what was coming in as company.\" He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block O guards. \"Let them in,\" the inside guard told him. \"The others are riled up attention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on the could ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough, 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 The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. \"Take it easy, However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not from They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard even The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned off \"Uh-uh.\" The outside guard shook his head. grinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. \"Don't you know !\" yelled the inside guard. it. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was getting miserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards the Sauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicious \"I smell trouble,\" said O'Leary to the warden. The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: \"O'Leary, what O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden that The warden raised his hand. \"Please, O'Leary, don't bother me about scalding heat. He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured. \"O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You have your job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job is just as important as my job,\" he said piously. \" Everybody's job is just as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick to \"Excuse the expression, O'Leary,\" the warden said anxiously. \"I mean, after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right?\" He was a great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. \" You know you \"Handle it, then!\" snapped the warden, irritated at last. Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of the The outside guard bellowed: \"Okay, okay. Take ten!\" actuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prison \"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. 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 prisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley was grateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like an Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: \"What the hell's The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe. \"Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut.\" The guard lumbered around get all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy if vain about it, even at times he had been known to boast of his ability to make the rounds in two minutes, every time. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There was But it wasn't the tears that held the guard 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 the two bound deck guards. O'Leary said: \"Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!\" The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated, The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Seniority with his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding the struggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefing\n\n<question>:\nHow did the Block O guards feel about their position?\n\n<options>:\nA that they could have far worse jobs if they quit\nB that it was a fitting position for people like them\nC that it wasn't worth it to stay in the job\nD honored to be given that role\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
413	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>:\nall even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the connection. The population of the states affected was in places as low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming. It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area. the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could be. Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more plausible theory. Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting for their university and government department to approve budgets. They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct. They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate. Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking, Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles themselves. \"It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve,\" said the normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the scene of disaster. \"No one here has ever seen anything like it.\" And everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety. All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home to wait. to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps. As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome down. They danced \"like sand in a sieve\" dry, they boiled into rubble. Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared. Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the President declared a national emergency. and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south. Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all death toll had risen above 1,000. The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking. On the actual scene of the disaster (or the scenes it is impossible the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now streaming east. Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take. 193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion. Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd eastward. for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted by refugees from further west an American Airlines plane was wrecked as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The second phase of the national disaster was beginning. The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its wake the earth to the north \"just seemed to collapse on itself like day. \"Not tremors, exactly,\" said the captain of a fishing boat which was somehow to ride out the coming flood, \"but like as if the land wanted to be somewhere else.\" radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. \"We of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before.\" Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour before the town disappeared forever. One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge. deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County. Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to North Dakota. Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most terrible sound they had ever heard. \"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour, because of the spray.\" Salt spray. The ocean had come to New Mexico. The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of and about half a ton of vanilla cookies,\" he explained to his eventual rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster. \"We must of played cards for four days straight,\" recalled genial Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring, into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what had been dusty farmland, cities and towns. Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives. No one could even estimate the damage to property almost the entirety\n\n<question>:\nWhy was mountain climbing prohibited on the Eastern Slope during the time?\n\n<options>:\nA The rocks were shifting too fast and the paths could be confusing\nB The flooding was too substantial\nC They feared the danger of rock slides\nD Rescue missions were too dangerous due to the sand storms\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
664	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>:\nnaval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from still some unconscious men to be revived. In a sheltered cove among the rocks, an exploring group had found enough dry driftwood to make a fire— Comerford Comerford's Comerford Comerford's crew was marooned on an islet, about a square mile in area Comerford that they had been put ashore without food or extra clothing or his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory. behind. Curtis was studying the wreckage of the wireless station, wondering if this might have been the source of Androka's zone of silence, when Ensign Jack Dillon came up to him. \"There's a coast-guard cutter heading for the island, sir,\" he announced. Comerford This storm—\" Curtis threw his arm around Nelson's dripping shoulders. \"Forget it! Don't let a little error get you down!\" out from under his arm. \"It's got me worried. Quartering wind of undetermined force, variable and gusty. There's a chop to the sea—as if from unestimated currents among the islets. No chance to check by observation, and now there is a chance—look at me!\" declared, frowning at the two papers and hastily rechecking his own figures. \"Call up to the bridge to stop her,\" he told Nelson. \"We can't afford to move in these waters with such a possibility of error!\" Nelson complied, and the throbbing drive of the engines lessened and islets—\" \"Radio?\" repeated the little Czech, thrusting his face between the other two, in his independent fashion that ignored ship's discipline. old eyes twinkling behind their thick lenses. \"Go ahead and try it. See how much you can get! It will be no more than Hitler can get when Zukor Androka decrees silence over the German airways! Try it! Try it, I say!\" Bob Curtis stared at him, as if questioning his sanity. Then he The radio man leaped to his seat and tried frantically. Again and again, he sent off a request for a cross-bearing from shore stations that had recently been established to insure safety to naval vessels, but there was no answer on any of the bands—not even the blare of a high-powered commercial program in the higher reach, nor the chatter of \"Dead!\" Androka muttered, with a bitter laugh. \"Yet not dead, gentlemen! The set is uninjured. The waves are what have been upset. I have shattered them around your ship, just as I can eventually shatter them all over Central Europe! For the next two hours, no radio messages can enter or leave my zone of radio silence—of refracted radio waves, set up by my little station on one of the neighboring islets!\" There was a long pause, while commander and navigator stared at him. Curtis was the first to speak. \"Your secrecy might well cost the United States navy one of its best light cruisers—and us our lives!\" he said angrily. \"We need that check by radio at once! If you're not talking nonsense, call off your dogs till we learn just where we are!\" Androka held out his palms helplessly. \"I can do nothing. I have given orders to my assistant that he must keep two hours of radio silence! I can get no message to him, for our radio is dead!\" As if to mock him, the ship's radio began to answer: Comerford Comerford Comerford Comerford Comerford Comerford Comerford Comerford \"And if the Nazi agents in America knew of the islet from which my zone of silence is projected—\" Androka paused, his head tilted to one side, as if he were listening to something— On deck, there was shouting and commotion. Curtis rushed out, pulling picked up, and was being relayed all over the ship. The words struck on Curtis' ears with a note of impending tragedy. \"Breakers ahead!\" He was beside Navigating Officer Nelson on the bridge, and saw the helmsman climbing the rapidly spinning wheel like a monkey as he put it \"Get out the collision mat!\" Curtis ordered. \"We ought to be able to keep her up!\" And then he became aware of a deadly stillness. A vast wall of silence enveloped the entire cruiser. Looking over the side, he could no longer see the waves that a few minutes before had beaten savagely against the ship. Comerford Comerford the swinging wheel. Then a gas-masked figure appeared through the shroud of mist and steadied it, so that the cruiser would not be completely at the mercy of the wind and the waves. Curtis heard the anchor let down, as if by invisible hands, the chain Comerford in a lazy, rolling motion, as she lay with her bow nosing into the sandbar at the entrance of the inlet. From her bridge, Navigating Officer Nelson watched the gas-masked figures moving about the decks, descending companionways—like goblins from an ancient fairy tale or a modern horror story. Nelson looked like Comerford's Nelson swore under his breath. \"Reckon it'll take a couple of hours before the ship's rid of that damn gas!\" Bradford shook his head in disagreement. \"The old geezer claims he's got a neutralizing chemical in one of them tanks of his that'll clear everything up inside half an hour.\" \"I'd rather get along without Androka, if we could!\" Nelson muttered. \"He's nothing but a crackpot!\" Comerford Comerford's Comerford \"Funny thing about him,\" Bradford put in, \"is that his inventions work. That zone of silence cut us off completely.\" \"Yes,\" Nelson said. \"That came through all right. And won't Curtis have a time explaining it!\" \"Hereafter,\" Brandt said solemnly, \"the zone of silence vill be Comerford not sink her.\" \"What's the idea?\" \"Her cargo,\" Brandt explained. \"It iss more precious than rubies. It Brazil—through the blockade,\" Nelson said, \"without taking the risk of capturing a United States navy cruiser.\" \"There are other things Germany needs desperately on board the Carethusia \"Yes,\" Brandt assured him. \"Of all men—we can trust Androka!\" foreigners whom it chooses as its agents,\" Brandt pointed out. \"Androka Comerford . The masked German seamen were installing some sort of apparatus that portholes were being opened, and men were spraying chemical around to rid the below-decks atmosphere of the lethal gas that had overcome the Comerford's Brandt came over to where Nelson was standing on the bridge and held out his hand. \"Congratulations, Herr Kommander Nelson!\" he said. \"Ve have stolen one of the United States navy's newest and fastest cruisers!\" He made a Comerford had been cruising off the Maine coast. This probably was one of the islets of that try to make a roll call. Is there any sign of the ship?\" There was a solemn note in Dillon's voice. \"No, sir. She's been worked off the sandbar and put to sea!\" The words struck Curtis with the numbing shock of a blow on some nerve center. For the first time, he realized fully the tragedy that had swept down on him. He had lost his ship—one of the United States navy's fastest and newest small light cruisers—under circumstances which smelled strongly of treachery and sabotage. As he thought back, he realized that he Comerford very purpose. The pieces of the picture fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle—Androka's zone of silence the bearings given by radio Navigating Officer Nelson's queer conduct. They were all part of a\n\n<question>:\nWhy is Brandt interested in The Comerford?\n\n<options>:\nA He is holding the ship ransom as revenge for what American has done to Germany.\nB He is holding the ship ransom for Boarts—black diamonds.\nC He wants to use its zone of silence to apprehend the Carthusia.\nD He wants to use its zone of silence to trick other ships into crashing on the islet.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
627	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nCAKEWALK TO GLORYANNA BY L. J. STECHER, JR. The job was easy. The profit was enormous. The only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own! Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the , hobbled across the spaceport to where Beulah and I were waiting to greet him and hit me in the eye. Beulah—that's his elephant, but I have to take care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has across the field to the spaceport bar. I didn't ask Captain Hannah why he had socked me. Although he has never been a handsome man, he usually has the weathered and austere dignity that comes from plying the remote reaches among the stars. Call it the Look of Eagles. Captain Hannah had lost the Look of Eagles. His eyes were swollen almost shut every inch of him that showed was a red mass of welts piled on more welts, as though he had tangled with a hive of misanthropic bees. The gold-braided hat of his trade was not clamped in its usual belligerent position slightly over one eye. It was riding high on his head, apparently held up by more of the ubiquitous swellings. I figured that he figured that I had something to do with the way he looked. \"Shipping marocca to Gloryanna III didn't turn out to be a cakewalk after all?\" I suggested. He glared at me in silence. \"Perhaps you would like a drink first, and then you would be willing to tell me about it?\" I decided that his wince was intended for a nod, and ordered rhial. I only drink rhial when I've been exposed to Captain Hannah. It was almost a pleasure to think that I was responsible, for a change, for having him take the therapy. \"A Delta Class freighter can carry almost anything,\" he said at last, in a travesty of his usual forceful voice. \"But some things it should never try.\" He lapsed back into silence after this uncharacteristic admission. I almost felt sorry for him, but just then Beulah came racking across the field with her two-ton infant in tow, to show her off to Hannah. I walled off my pity. He had foisted those two maudlin mastodons off onto me in one of our earlier deals, and if I had somehow been responsible for his present troubles, it was no more than he deserved. I rated winning for once. \"You did succeed in getting the marocca to Gloryanna III?\" I asked difficult than we had expected—meant an enormous profit to both of us. The fruit of the marocca is delicious and fabulously expensive. they relented and, for the first time in history, gave their assent. In fact, they had seemed delighted. \"I got them there safely,\" said Captain Hannah. \"When I left, marocca was growing like mad,\" said Captain Hannah. rhial for myself. \"Tell me about it,\" I suggested. Gloryanna III,\" he said balefully. \"I ought to black your other eye.\" \"Simmer down and have some more rhial,\" I told him. \"Sure I get the credit for that. Gloryanna III is almost a twin to Mypore II. You know that marocca takes a very special kind of environment. Bright sun most of the time—that means an almost cloudless environment. A very equable climate. Days and nights the same length and no seasons—that means no enough tolerance to cause no trouble in the trip in Delta Crucis .\" A \"Your tests were no good,\" agreed the captain with feeling. \"I'll tell ourselves to hauling a full load of it?\" asked Captain Hannah. to do under all possible circumstances.\" \"Sure. Written in Myporian. A very difficult language to translate. , but I figured it was safer to let him tell me in his own way, in his own time. \"You think so? That solution was one of yours, too, wasn't it?\" He gazed moodily at his beaker of rhial. \"I must admit it sounded good to me, too. In Limbo, moving at multiple light-speeds, the whole Universe, of course, turns into a bright glowing spot in our direction of motion, with everything else dark. So I lined up the Delta Crucis darkness. \"Of course, it didn't work.\" \"For Heaven's sake, why not?\" \"For Heaven's sake why should it? With no gravity for reference, how \"Oh,\" said Captain Hannah in quiet tones of controlled desperation, \"it original positions perpendicular to the axial thrust line of the ship \"I'd like to know,\" I said sincerely. He stared at me in silence for a moment. \"Well, it filled the cabin with great solid bubbles of water. Water bubbles will oscillate and wobble like soap bubbles,\" he went on dreamily, \"but of course, they're not empty, like soap bubbles. The surface acts a little like touching one of them. You could drown—I almost did. Several times. a wide cylinder Never \"But you solved the problem?\" that or suicide. I had begun to get the feeling that they were stalking me. So I drew a blank.\" \"Not yet,\" said Captain Hannah. \"Like you, I figured I had the around for the reasons for the change. But I wouldn't have had long to hunt anyway, because in a few hours the reasons came looking for me. \"They were a tiny skeeter-like thing. A sort of midge or junior grade mosquito. They had apparently been swimming in the water during their larval stage. Instead of making cocoons for themselves, they snipped \"There were thousands and thousands of them, and each one of them made a tiny, maddening whine as it flew.\" It was on page eleven that it mentioned casually that the midges—the cooperate. Whatever I tried to do, they came back to me. I was the only thing they seemed to love. I didn't dare bathe, or scratch, or even wriggle, for fear of killing more of them. And they kept on itching. It blundered around aimlessly. in fact, until I resumed my efforts to catch up on my reading. \"The mothlike things—they are called dingleburys—also turn out to fill itself full to bursting before it will reproduce. If I had the translation done correctly, they were supposed to dart gracefully around, catching carolla on the wing and stuffing themselves happily. high, and it gets very light up where things fly around, going to zero on the middle line of the ship. And the unfamiliar gravity gradient, together with the Coriolis effect and all, makes the poor dingleburys dizzy, so they can't catch carolla. \"And if you think I figured all that out about dingleburys getting seem to be having any trouble, but was acting like the book said it capturing her prey by sound alone. lights—blindfolding dingleburys. Which is a hell of a sport for a man who is captain of his own ship.\" I must say that I agreed with him, but it seemed to be a good time for me to keep my mouth shut. plants. Apparently they were pollinating them. I felt sure that these buds weren't the marocca blossoms from which the fruit formed—I'd long. You could watch one gently , surrounded by a bunch of worried dingleburys. terrible, or make me sick, or hypnotize me, or something. But they just Delta Crucis behaved like a lady. set the customs inspectors to sneezing and swearing more than seemed reasonable at the time.\" Captain Hannah inhaled a sip of rhial, and seemed to be enjoying the powerful stuff. He acted as if he thought he had finished. shape, weren't they?\" Hannah nodded. \"They were growing luxuriously.\" He nodded his head a couple of more times, in spite of the discomfort it must have given him. \"They'll send you the bill. They don't figure it will take them more than a few months to complete the job.\" Captain Hannah stopped talking and stood up, painfully and a little\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the narrator say Captain Hannah has never been?\n\n<options>:\nA A gardener\nB A good pilot\nC An adequate elephant owner\nD A handsome man\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
819	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.] 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! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in his nostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the trouble was yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain of guards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known to its inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scent of trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived to reach his captaincy. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl like her into a place like this. And, what was more important, why she couldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. O'Leary shook his head. \"Let her talk, Sodaro.\" It said in the to speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings.\" And O'Leary attractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got off to a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in the disciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear and looked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting for him to judge their cases. O'Leary stopped her. \"That's enough! Three days in Block O!\" It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. He had managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omitted to say \"sir\" every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it up Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain marked smell from his nose. What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirty business? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across the yard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent Civil O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted those but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Leary called it \"the red hats \" elsewhere it was called \"the hole,\" \"the snake pit,\" \"the Klondike.\" When you're in it, you don't much care what irritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floor 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. The outside guard said sourly: \"A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Leary knows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others all riled up.\" \"Let them in,\" the inside guard told him. \"The others are riled up already.\" \"We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling so as not to disturb the lady!\" He screeched with howling, maniacal laughter. \"Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble, Flock!\" the tangler field once more. He licked his lips. \"Say, you want to take a turn in here for a while?\" \"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!\" because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner very long. III \"I smell trouble,\" said O'Leary to the warden. \"Trouble? Trouble?\" Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and his little round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. Warden last decent job he would have in his life. \"Trouble? What trouble?\" O'Leary shrugged. \"Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? This afternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard.\" The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: \"O'Leary, what did you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ball don't mix it isn't natural. And there are other things.\" O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden that it didn't smell The warden raised his hand. \"Please, O'Leary, don't bother me about O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way was \"Excuse the expression, O'Leary,\" the warden said anxiously. \"I mean, You know you don't want to worry about smiled like a civil-service Buddha. O'Leary choked back his temper. \"Warden, I'm telling you that there's trouble coming up. I smell the signs.\" \"Handle it, then!\" snapped the warden, irritated at last. \"But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose—\" all your supposing, O'Leary.\" He sipped the remains of his coffee, \"Well, then,\" he said at last. \"You just remember what I've told you tonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—' Oh, curse the thing.\" That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and it didn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good. \"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 didn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, he realized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning. Almost like meat scorching. he didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He was pretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a little vain about it, even at times he had been known to boast of his ability Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There was knows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed, filed to sharpness over endless hours. 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 him not to, you hear?\" He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. your guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear?\" And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: \"Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!\" The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated, and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prison The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Seniority to the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to a Red Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highway no, they didn't know where Daddy was going no, the kids couldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night. told Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. You\n\n<question>:\nWhat seems to be O'Leary's internal dilemma as the story progresses?\n\n<options>:\nA He is having a hard time convincing himself of the laws that they all follow, and the validity of them.\nB He says to himself that he trusts in the specialization segregation, but he has thoughts that indicate otherwise.\nC The Warden isn't listening to him, and he's scared of overstepping his boundaries to point out the problem.\nD He knows that there is trouble, and he can smell it. He just can't pinpoint from where.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,013	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 was the endless problem of all spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men challenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughts that a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list. In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearing seals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers, celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. The Limey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed into his diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated age only as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmen are called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the Chlorella and algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open the road to the larger Space without. history—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilis to the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral with cross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to the amusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, that no Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment more Leyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for a man condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space. The Pequod's their war on canned pork and beans. The exordium of offal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard a spacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount. the Ajax in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We think of the Benjo Maru his algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing Saccharomycodes bite he ate to a superior grade of sake . And for a third footnote to the ancient observation, \"God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,\" Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the The the low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as the human period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen fir seedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be planted in the Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustrating tensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming, dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility to see that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds of water, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food. statement of the least fuel a man can run on. Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargo compartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the C. P. Sale no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae to work over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tons of metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano West and back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat, protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And the algae fed us. All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubble from our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en route and back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich in essential amino acids. The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill the smell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in a hundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quite wore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule of oxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by the end of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with the politicians are right enough when they say that we spacers are a breed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury of squeamishness. Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knife was a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planet Earth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying as Willy Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of a Pullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major social hemorrhoid. It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, \"Bailey, Robert,\" on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunate and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched our of synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized by Chlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oregano was green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. \"This next day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressed with something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves of burnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can only guess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling and drying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nine heads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The \" but this time the algaeal mass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was only this pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions and cycler-salt.\" gazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding. \"Yes, I eat it,\" the Captain said, taking and talking through another bite. \"But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms and grasshoppers, to stay alive.\" algae. He tapped his head with a finger. \"This—the brain that guides the ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me, keep my belly content and my brain alive.\" Pharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children of Israel would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is the path to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiate into Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark in a geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mere edibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you will they were in addition gratified that the battle between their Captain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embark on an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their last few days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and many Captain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advice Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effects ration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds of fact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case of spices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice, and a dozen others. meat.\" your noun might prove mutinous.\" \"Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship's out of an algae tank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-out molecules reclaimed from the head an apt confederate of vis medicatrix naturae , the healing power of irony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that was to make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier, of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hiss\n\n<question>:\nWhich of these is true about the importance of alge to the Martians?\n\n<options>:\nA It is the only thing they can eat\nB All of the spaceships are named after different species of alge\nC Most of the economy is geared around growing and collecting alge\nD The nickname for their species is inspired by the reliance on alge\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
769	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>:\nruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I And at once there was an answer: \" I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. \"How did I get here?\" I demanded of the speaker. star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?\" And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked yet again: Dondromogon might be. \"Birth and beginning—destined leadership—\" \"Dondromogon?\" I mumbled. \"The name is strange to me.\" birth. One face of Dondromogon ever looks to the light and heat, unceasing, bitter, with no quarter asked, given or expected. .\" The voice became grand. \"Suffice it that you were needed, and that the time was ripe. There is a proper time, like a blocky silhouette, a building of sorts. The voice spoke no more. I had not the time to wonder about it. I got to my feet, bent double to keep from being blown over, and staggered called Dondromogon, what manner of intelligent life bade defiance to I woke up out there in the dust storm, and I managed to come here for shelter.\" the wall beside the door-jamb. \"There's a bigger reward for capture than for warning,\" objected his friend in turn, \"and whoever comes to take this man will claim Both stared narrowly. \"No spy? No enemy?\" asked the broad-faced one who had first spoken. Then, to his comrade: \"No reward, then.\" \"I think there'll be a reward,\" was the rejoinder, and the second man's hand stole to the sword-weapon. With a whispering rasp it cleared from its scabbard. \"If he's dead, we get pay for both warning and capture—\" His thumb touched a button at the pommel of the hilt. The dull blade The other had drawn a weapon of his own, a pistol-form arrangement. I turned on him, but too late. He pressed the trigger, and from the nothing. Memory left me.\" \"The story is a strange one,\" she commented. \"And your name?\" \"I do not know that, either. Who are you?\" \"Stranger,\" he said to me, \"can you think of no better tale to tell than you now offer?\" \"I tell the truth,\" was my reply, not very gracious. \"You will have to prove that,\" he admonished me. \"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 has taken my memory. Let me have a medical examination. A scientist probably can tell what happened to put me in such a condition.\" The officer at the table was touching a button. An attendant appeared, received an order, and vanished again. In a few moments two other men came—one a heavily armed officer of rank, the other an elderly, bearded fellow in a voluminous robe that enfolded him in most dignified and bowed toward me. \"Surely you are Yandro, the Conquering Stranger,\" 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 Old Sporr almost crowed. \"You see? If he was a true imposter, he would come equipped with all plausible knowledge. As it is—\" \"As it is, he may remember that the Conquering Stranger is foretold to come with no memory of anything,\" supplied the officer. \"Score one against you, Sporr. You should have been able to instruct me, not I you.\" old and well-thumbed, with dim gold traceries on its binding. Sporr snatched it, and turned to a brightly colored picture. He looked once, his beard gaped, and he dropped to his knees. \"Happy, happy the day,\" he jabbered, \"that I was spared to see our great champion come among us in the flesh, as was foretold of ancient real respect and shyness this time. \"If you are Yandro himself, you can real man—\" \"That could be plastic surgery,\" rejoined the officer. \"Such things are artfully done by the Newcomers, and the red mantle he wears more easily assumed.\" Doriza shook her head. \"That happens to be my cloak. I gave it to him because he was naked, and not for any treasonable masquerade. But the thumb-print—\" \"Forgive me, great Yandro,\" said the officer thickly. \"I did not know.\" \"Get up,\" I bade them. \"I want to hear why I was first bound, and now worshipped.\" II stopped. \"I have arranged for that,\" Sporr began, then fell silent, fingers combing his beard in embarrassment. \"Pardon, great Yandro,\" babbled Sporr. \"I was saying that I arranged and tasting of spice, and a tumbler of pink juice. I felt refreshed and satisfied, and thanked Sporr, who led me on to the next room. of which Sporr spoke. The door closed softly behind me—I was left alone. of chest and shoulder, and legs robust enough to carry such bulk. The face was square but haggard, as if from some toil or pain which was now Sporr was waiting in the room where I had eaten. His eyes widened at sight of me, something like a grin of triumph flashed through his \"It is indeed Yandro, our great chief,\" he mumbled. Then he turned 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.\" \"Please get up,\" I bade her, trying not to sound as embarrassed as I herself at my left hand. \"Will Yandro come this way? He will be awaited Yandro is wise as well as powerful. But the Newcomers do not want to \"Doriza, gentlewoman of the guard, conducts Yandro, the Conquering My mind flew back to the two scrubby, venial guardsmen who had first welcomed me \"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: \"Friends, I am among you with no more memory or knowledge than an \"The tenth part of the wonders which concern mighty Yandro have not He was the greedy-faced man, short but plump, and very conscious of the dignified folds of his purple robe. One carefully-tended hand brushed back his ginger-brown hair, then toyed with a little moustache. will speak simply. Our hopes have been raised by Yandro's return—the return presaged of old by those who could see the future, and more recently by the death in battle of the Newcomer champion, called Barak.\" \"Barak!\" I repeated. \"I—I—\" And I paused. When I had to learn my own name, how could it be that I sensed memory of another's name? \"Barak was a brute—mighty, but a brute.\" Thus Gederr continued. even as they are without their battle-leader, so we have ours.\" \"You honor me,\" I told him. \"Yet I still know little. It seems that I Dondromogon. But I must know them before I can help.\" to her \"Tell him, Elonie.\" Then he faced me. \"Have we Yandro's\n\n<question>:\nChoose the most likely outcome if the narrator was not determined to be Yandro?\n\n<options>:\nA He would have never met Doriza.\nB He would be sent back to Earth.\nC He would not be honored on Dondromogon.\nD His memory would have came back faster.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
910	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. Those existential speculations don't derive from the screenplay's source, an archetypal but otherwise down-to-earth 1962 novel by James Jones (who also wrote From Here to Eternity ) about the American invasion of the South Pacific island of Guadalcanal. They're central to Malick's vision of the story, however, and not specious. In the combat genre, the phrase \"war is hell\" usually means nothing more than that it's a bummer to lose a limb or two, or to see your buddy get his head blown off. A true work of art owes us more than literal horrors, and Malick obliges by making his theater of war the setting for nothing less than a meditation on the existence of God. 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.\" another, skeletal, laughs and laughs a third weeps over a dying comrade. The face of a Japanese soldier encased in earth speaks from the dead, \"Are you righteous? Know that I was, too.\" Whether or not these pearllike epiphanies are strung is another matter. Malick throws out his overarching theme--is nature two-sided, at war with itself?--in the first few minutes but, for all his startling juxtapositions, he never dramatizes it with anything approaching the clarity of, say, Brian De Palma's Casualties of War (1989). Besides the dialogue between Welsh and Witt, The Thin Red Line 's other organizing story involves a wrenching tug of war between Nolte's ambition-crazed Tall and Capt. Staros (Elias Koteas), who refuses an order to send his men on what will surely be a suicidal--and futile--assault on a bunker. But matters of cause and effect don't really interest Malick. Individual acts of conscience can and do save lives, and heroism can win a war or a battle, he acknowledges. But Staros is ultimately sent packing, and Malick never bothers to trace the effect of his action on the Guadalcanal operation. In fact, the entire battle seems to take place in a crazed void. Tall quotes Homer's \"rosy-fingered dawn\" and orders a meaningless bombardment to \"buck the men up--it'll look like the Japs are catching hell.\" Soldiers shoot at hazy figures, unsure whether they're Japanese or American. Men collide, blow themselves in half with their own mishandled grenades, stab themselves frantically with morphine needles, shove cigarettes up their noses to keep the stench of the dying and the dead at bay. A tiny bird, mortally wounded, flutters in the grass. To the families involved in the Woburn tragedy, the real climax of this story isn't the downbeat ending of the book or the sleight of hand, \"let's call the Environmental Protection Agency,\" upbeat ending of the movie. The climax is the publication of a book that takes the plaintiffs' side and that remains on the best-seller list in hardcover and paperback for years. The climax is the movie starring John Travolta. Beatrice and Grace made out OK legally, but some of us will never use their products again without thinking about Travolta losing his shirt in the name of those wasted-away little kids.\n\n<question>:\nThe film reviewer gives all of the following reasons for the negative critique of \"Thin Red Line\" EXCEPT:\n\n<options>:\nA Cacophonous sound blending\nB Lengthy, inconsequential battle scenes\nC Similarity to Billy Budd bordering plagiarism\nD Overuse of existential questions\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
984	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\n. This was why the world had moved across the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more. going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watch But he was afraid. the great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain the feelings within him When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of his \"There is Rikud on the floor!\" Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright. Something small and brown scurried across the other side of the disturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he had life, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings had Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his face was so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport that grown. the metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest: If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. This everyone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of the Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slipped down against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footsteps \"I'll go with you,\" Rikud told him. A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of the Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It was good. There was a strange thought, and Rikud's brain Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no real heard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded on this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but it proved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he saw about and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it. But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All the This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on one elbow. \"What did you find out?\" Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer, and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new that he couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed his Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the world had ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regular intervals by a sharp booming. Change— \"Won't you eat, Rikud?\" Chuls called from somewhere down below. \"Damn the man,\" Rikud thought. Then aloud: \"Yes, I'll eat. Later.\" \"It's time....\" Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently. But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him, \"What else?\" \"Else? Nothing.\" Anger welled up inside Rikud. \"All right,\" he said, \"listen. What do you hear?\" And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If only the man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed so Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Because he was hungry. And Rikud, too, was hungry. Differently. \"I will,\" said Rikud. \"You will what?\" Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through this He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a silly thought no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikud couldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth felt dry he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. walk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough to talk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at all interested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope with Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly. \"Why don't we go see?\" he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned. \"Well, I won't go,\" Chuls replied. \"There's no reason to go. If Rikud \"Stop that,\" said the older man, mildly. Crifer hopped up and down. \"Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know what \"Stop that,\" repeated Chuls, his face reddening. \"Only if you'll go with me.\" Rikud was panting. Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some of them watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikud In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared his throat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. What would have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did things buzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it. What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing? This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it, though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the big garden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because he Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of the machinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gears spinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then he under his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm. Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were not casual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikud smashed everything in sight. Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open that door. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once, darkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone. Whimpering, he fled. All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer did not sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went to eat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and the \"It won't any more,\" Rikud said. \"What won't?\" Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. \"He broke the buzzer and no one can There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, \"I hate Rikud.\" Then everyone was saying it. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside with him and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would have had a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women's \"No,\" Rikud assured him. \"It won't.\" do to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery.\" Rikud ran. In the darkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were too weak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawing hurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voices and the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. he thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heard Crifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor. He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch it with his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet. it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear those behind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were not far away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted to\n\n<question>:\nWhat happens when Rikud grows violent when the others don't believe him.\n\n<options>:\nA They start grabbing at one another to deescalate the situation.\nB They all start to do it, because they've never seen violence before and don't understand it.\nC Confusion breaks out.\nD Everyone grows fearful and watches what Rikud does.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,856	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>:\nACCIDENTAL DEATH and is operated by a hand-picked crew of highly trained men in perfect BY PETER BAILY by a series of silly errors happening one after another in defiance of The \"I'll sign off with two thoughts, one depressing and one cheering. A single Chingsi wrecked our ship and our launch. What could a whole planetful of them do? probability? precipice it fingered and wrenched to be chancy. No matter how highly with ice crystals. All in a dervish dance around the hollow The most streamlined hummocks of snow. The sun glinted on black rock glazed by ice, chasms and ridges and vizor at the white waste and the to a frozen glare, penciled black shadow down the long furrow, and flashed at the furrow's end on a thing of metal and plastics, an artifact thrown down in the dead wilderness. the north face of Mount Everest. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from stiff jerks like a snake with its back broken or a clockwork toy running Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Astounding Science Fiction and they seem to work,\" it began. \"I've wiggled my toes with entire success. It's well on the cards that I'm all in one piece and not broken up at all, though I don't see how it well use it. That way even if I'm not and wonder what went wrong. Who wouldn't be shocked after luck like that? bomb. We got lined up between Alpha Centauri . \"On the other hand, a talent that manipulates chance events is bound \"That was some survey assignment. We astronomers really lived. developed it can't be surefire. The cum astronomical survey in the starship Whale . Whoever you are who finds and don't take any wooden nickels. how we happened to find Chang, hadn't I? That's what the natives called it. Walking, talking natives on a blue sky planet with 1.1 g gravity and a twenty per cent oxygen atmosphere at fifteen p.s.i. The odds against finding Chang on a six-sun survey on the first star jump ever must be up in the googols. We certainly were lucky. \"The Chang natives aren't very technical—haven't got space travel for instance. They're good astronomers, though. We were able to show them our sun, in their telescopes. In their way, they're a highly civilized people. Look more like cats than people, but they're people all right. If you doubt it, chew these facts over. in four weeks. When I say they, I mean a ten-man team of them. . \"Three, they've a great sense of humor. Ran rather to silly practical jokes, but still. Can't say I care for also learned chess and table tennis. \"But why go on? People who talk English, drink beer, like jokes and beat me at chess or table-tennis are people for my money, even if they look like tigers in trousers. \"It was funny the way they won all the time at table tennis. They certainly weren't so hot at it. Maybe that ten per cent extra gravity put us off our strokes. As for chess, Svendlov was our champion. He won sometimes. The rest of us seemed to lose whichever Chingsi we played. There again it wasn't so much that they were good. How could they be, seemed to make silly mistakes when we played them and that's fatal in chess. Of course it's a screwy situation, playing chess with something that grows its own fur coat, has yellow eyes an inch and a half long have kept your mind on the game? \"And don't think I fell victim to their feline charm. The children were pets, but you didn't feel like patting the adults on their big grinning heads. Personally I didn't like the one I knew best. He was called—well, we called him Charley, and he was the or whatever you like to call him, who to get the edge on you. All the up in the metal alleyway to the Whale's hurt me more than the tumble had. Yes, life and soul of the party, old was how high I am. Must be all of suppose same as escape twenty-four peaks down there! Like great knives. I expected though. Almost seem to be and tell the world hello. Hello, earth is that the suit ran out of oxygen, and I lost consciousness due to anoxia. I dreamed I switched on the radio, but I actually switched on the emergency tank, thank the Lord, up. back home, which should have dumped us between the orbits of Earth a day. We astronomers had to establish solar system. The crew had to find out exactly what went wrong. The physicists had to make mystic passes in front of meters and mutter about residual folds in stress-free space. Our task was easy, because we were The crew's job was also easy: they found what went wrong in less than half an hour. exact measurements which had to be translated into the somewhat abstruse co-ordinate system we used based on the topological order of mass-points in the galaxy. Then you cut a tape on Nothing was wrong with the engines. We'd hit the right button for. All we'd done was aim for you this and I'm just attached personnel with no space-flight tradition. In practical terms, one highly trained crew member had punched a wrong equally skilled had failed to notice this when reading back. A childish why we were out there so long. They were cross-checked about five times. I got sick so I climbed into a spacesuit all looking forward to seeing Earth again after four months subjective time away, except for Charley, who was the , the most powerful For, as of course you know, the \"The of course, the standard deuterium-fusion thing with direct conversion. interplanetary flight because you can ship. asteroids. In addition to the ion drive tons of mass at well over two thousand splash. By now you'll have divers down, but I doubt they'll salvage much you can use. have broken his heart to know that his lovely ship was getting the chopper. Or did he suspect another human error? up. Poor Cazamian was burnt to a crisp. Only thing that saved me was the spacesuit I was still wearing. I snapped the face plate down because I don't see how any of us could have survived. I think we're all dead. anyone with my five milliwatt suit transmitter but I'll keep trying. worn but still operational. I'm fine. \"The second thing I want to say is about the Chingsi, and here it is: watch out for them. Those jokers are dangerous. I'm not telling how because I've got a scientific reputation to watch. You'll have to figure it out for yourselves. Here are the clues: (1) The Chingsi talk and laugh but after all they aren't human. On an alien world a hundred light-years away, why shouldn't alien out there. (2) The Whale expedition did fine till it found Chang. Then it hit a seam of bad luck. Real stinking bad luck that went on and but one of us lost our lives. We couldn't even win a game of ping-pong. \"So what is luck, good or bad? Scientifically speaking, future chance events are by definition chance. They way. Scientific investigations into this have been inconclusive, but everyone knows that some people are lucky and others aren't. All we've got are hints and glimmers, the fumbling touch of a rudimentary talent. There's the evil eye legend and the Jonah, bad luck bringers. Superstition? Maybe but ask the insurance companies about accident prones. What's in a name? Call a man unlucky and you're superstitious. \"All the same, search the space-flight records, talk to the actuaries.\n\n<question>:\nWho are the Chingsi?\n\n<options>:\nA The Chingsi are the inhabitants of Alpha Centauri.\nB A race of cat-like humanoids from the planet Chang.\nC Chingsi is what the people of China call themselves in this story.\nD The Chingsi are genetically mutated cats.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,403	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 Ryzga made a savage, wholly futile effort to lift the weapon in his paralyzed hand. Then his eyes rolled upward, and abruptly he went limp and fell in a heap, like a mechanical doll whose motive power has Dark was the Ryzga mountain and forbidding 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. In the outer doorway, backed by his clansmen, stood Groz, gazing first in stupefaction at the fallen Ryzga, then with something like awe at Var. failed. beyond the conqueror of the Ryzgas?\" 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 in the light that poured from within. They felt the Watcher rouse, heard his footsteps, and finally saw him—a shrunken old man, white-haired, with a lined beardless face. The sight of him, more marred by age than anyone they had ever seen before, was disappointing. They had expected something more—an ancient giant, a tower of wisdom and strength. The Watcher was four hundred years old beside him even Groz, who had always seemed so ancient, was like a boy. had not meant to be. The old man grinned toothlessly. \"Never fear. Asleep or awake, I watch. 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 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.\" Neena returned his gaze without flinching mountain the Ryzgas sleep, as they chose to do when their world Ryzgas will come forth.\" \"Do you believe that?\" \"The Ryzgas also were men,\" said the Watcher. \"But they were such a race the Ryzgas, there was lust for power, and atrocious cruelty 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 that survived when the Ryzgas' world went down in flame and thunder. \"In the last generation of their power the Ryzgas knew by their science \"From the memories that the old Watchers have left here, and from the memories of dead men that still echo in the air, I have gathered a Var and Neena stared, unstirring, with wide vacant eyes, while the old the Ryzgas' might had been forged, eyes that stared white and half hope of new life on a world gutted and smoldering from the fulfilment of the Ryzgas' dream, without slogans other than a cry for blood. world, compared to that the Ryzgas made and will make again.\" Neena pressed her face against Var's shoulder, hiding her eyes. In her own limbs, his face was a numb mask. Dully he heard the old man say, \"You are tired. Best sleep until morning.\" 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 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 answered. \"Often I become a youth at morning, and relax into age as the 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, rested, your minds are clear. Do you still mean to go on to the Ryzga face was unsmiling. \"It is this. You, Var, can flee up the canyon to the That possibility had not occurred to them at all. Var and Neena looked and you again—that cannot be Ryzga mountain.\" \"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. only by its echo in Neena's \"You have taken life in your own hands,\" rasped the Watcher. \"Who does that needs no blessing and feels no curse. Go!\" cross the gorge more surely and swiftly. When Var and Neena set foot at Var and Neena turned. Far out in the sea of fog, on a dream bridge that they could not see, stood Groz. He shook the staff he carried. It was too far to discern the rage that must contort his features, but the thought he hurled at them was a soundless bellow: \"Young fools! I've caught you now!\" Behind Groz the figures of his followers loomed up as striding shadows. Neena's hand tightened on Var's. Var sent a thought of defiance: \"Go Neena reel against him until, summoning all his strength, he broke the Neena's face was deadly pale and her lips trembled, but her urgent At Var's thought command Neena froze instantly. \"Feel that!\" he mechanical servitors of the Ryzgas woke one by one and began to make 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 his other hand rested as for support against the frame of the doorway. That, and his movements when he came slowly down the ramp toward them, conveyed a queer suggestion of weariness or weakness, as if he were yet not wholly roused from his two millenia of slumber. But the Ryzga's manner and his mind radiated a consciousness of power, a pride and assurance of self that smote them like a numbing blow. With a new shock, Var realized that the Ryzga's thoughts were quite symbols. But there was no block. Apparently the Ryzga felt no need to close his mind in the presence of inferior creatures.... Var was staring in fascination at the Ryzga's face. It was a face formed yet it was lined by a deeply ingrained weariness, the signs of premature age—denied, overridden by the driving will they had sensed a moment earlier. It was a sick man's face. The Ryzga's final thought clicked into place: Between the Ryzga and the control panel a nightmare shape reared up seven feet tall, flapping black amorphous limbs and flashing red eyes and white fangs. The Ryzga recoiled, and the weapon in his hand came up. remained. As the Ryzga stretched out his hand again, Var acted. The Ryzga froze, teetering off balance and almost falling, as a numbing grip such evil that for an instant he almost faltered. But the Ryzga's efforts, as he strove to free himself from the neural hold, were as Var had guessed right. When Neena in her terror had flung a dream tale—the Ryzga had not recognized it as such, but had taken it for a world, Ryzga! In two thousand Behind the hate-filled eyes the cold brain tried to reason still. \"Barbarians...? Our party was wrong after all. After us the machine man\n\n<question>:\nHow is the Ryzga different from Var and Neena?\n\n<options>:\nA He ages backwards\nB He cannot spin dreams\nC He is immortal\nD He is a zombie\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,445	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>:\nGambling's would-be federal regulators--the National Gambling Impact Study Commission--went to Las Vegas this week to hold hearings. In today's dispatch, we learn how gambling's foes seek to demonize wagering as a pernicious tobaccolike vice. In yesterday's dispatch, gambling's foes learn the folly of having brought their anti-sin crusade to an adult Disneyland. Tuesday's overpowering show of force by the Nevada gambling aristocracy has had at least one audible effect on the National Gambling Impact Study Commission. Wednesday, even commission Chair Kay Coles James, a gambling skeptic, succumbs to the hideous Vegas euphemism: She begins referring to the \"gaming industry.\" The 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. If the comments of the pro-industry commissioners can be believed, the industry will happily endorse such a report. Gamblers don't quite accept the cigarette analogy--though commission member Bill Bible, a former chief of the Nevada Gaming Commission, did concede that gambling was like alcohol--but they're happy to sign on to the specific measures. The casino industry is even trying to get ahead of the commission. It has already established a (mostly) independent center to fund research into pathological gambling. I suspect that the industry will not only agree to the commission's recommendations but will become their strongest advocate. Casino owners will avidly lobby Congress and state legislatures to enact the recommendations into law. The antis can call gambling \"tobacco.\" They can call it \"vice.\" They can call it \"a big red balloon\" for all that the industry cares. As long as the commission just nibbles around the edges, the casino operators and state lotteries will be happy to indulge it. The pro-gambling folks will win credit for cooperating, without having to do anything that really hurts. The last national gambling commission was in the mid-1970s. If the gamblers play along with this commission's timid recommendations, they'll be safe for another 20 years. Talk about quick defeats: The first sign I see outside the MGM Grand ballroom all but declares that the National Gambling Impact Study Commission has already lost. The sign reads: \"National Gaming Impact Study Commission.\" In Las Vegas, the euphemizers reign. Once upon a time, the casino owners decided that \"gambling\" was too crude, too avaricious, to describe their fair business. So \"gambling\" disappeared in Las Vegas, and \"gaming\" has risen in its place. He who controls language controls ideas, and at today's commission hearing, it is perfectly clear who controls the language. Video slot machines crammed into convenience stores--perhaps the most pernicious form of legal gambling there is--are called \"retail gaming.\" People who own casinos are not \"casino owners,\" they are \"gaming visionaries.\" Pathological gamblers are \"problem gamers\"--as if they're having trouble mastering the rules of Monopoly. And the National Gambling Impact Study Commission is reborn as the National Gaming Impact Study Commission. The gambling industry did everything in its power to stop the establishment of this commission two years ago, but Congress and a fervent grassroots anti-gambling group eventually foisted it on the industry. The nine member blue-ribbon panel was charged with assessing the social and economic impact of gambling, and it will issue a final report to Congress and the president in June 1999. Even though the panel was carefully balanced between pro- and anti-gambling leaders, it was supposed to be Vegas' nemesis. The industry and Las Vegas' pro-gambling media quaked in anticipation of the onerous regulations and taxes the commission might recommend. \"My goodness, no politician can withstand their resources,\" Focus on the Family's James Dobson, the commission's leading gambling opponent, tells me. The industry's political clout has emasculated the commission, Dobson continues: \"Our report won't be acted on by the president or Congress. They are too heavily influenced by gambling money. Almost all the leaders of Congress are on the dole.\" It has also become obvious that the commission has too many pro-gambling members to produce a report that recommends taxes or other real penalties on the industry. 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. There are also a fair share of gleeful gambling regulators, bookmakers, and casino employees among the panels of expert witnesses the commission hears from. Critics who gripe about the perils of sports gambling and the evils of convenience store slot machines leaven the pro-gambling folks. Everyone, including the gambling industry shills, agrees that Internet gambling is evil and should be destroyed. Everyone agrees to this because no one in Las Vegas is making any money off Internet gambling. If they were, you can be sure they would explain why it's as American as nickel slots and scratch-off games.\n\n<question>:\nWho would the gambling industry least want to hear speak at their meeting?\n\n<options>:\nA a Nevada senator\nB a \"narrow\"\nC a Latina housekeeper\nD a union representative\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
699	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>:\nits contents when he was through and there was the question of time. was ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there were Where are you? Help!\" IV Hatcher'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, His assistant vibrated startlement. \"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 exasperation: \"If I could only 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 see !\" He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come. There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall. 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 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 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, 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 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 which he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of all probes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once. Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report: \"The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began to inspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his own Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back. \"Stop fidgeting,\" commanded the council leader abruptly. \"Hatcher, you 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 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 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.\" 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.\" narrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must do everything you can to establish communication with your subject.\" \"But the danger to the specimen—\" Hatcher protested automatically. \"—is no greater,\" said the councillor, \"than the danger to every one of us if we do not find allies Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily. It was just like the council to put the screws on 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 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 Hatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of the eating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the texture 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!\" The call was urgent second in command, very excited. \"What is it?\" Hatcher demanded. \"Wait....\" Hatcher was patient he knew his assistant well. Obviously something Hatcher was startled. \"Another one! And—is it a different species? Or merely a different sex?\" Hatcher studied him frostily his patience was not, after all, endless. \"No matter,\" he said at last. \"Bring the other one in.\" And then, in a completely different mood, \"We may need him badly. We 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 puppies dislodged from suck. \"Council's orders,\" he said. \"We've got to go into Stage Two of the project at once.\" III Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun, he had an inspiration. on some strange property of the light. At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two. He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening. For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm and 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 guesses of his \"common sense.\" When Jodrell Bank , hurtling faster check, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line of sight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimes mind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisoned oven. Crash-clang! The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through his but flaking out in chips that left a white powdery residue. At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting through it. Did he have an hour? But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest surprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly he could batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left of\n\n<question>:\nWhat does it mean to be a navigator?\n\n<options>:\nA To trust mathematics and instrument readings for the greater good of exploring the cosmos.\nB To have a quick wit sharp enough to parse the problem of becoming a captive.\nC To trust mathematics and instrument readings more than common sense.\nD To have a quick wit fast enough to escape the deadly trials of Hatcher’s Stage Two.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,896	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 the gentleman in question was a nut was beyond question. He was an institutionalized have finished.\" The oldster in the stained convalescent suit gave her a quick, shy smile and went back to his aimless smearing in the finger paints. other patients working at the long tables in the hospital's arts and crafts shop. Two muscular and bored attendants in spotless whites, lounged beside the locked door and chatted idly about the Dodgers' prospects for the pennant. seen, their tree-studded flanks making a pleasant setting for the mental institution. The crafts building was a good mile away from the main buildings of the hospital and the hills blocked the view of the austere complex of buildings that housed the main wards. The therapist strolled down the line of tables, pausing to give a word of advice here, and a suggestion there. She stopped behind a frowning, intense patient, rapidly shaping blobs of clay into odd-sized strips and forms. As he finished each piece, he carefully placed it into a hollow shell hemisphere of clay. \"And what are we making today, Mr. Funston?\" Miss Abercrombie asked. The flying fingers continued to whip out the bits of shaped clay as the patient ignored the question. He hunched closer to his table as if to Without looking up from his bench he muttered a reply. \"Atom bomb.\" A puzzled look crossed the therapist's face. \"Pardon me, Mr. Funston. I thought you said an 'atom bomb.'\" \"Did,\" Funston murmured. Safely behind the patient's back, Miss Abercrombie smiled ever so being moved back. A tall, blond patient with a flowing mustache, put one At the clay table, Funston feverishly fabricated the last odd-shaped bit then stood up. The patients lined up at the door, waiting for the walk back across the green hills to the main hospital. The attendants made a made short, precise notes on the day's work accomplished by each patient. At the clay table, she carefully lifted the top half of the clay ball As she drove out of the hospital grounds, Thaddeus Funston stood at the barred window of his locked ward and stared vacantly over the hills came and took his arm an hour later to lead him off to the patients' mess hall. The sun set, darkness fell over the stilled hospital grounds and the ward lights winked out at nine o'clock, leaving just a single light burning in each ward office. A quiet wind sighed over the still-warm up in bed and looked around the dark ward. The quiet breathing and occasional snores of thirty other sleeping patients filled the room. shadows on the walls of the suddenly-illuminated ward. screams of the frightened and demented patients. with a small, secret smile on his lips. Attendants and nurses scurried through the hospital, seeing how many had been injured in the from a half-dozen neighboring communities had gathered at the In Ward 4-C, Thaddeus Funston slept peacefully and happily. experts gathered in the tent erected on the hill overlooking the crater. \"How can an atom bomb go off in a nut house?\" \"It apparently was a very small bomb, colonel,\" one of the haggard AEC men offered timidly. \"Not over three kilotons.\" \"I don't care if it was the size of a peanut,\" Thurgood screamed. \"How did it get here?\" A military intelligence agent spoke up. \"If we knew, sir, we wouldn't be patients art work. It was a means of getting out of their systems, that led them to this hospital. They worked with oil and water paints and clay. If you can make an atomic bomb from vermillion pigments, then \"All I know is that you say this was a crafts building. O.K. So it was,\" Thurgood sighed. \"I also know that an atomic explosion at 3:02 this Thurgood slumped into a field chair and gazed tiredly up at the little doctor. Outside the tent, a small army of military men and AEC technicians moved every tiny scrap that might have been a part of the building at one time. expression. Colonel Thurgood, looking more like a patient every minute, sat on the every beat. \"It's ridiculous,\" Thurgood roared. \"We'll all be the laughingstocks of the world if this ever gets out. An atomic bomb made out of clay. You are all nuts. You're in the right place, but count me out.\" At his left, Miss Abercrombie cringed deeper into her chair at the broadside. Down both sides of the long table, psychiatrists, physicists, strategists and radiologists sat in various stages of nerve-shattered after the patients had departed the building, you looked again at \"And you say that, to the best of your knowledge,\" the physicist continued, \"there was nothing inside the ball but other pieces of clay.\" \"I'm positive that's all there was in it,\" Miss Abercrombie cried. There was a renewed buzz of conversation at the table and the senior AEC ever got wind of the fact, that for one, tiny fraction of a second, anyone of us here entertained the notion that a paranoidal idiot with the IQ of an ape could make an atomic bomb out of kid's modeling clay? \"They'd crucify us, that's what they'd do!\" At 8:30 that night, Thaddeus Funston, swathed in an Army officer's Two military policemen and a brace of staff psychiatrists sworn to The plane landed the next morning at the AEC's atomic testing grounds in the Nevada desert and two hours later, in a small hot, wooden shack miles up the barren desert wastelands, a cluster of scientists and military men huddled around a small wooden table. modeling clay. While the psychiatrists were taking the strait jacket off Thaddeus in the staff car outside, Colonel Thurgood spoke to the weary \"Now you're positive this is just about the same amount and the same hospital,\" she replied, \"and it's the same amount.\" Thurgood signaled to the doctors and they entered the shack with walked to the table and sat down. His fingers began working the damp clay, making first the hollow, half-round shell while the nation's top atomic scientists watched in fascination. His busy fingers flew through the clay, shaping odd, flat bits and clay The two psychiatrists went to Thaddeus' side as he put the upper lid of from the shack. There was a moment of hushed silence and then pandemonium burst. The experts converged on the clay ball, instruments blossoming from nowhere and cameras clicking. For two hours they studied and gently probed the mass of child's clay and photographed it from every angle. Then they left for the concrete observatory bunker, several miles down range where Thaddeus and the psychiatrists waited inside a ring of stony-faced military policemen. \"I told you this whole thing was asinine,\" Thurgood snarled as the scientific teams trooped into the bunker. the dim interior of the bunker and the pneumatically-operated door jacket, sat between his armed escorts in a small room in the Pentagon. In the conference room next door, the joint chiefs of staff were closeted with a gray-faced and bone-weary Colonel Thurgood and his across a half-opened transom into the room where Thaddeus Funston sat in a neatly-tied bundle. In the conference room, a red-faced, four-star general cast a chilling glance at the rumpled figure of Colonel Thurgood. said coldly, \"but this takes the cake. You come in here with an insane asylum inmate in a strait jacket and you have the colossal gall to sit In the next room, Thaddeus Funston stared out over the sweeping panorama THE END\n\n<question>:\nWhich group of people shares the most similarities with the group of patients in the mental institution, as they are described by the author?\n\n<options>:\nA A circus troupe\nB A disorderly mob\nC An artists' collective\nD A Kindergarten class\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
336	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 second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons from its still-intact jets. such a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rate as the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging back straight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped it tight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, brought out two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, with Saylor, a rival firm) get it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might get Saylor made no pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, the magnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. They came to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge and away. \"Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers! Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little blue sparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magnetic clamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, and five men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stood surveying the three who faced them. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chuckling condition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers. hadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed like us, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship. She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gave her enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used the direction-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylors from the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about the did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be able bitterly, \"the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make sure brothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship and ours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid has plenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by a long, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with them about convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have the asteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carry long-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—not without damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that.\" Bob looked at Queazy dismally. \"The old balance-wheel,\" he groaned at Starre. \"He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. All I know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In the ship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula. All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Holloway and Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused the like that!\" He snapped his fingers. \"No acceleration effects. This type of ship, necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move in any direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motion Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it was attached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. \"It just looks like a big yo-yo to me.\" \"A yo-yo?\" \"Yes, a yo-yo. That's all.\" She was belligerent. \"A yo-yo !\" Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, he got out of the chair so fast. \"Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!\" reinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. Bob Parker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo of cosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting into strange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached the end of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazy snapped his fingers. \"It'll work!\" His gray eyes showed satisfaction. \"Now, if only the Saylor brothers are where we calculated!\" sent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at ten miles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was the \"yo-yo.\" There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But, scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harm the oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought, for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal's little ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigid lengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like a fantastic spinning cannon ball. reached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short of completing its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding back up the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuver for the \"yo-yo\" could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It was ticklish work completely to nullify the \"yo-yo's\" speed. Bob used exactly the same method of catching the \"yo-yo\" on the blunt nose of the ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball in his glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almost exactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paid dividends, for the \"yo-yo\" came to rest snugly, ready to be released again. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylor brothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on. But by the time the \"yo-yo\" was flung at them again, this time with better calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroid between them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, for the asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towing it, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship came spinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point and again the \"yo-yo\" snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of the Saylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between the hand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due to the principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It had received a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, \"Attaboy, Bob! This time we'll knock 'em out of the sky!\" The \"yo-yo\" came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly. Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establish communication. \"Hades,\" remarked Bob coldly, \"here you come!\" He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it at zero. And the \"yo-yo\" went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of a doomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in size with a strangled yell. The \"yo-yo\" struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed in such a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not as heavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparkling precision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it was apparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier, their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space for\n\n<question>:\nWhat happens at the second confrontation with the Saylor brothers?\n\n<options>:\nA The yo-yo fails to hit the other ship, as it can't quite reach it.\nB The Saylor brothers call on the Interplanetary Commission for help.\nC The yo-yo worked as intended, hitting their ship with the first hit.\nD The yo-yo worked as intended after some maneuvering, damaging their ship.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
797	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nRetief gave them more of observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time beret from the clothes tree. \"I'm off now, Retief,\" he said. \"I hope \"That seems a modest enough hope,\" Retief said. \"I'll try to live up to it.\" \"I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division,\" Magnan fancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question the wisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for two weeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.\" Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. The \"Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on. \"I assume you jest, Retief,\" Magnan said sadly. \"I should expect even \"I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land,\" Retief said, Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous. \"Breaking and entering,\" Retief said. \"You may have something there. A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. \"What is it, Miss Furkle?\" \"This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,\" \"If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit,\" Retief said. Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle's A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousers of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket, sight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and held out his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, face Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair. \"What can I do for you?\" Retief said. \"No,\" Retief said. \"Have a cigar?\" He pushed a box across the desk. Retief.\" \"I've seen some of your furniture,\" Retief said. \"Beautiful work.\" crop is our big money crop,\" he said. \"We make enough to keep us going. But this year....\" \"Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for the Commercial—\" \"It sounds like I've been missing something,\" said Retief. \"I'll have Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, both \"This isn't drinking Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. \"Come \"Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief,\" Arapoulous said. He took a Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork, \"That's too bad,\" Retief said. \"I'd say this one tastes more like roast 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 \"Never did,\" Retief said. \"You say most of the children are born after \"I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight,\" Retief 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 \"On the whole,\" Retief said, \"I think I prefer the black. But the red specialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands. Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery you'd have thought I was trying to buy slaves.\" \"What kind of university do they have on d'Land?\" asked Retief. \"We're Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode the Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this place waiting....\" to Retief—\"not one of those kids is over eighteen.\" He hiccupped. The young fellow blinked at Retief. \"Oh, you know about it, huh?\" pressure. If I had my old platoon—\" He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. \"Had enough,\" he said. \"So Retief nodded. \"Might as well.\" \"Suit yourself,\" Retief said. \"Where's the baggage now?\" \"Not this time,\" Retief said. He watched the students, still emerging \"Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle?\" Retief \"Well!\" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows. \"I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!\" \"About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question,\" Retief said. \"But \"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business,\" Miss Furkle said. \"Mr. Magnan always—\" Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left the \"Thank you, ma'am,\" Retief said. \"I'm looking for information on a \"Come along.\" Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-lit \"There must be an error somewhere,\" Retief said. \"The Bolo model I want \"I sincerely hope not,\" Retief said. Retief waited. \"Ah ... are you there, Retief?\" tractors.\" \"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 \"See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors? 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?\" \"I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!\" \"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.\" \"Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have us Retief said. \"Any connection?\" \"Retief, this is unwarranted interference!\" \"Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Bogan representative.\" look here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!\" \"How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself.\" Retief rang \"I'll ask him if he has time.\" \"Great. Thanks.\" It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-faced man in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drab shirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression. \"What is it you wish?\" he barked. \"I understood in my discussions with the other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for these irritating conferences.\" \"Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business.\" Gulver looked at Retief with Retief said. \"Your people must be unusually interested in that region importance to see to.\" After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. \"I'd like to have a \"Loyalty to my Chief—\" \"Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the material I've asked for,\" Retief said. \"I'm taking full responsibility. Now scat.\" \"How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?\" Retief,\" he said. \"But have you got anything for me?\" Retief waved at the wine bottles. \"What do you know about Croanie?\" \"So?\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat can you conclude about Retief's character?\n\n<options>:\nA He is gullible and easily tricked.\nB He is firm but can be harsh.\nC He has a soft spot for few in his life.\nD He can greedy and demanding.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
9	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 chance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. The \"Well, Mr. O'Rielly?\" O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the old \"If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting,\" O'Rielly \"So a control reset itself in flight, hey?\" \"Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth!\" why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In a in pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But one officers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watch room. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it. By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probably Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailed mouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Rielly saw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands of either. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at which O'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! resetting the control.\" O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling her Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly music in his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layover 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. \"Oh, that little thing.\" Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Rielly sharply. \"Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again? O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted that 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 myself here.\" Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's shower door. \"Venus dames,\" O'Rielly said dreamily, \"don't boss anything, do they?\" Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant. with knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venus dames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small to pick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus ones \"Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funny notions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in an atom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys. \"No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guys stay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leave Venus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caught around a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everything at bargain basement prices.\" dreamily. \"But not a peek of any Venus dame.\" \"Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within ten foot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn't 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 O'Rielly's shower. 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 robed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snap lesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailed from his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacle ever told any Venus man what to do. The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than two steps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possibly blowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut the O'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from busting yanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk. \"There are rewards,\" the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness of outer space, \"for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and for her leaving her planet.\" of Venus and this thing can mean war!\" \"Yes! War in which people will actually die!\" As His Excellency paled at that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth at \"Presidents of Earth and Venus, please,\" the Old Woman stated evenly. \"Interplanetary emergency.\" Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonally efforts.\" Old Woman sighed through her teeth. \"Venus woman aboard this ship. Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.\" The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by a The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features, that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. \"Trillium! My own granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly,\" Mr. President roared at his \"Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged,\" His your official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?\" \"No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bring our cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will only stop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on your Venus manhood laying down the law. \"That's the way things have been on Venus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can't change it!\" \"I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during these the panel too. \"From now on I'm doing the deciding.\" \"Nonsense! You're only my wife!\" \"And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.\" \"Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet into another Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!\" \"Take him away, girls,\" Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse was Venus women had our own men in our power.\" \"Those crewmen there,\" Grandmamma President said, \"seem to be proof enough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth's tranquility.\" Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden. perfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have been conducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. Madame President of Venus, congratulations on your victory! \"Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted to said in sudden thought. \"If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, why did Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?\" much longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselves but didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizing to take over Venus, I guess.\" O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trillium \"But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.\" \"Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am. Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.\" \"So what?\" \"Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat caused the error in O'Rielly's controls?\n\n<options>:\nA A control malfunctioned and reset itself.\nB He missed something when they were preparing.\nC The controls weren't locked before take-off.\nD The Venus woman tampered with it.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,758	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 left the Earth with a wing and a prayer. Earth Instruments within the ship intercepted Machines compiled dictionaries and grammars and began translating the major languages. The history of the planet was tabulated as facts became available. the way to swing nearer Earth. For days the two within the ship listened and watched with little comment. They had to decide soon. \"We've got to make or break,\" said the first alien. \"You know what I'm in favor of,\" said the second. \"I can guess,\" said Ethaniel, each other—and invent better weapons.\" \"It's not what they've done,\" said Bal, the second alien. \"It's what they're going to do, with our help they may do just that.\" \"I may remind you that in two than a hundred light-years to their problems? They've had two world wars in one generation and that the third and final one in everything they do.\" \"It won't take much,\" said Ethaniel. \"The wrong diplomatic move, or a trigger-happy soldier have to be deliberate. A meteor shower could pass over and their clumsy instruments could interpret it as an all-out enemy attack.\" was such a planet as Earth.\" people?\" \"I'm doing it,\" said Bal. \"Just give them a little time and they to look at them.\" Bal rustled, flicking the screen intently. \"Very much like ourselves,\" he said at last. \"A bit shorter perhaps, and most certainly one thing they lack, and that's quite odd, they seem exactly like us. Is that what you wanted me to say?\" \"It is. The fact that they are an incomplete version of ourselves touches me. They actually seem defenseless, though I suppose we can do about it.\" \"There is. We can give them \"We can look things over.\" \"And then what? How much \"And how long can Earth last? ourselves by looking.\" They went much closer to Earth, not intending to commit themselves. For a day they circled the planet, avoiding radar detection, which for them was not difficult, testing, and sampling. \"In what way?\" by some sort of aircraft.\" find they also have missiles, upward. They either have or are near a primitive form of space did you find out at your end?\" were investigating their weapons.\" \"You must think something.\" \"I wish I knew what to think. There's so little time,\" Ethaniel said. \"Language isn't the difficulty. Our machines translate their languages easily and I've taken a cram course in two or three of them. But that's not and news bulletins. I should go down and live among them, read books, talk to scholars, work with them, play.\" \"You could do that and you'd really get to know them. But that takes time—and we don't have it.\" \"No. We can't help them,\" said Ethaniel. \"There is nothing we can do for them—but we have to try.\" \"Sure, I knew it before we before. We take the trouble to find out what a people are like and when we can't help them we feel bad. It's going to be that it.\" they met again. In the meantime the ship moved much closer to Earth. They no longer needed instruments to see it. The planet revolved outside the visionports. the oceans and much of the cold. And it will be cold.\" \"Yes. It's their winter.\" \"I did have an idea,\" said Bal. beings?\" worked. Today they have satellites. They are not primitives.\" \"I suppose you're right,\" said Bal. \"I did think we ought to take advantage of our physical differences.\" \"If we could I'd be all for it. But these people are rough and desperate. They wouldn't be fooled by anything that crude.\" \"All right,\" said Ethaniel. \"You take one side and I the other. We'll tell them bluntly what they'll have to do if they're going to survive, how they can keep their planet in one piece so they can live on it.\" \"That'll go over big. Advice is always popular.\" \"Can't help it. That's all we have time for.\" \"None. We leave the ship here communications, but don't unless \"They can't intercept the beams we use.\" \"They can't, and even if they did they wouldn't know what to do with our language. I want them to think that we don't need to talk things over.\" \"I get it. Makes us seem better than we are. They think we know exactly what we're doing even though we don't.\" \"If we're lucky they'll think that.\" the planet below. \"It's going to do the job.\" \"Yeah, but I was thinking of We'll be running straight into it. That won't help us any.\" \"I know, they don't like their helped. We can't wait until it's over.\" \"I'm aware of that,\" said Bal. religious in origin. That so?\" learn anything exact from radio and TV. Now it seems to be parties, and selling merchandise.\" didn't get as much of it as I ought to have. I was busy studying the people, and they're hard to pin down.\" \"I see. I was thinking there might be some way we could tie ourselves in with this holiday. Make it work for us.\" \"If there is I haven't thought and leave the ship up here with \"They can't touch it. No matter how they develop in the next hundred years they still won't be any way.\" \"It's myself I'm thinking \"I'll be with you. On the other side of the Earth.\" \"That's not very close. I'd like it better if there were someone in the ship to bring it down in a hurry if things get rough. They don't think much of each other. I don't imagine they'll like aliens any better.\" \"They may be unfriendly,\" Ethaniel acknowledged. Now he were cutting small green trees in the snow. \"I've thought of a trick.\" \"If it saves my neck I'm for it.\" \"I don't guarantee anything,\" the ship against the sun planet and light it up.\" \"They can't imagine that we'd light up an unmanned ship,\" said should occur to them they'll have no way of checking it. Also, they won't be eager to harm us with our ship shining down on them.\" \"That's thinking,\" said Bal, the ship over where they can see Earth will see it.\" Later, with the with light, Bal said: \"You know, I feel better about this. We may be just the help we need.\" \"It's not we who need help, but the people of Earth,\" said Ethaniel. \"See you in five days.\" With Earth. As soon as it was of the planet. And the spaceship circled Earth, unmanned, blazing and a man-made satellite came near of a star and brought near Earth to illuminate it. Never, or up from Earth and joined the orbit of the large ship. The two small craft slid inside the large them. In a short time the aliens met again. one day I noticed that the next day the officials were much more cooperative. If it worked for me I thought it might help you.\" \"It did. I don't know why, but agreement they made isn't the best but I think it will keep them from destroying themselves.\" \"It's as much as we can expect,\" said Ethaniel. \"They may and see how much they've learned.\" \"I'm not sure I want to,\" said Bal. \"Say, what's an angel?\" \"Why?\" \"When I went out walking people stopped to look. Some an angel.\" their paintings they had pictured him innumerable times. \"I don't think it hurt us that \"But you don't know what an \"No. I didn't have time to find out. Some creature of their folklore I suppose. You know, except for our wings they're very much like ourselves. Their legends are bound to resemble ours.\" \"Sure,\" said Bal. \"Anyway, peace on Earth.\" THE END\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the relationship between the two aliens?\n\n<options>:\nA The very strict power structure means that the second alien never has a say in the decisions that are made.\nB They are equal rank and similar opinions means decisions are made quickly.\nC They are nervous about overstepping the other's authority, meaning nothing ever gets done.\nD They are curious about different aspects of the culture and are hesitant for different reasons, but both want to help the humans.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,697	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>:\ntroops, just behind the men of Poitou. Sir Robert turned slightly in his the lion-hearted Richard of England— Sir Robert de Bouain twisted again in his saddle to look at the knight Sir Robert's lips formed a smile. \"They are not far off, Sir Gaeton. \"Like the jackals they are,\" said Sir Gaeton. \"They assail us from the rear, and they set up traps in our path ahead. Our spies tell us that 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?\" \"Both,\" said Sir Gaeton flatly. \"They fear us, else they would not dally to amass so fearsome a force. If, as our informers tell us, there are 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.\" \"Give them time. We must wait for their attack, sir knight. It were stop us. They will attack before we reach Jerusalem, fear not.\" \"We of Gascony fear no heathen Musselman,\" Sir Gaeton growled. \"It's hills. \"The sun is yet low, and already the heat is unbearable.\" Sir Robert heard his own laugh echo hollowly within his helmet. \"Perhaps 'twere better to be mad when the assault comes. Madmen fight better than men of cooler blood.\" He knew that the others were baking inside their Sir Gaeton looked at him with a smile that held both irony and respect. \"In truth, sir knight, it is apparent that you fear neither men nor Burgundy against King Richard—\" He gave a short, barking laugh. \"I fear no man,\" he went on, \"but if I had to fear one, it would be Richard of England.\" Sir Robert's voice came like a sword: steely, flat, cold, and sharp. \"My lord the King spoke in haste. He has reason to be bitter against Philip \"No, and with good cause. But he allowed his anger against Philip to color his judgment when he spoke harshly against the Duke of Burgundy. The Duke is no coward, and Richard Plantagenet well knows it. As I said, he spoke in haste.\" \"It was my duty.\" Sir Robert's voice was stubborn. \"Could we have permitted a quarrel to develop between the two finest knights and warleaders in Christendom at this crucial point? The desertion of Philip too?\" \"You did what must be done in honor,\" the Gascon conceded, \"but you have not gained the love of Richard by doing so.\" Sir Robert felt his jaw set firmly. \"My king knows I am loyal.\" Sir Gaeton said nothing more, but there was a look in his eyes that showed that he felt that Richard of England might even doubt the loyalty Sir Robert rode on in silence, feeling the movement of the horse beneath Sir Robert turned his horse to look. the sword against armor, like the sound of a thousand hammers against a thousand anvils. \"Stand fast! Stand fast! Hold them off!\" It was the voice of King Richard, sounding like a clarion over the din of battle. Sir Robert felt his horse move, as though it were urging him on toward the battle, but his hand held to the reins, keeping the great charger in check. The King had said \"Stand fast!\" and this was no time to disobey the orders of Richard. stopped moving. The voice of the Duke of Burgundy came to Sir Robert's ears. \"Stand fast. The King bids you all to stand fast,\" said the duke, his voice fading as he rode on up the column toward the knights of Poitou and the Knights Templars. The Master of the Hospitallers was speaking in a low, urgent voice to the King: \"My lord, we are pressed on by the enemy and in danger of eternal infamy. We are losing our horses, one after the other!\" \"Good Master,\" said Richard, \"it is you who must sustain their attack. No one can be everywhere at once.\" The Master of the Hospitallers nodded curtly and charged back into the fray. The King turned to Sir Baldwin de Carreo, who sat ahorse nearby, and we cannot afford to amass a rearward charge. To do so would be to fall directly into the hands of the Saracen.\" A voice very close to Sir Robert said: \"Richard is right. If we go to the aid of the Hospitallers, we will expose the column to a flank attack.\" It was Sir Gaeton. \"My lord the King,\" Sir Robert heard his voice say, \"is right in all but one thing. If we allow the Egyptians to take us from the rear, there 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 gallop would break the Egyptian line and give the Hospitallers breathing time. Are you with me?\" \"Against the orders of the King?\" \"The King cannot see everything! There are times when a man must use his own judgment! You said you were afraid of no man. Are you with me?\" After a moment's hesitation, Sir Gaeton couched his lance. \"I'm with you, sir knight! Live or die, I follow! Strike and strike hard!\" \"Forward then!\" Sir Robert heard himself shouting. \"Forward for St. George and for England!\" The Egyptians tried to dodge, as they saw, too late, the approach of the Christian knights. Sir Robert felt the shock against himself and his horse as the steel tip The Saracen, impaled on Sir Robert's lance, shot from the saddle as he saber, taking advantage of Sir Robert's sagging lance. There was nothing else to do but drop the lance and draw his heavy The Egyptian's curved sword clanged against Sir Robert's helm, setting Behind him, Sir Robert heard further cries of \"St. George and England!\" Sir Robert's own sword rose and fell, cutting and hacking at the enemy. Breathing heavily, Sir Robert sheathed his broadsword. Beside him, Sir Gaeton did the same, saying: \"It will be a few minutes before they can regroup, sir knight. We may have routed them completely.\" \"Aye. But King Richard will not approve of my breaking ranks and disobeying orders. I may win the battle and lose my head in the end.\" \"This is no time to worry about the future,\" said the Gascon. \"Rest for a moment and relax, that you may be the stronger later. Here—have an slightly farther than the others. Sir Robert's hand reached out and took There was a sudden clash of arms off to their left. Sir Robert dropped 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 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 Sir Robert lost all track of time. There was nothing to do but keep his own great broadsword moving, swinging like some gigantic metronome as he 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 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, for the second time, Sir Robert found himself with no one to fight. Sir Robert turned in his saddle to face the smiling king. \"My lord king, be assured that I would never forget my loyalty to my King Richard's gauntleted hand grasped his own. \"If it please God, I \"Why? Commercial not good enough?\" \"\n\n<question>:\nWhy did Sir Robert decide to disobey the king's orders?\n\n<options>:\nA It is the only way to get back at France\nB He is going to get chased out\nC He is trying to protect his fellow knights\nD He realizes following orders will mean his death\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
533	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 Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute, Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors originally. the kids!\" Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught his eye. Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets. Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the others forward. \"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back. There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them horrible in a travesty of manhood. The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung \"Follow the blobs,\" Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool to the radio would have let him keep in contact with the kids. But it was too late to go back. The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward into Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their own trail to confuse the pursuers. There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had a glimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarse faces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against the windshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul the steering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone. The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. The to help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry or the horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog. A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne. He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creature seemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off. Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forward against the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-foot shoulder. The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt. The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his nose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds after the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no further move, though it was still breathing. kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster on another before heading back. \"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!\" Barker shook his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing. \"I hope so,\" Gwayne told him. \"I want that thing to live—and you're detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign Barker nodded grimly. \"I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon been overcome by the aliens. primitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was its these creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by a little more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the ship cunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work. Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to find prevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had found terraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starships began filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conserve Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair to strip them of their world, but the first law was survival. But how could primitives do what these must have done? He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made of cemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfully laminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no human hand had been able to do for centuries. \"Beautiful primitive work,\" he muttered. Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. \"How's the captive coming?\" Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in. some kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned up \"Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?\" taut with strain. The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair on its head. It was the golden comet of a captain. \"He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them,\" Barker cut in quickly. \"I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk very Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seize on the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a little English, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend. curiously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipment spread out. By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes in silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. \"Is it Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs dropped down to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd of monsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost as tall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high. The kids of the exploring party.... Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers, this time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colony puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\" It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant her Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead of accept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.\" She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. \"Be fruitful,\" she whispered. \"Be fruitful and spawn and replenish an earth.\" \"No,\" he told her. \"Replenish the stars.\"\n\n<question>:\nHow did Gwayne subdue the alien leader?\n\n<options>:\nA He ran over it with the Jeep.\nB He wrestled it with his hands.\nC The leader surrendered.\nD He used a spear to injure it.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
751	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>:\nlargely by the length of time they were allowed to “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 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. “But, Dad,” Eddie wondered, “what could “They could study it,” his father explained. “At least, they could send it somewhere to be broken down and studied. Being a new isotope, the formula is of great value.” radioactive isotopes without a mighty important “Dinner’s ready,” Eddie’s mother called bother his father with any more questions. He asked if he could go over and visit with Teena be worth a try, at that. You never can tell his mother said, “but I guess it’s all right. Be where you might strike some radioactivity.” Teena answered his knock. Eddie apologized, following her inside. “Hello, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross said, but she looked around for Mr. Ross, but Teena’s “You’re never a pest, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross assured over it,” Teena’s mother said. “Oh, yes,” Eddie affirmed. “He was the one who ordered the isotope.” “What’s an isotope?” Teena asked. “I’m not sure I know, either,” Mrs. Ross said. “Maybe we could understand more of “Hi, Mom,” Eddie said. “Gotta hurry. Big radioisotope is, Eddie.” 36 “Well,” Eddie said slowly, “it’s not easy to explain, but I’ll try. You know how rare uranium is. There’s not nearly enough of it to “Aw, Mom—” “But, Mom—” 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. When carefully controlled, the radiation radioisotope. Much of his father’s work at Oceanview College was of a secret nature. Eddie had learned not to ask questions about “Out of control is right,” Teena said. it to. They have ways of controlling it so that only as much radiation builds up as they want. You can even hear the reactor hum as the radioactive “Boy, that sounds dangerous,” Teena said. “Well, they know just how to do it,” Eddie replied. “Aren’t the rays dangerous?” Mrs. Ross It took Eddie over an hour to sort out the “It takes a lot to stop radioactive atomic particles,” Eddie explained. “Especially the gamma rays. They’re the fastest and most dangerous, “Anything else, Mom?” he asked, returning scientists take certain elements which aren’t radioactive, but can be made radioactive, and shove small pieces of them into holes drilled “Isn’t that dangerous?” Teena asked. be doing Teena Ross a big favor. After all, she was only a girl. Eddie didn’t figure a girl would make a very good uranium prospecting partner, but most of the fellows he knew were will soak up radiation, just like a sponge soaks up water.” 40 “My, that’s interesting, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross said. “I’ve seen them do it,” Eddie said proudly, enough radiation, they pull it back out. They say it’s ‘cooked.’” “You mean it’s hot?” Teena asked. “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 said. “It’s like a sponge. Only instead of soaking up water, it soaks up radiation.” That’s how to handle it, Eddie thought. Don’t act anxious. Let Teena be anxious. 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 by cooking cobalt in an atomic reactor. Oh, that as more is learned about the ways to use 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, the kitchen. He felt triumphant about the even the mild isotopes are deadly if they’re not handled it carelessly. It was a new isotope—a secret isotope. His father hadn’t said whether it had been developed for curing things or for destroying things. But many radioisotopes could do either the kitchen. “Looks like Teena put you to used. Eddie assumed that anyone who would “She always does, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said, stoop to stealing isotopes more than likely would be interested in their ability to destroy “I know,” Teena spoke up quickly. “It’s out all right,” Teena’s mother said. it depended on how they were “Oh, we’re glad you did, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross “That’s right, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie agreed. “People should talk more and read more about Mrs. Ross offered. “I know how boys detest doing dishes.” “Oh, I don’t really mind, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie it. After all, this is an atomic age. We might as “Another prospecting trip?” Teena’s “What are we talking about, Eddie?” table, leaned over, and gave both Teena and “Eddie was telling us about atoms,” Teena’s “Not so good,” Teena’s father said tiredly. “It’s all right with me,” Teena agreed, on a new jigsaw puzzle Teena had received on a recent birthday. Then Eddie said good-by “What’s for dinner, Mom?” he asked. Then Eddie heard the sound of his father’s 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 “Dad,” Eddie said anxiously, “what—what’s “What’s wrong, Dad?” Eddie prompted. “What does that mean, Dad?” Eddie asked, “The radioisotope was stolen, Eddie,” his At the moment, Eddie didn’t pry for further information on the theft of the valuable radioactive isotope. His father had plenty on his mind, as it was. The main information was in the evening , which Eddie rushed out “It wasn’t your fault, was it, Dad?” Eddie that part of it. The important thing is that we recover that radioisotope. Not only is it of a secret nature, but it is also dangerously “But—but wasn’t it in a safe container?” think it was any kid, Eddie. Not by a long “Dad,” Eddie asked, looking up from the “But, Dad,” Eddie continued, “how would a radioisotope,” Eddie said. “Maybe they figured there was something else inside of that 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>:\nWhat is Eddie's response to Teena's mother's concern over the missing isotope?\n\n<options>:\nA He only causes more concern for her after explaining isotopes.\nB He acts equally as concerned as her.\nC He tries to comfort her by explaining isotopes.\nD He tries to demonstrate his knowledge of radioactivity to her.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,541	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nFight Club , a movie about a fictional organization of men who strip down and beat each other to pulp, has provoked more than its share of media hand-wringing, particularly diatribes about Hollywood's infatuation with violence and Faludi-esque ruminations about the emasculated American male. Fight Club , however, has not sparked an iota of interest in a real organization of men who strip down and beat each other to pulp: the Ultimate Fighting Championship. UFC's flameout from national sensation to total irrelevance is a tragedy of American sports, a cautionary tale of prudishness, heavy-handed politics, and cultural myopia. UFC began in 1993 as a locker-room fantasy. What would happen if a kickboxer fought a wrestler? A karate champion fought a sumo champion? Promoters built an octagonal chain-link cage, invited eight top martial artists, and set them loose in no-holds-barred, bare-knuckles fights. \"There are no rules!\" bragged an early press release. Contestants would fight till \"knockout, submission, doctor's intervention, or death.\" UFC allowed, even promoted, all notions of bad sportsmanship: kicking a man when he's down, hitting him in the groin, choking. Four-hundred-pound men were sent into the Octagon to maul guys half their size. Only biting and eye-gouging were forbidden. The gimmick entranced thousands of people (well, men). What happens when a 620-pound sumo champion fights a 200-pound kickboxer? Answer: The kickboxer knocks him silly in 35 seconds. They tuned in for bloodshed--\"the damage,\" as fans like to call it. UFC fights could be horrifying. Tank Abbott, an ill-tempered, 270-pound street fighter, knocks out hapless opponent John Matua in 15 seconds. Then, before the ref can intervene, Abbott belts the unconscious Matua in the head, sending him into a fit, limbs quivering uncontrollably, blood spurting from his mouth. Abbott, naturally, became a cult hero and won a guest spot on Friends . (Matua walked out of the ring.) Soon, UFC was selling out huge arenas and drawing 300,000 pay-per-view subscribers for its quarterly competitions. But a subtle sport was emerging from the gimmicks and carnage. My passion for ultimate fighting (which is also called \"extreme\" or \"no-holds-barred\" fighting) began when I saw the finals of UFC IV. Royce Gracie, a 180-pound Brazilian jujitsu specialist, was matched against a 275-pound beast named Dan Severn, one of the top heavyweight wrestlers in the world and a national champion many times over. In 30 seconds, Severn had grabbed Gracie, flung him to the canvas, and mounted him. For the next 15 minutes, Severn pummeled and elbowed and head-butted the smaller man. Gracie's face grew drawn, and he squirmed wildly to avoid Severn's bombardment. Then, all of sudden, Gracie, still lying on his back, saw an opening, wrapped his arms and legs around Severn like a python and choked the giant into submission. UFC's caged matches revolutionized the idea of fighting. Nursed on boxing and Hollywood, Americans imagine fights as choreography, a dance of elegant combinations, roundhouse kicks, clean knockouts. The UFC punctured this. Boxers floundered. Experts in striking martial arts such as karate and tae kwon do, who fancied themselves the world's greatest fighters, found themselves pretzeled by jujitsu masters, who pulled them to the ground and slowly choked or leg-locked them. \"UFC immediately debunked a lot of myths of fighting, of boxing, karate, kung fu. It showed the reality of what works in an actual fight,\" says Dave Meltzer, editor of Wrestling Observer . Instead of being carnivals of gore, UFC fights looked strangely like ... sex. Almost all fights ended on the ground, one man mounting the other in missionary position, the pair of them wiggling mysteriously along the canvas for five, 10, even 30 minutes. There were few spectacular knockouts. The referee--yes, there was always a referee--stopped many bouts, and in most others, fighters \"tapped out,\" surrendering to mild-looking but agonizing chokes and joint locks. It was not barbarism. It was science. The UFC spawned a new breed of \"mixed martial artists.\" World-class wrestlers learned to kickbox. Champion kickboxers learned to grapple. (The karate experts learned to stay home.) They became, without doubt, the best fighters in the world. (Click for more about the fighters.) Mike Tyson wouldn't last 30 seconds in an ultimate fighting match. When Olympic gold medal wrestler Kevin Jackson came to the UFC, a fighter named Frank Shamrock KO'd him with a submission hold in 16 seconds. Ultimate fighting schools began sprouting up all over the country, replacing the stylized gestures of the Eastern martial arts with techniques that actually work. UFC fell victim to cultural determinism about what a fight is. In countries such as Brazil and Japan, where no-holds-barred fighting has a long history, it is popular and uncontroversial. But Americans adhere to the Marquis of Queensbury rules. A fight consists of an exchange of upper-body blows that halts when one fighter falls. Any blood sport can be barbaric, whether it's boxing or wrestling or ultimate fighting. It is impossible to draw a bright line between ultimate fighting and boxing. If anything, ultimate fighting is safer and less cruel than America's blood sport. For example, critics pilloried ultimate fighting because competitors fought with bare knuckles: To a nation accustomed to boxing gloves, this seemed revolting, an invitation to brain damage. But it's just the reverse: The purpose of boxing gloves is not to cushion the head but to shield the knuckles. Without gloves, a boxer would break his hands after a couple of punches to the skull. That's why ultimate fighters won't throw multiple skull punches. As a result, they avoid the concussive head wounds that kill boxers--and the long-term neurological damage that cripples them. Similarly, the chain-link fence surrounding the octagon looks grotesque. Critics have demanded that UFC install ropes instead. But ropes are a major cause of death and injury in boxing: Fighters hyperextend their necks when they are punched against the ropes, because nothing stops their heads from snapping back. The chain-link fence prevents hyperextension. and 2) the same cable outfits carried boxing matches, R and NC-17 movies, and professional wrestling shows far more violent than UFC. The UFC's \"addressable audience\"--the potential number of PPV subscribers--shrank from 35 million at its peak to 7.5 million today. \"Sports fans want to grow with the sport,\" says former UFC fighter David Beneteau. \"They want to recognize the athletes. They want to see the same fighters come back. When you compare UFC now to what it was, the fighters are not the same, the rules are not the same. The fans have no story to follow.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhen you compare UFC now to what it was, what distinct differences emerge?\n\n<options>:\nA The current UFC is more similar to Fight Club.\nB Before, there was a clear national vision for UFC; currently, fans lack a definitive notion of the nature of the UFC as an American sport since it has been condemned to an underground existence.\nC The early UFC was more similar to Fight Club.\nD There are different fighters but the same lack of rules.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,528	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 looked at the planet a long time and murmured, \"Venus. Pohtah.\" That next week, I transported all of the volplas out to the oak woods. There were a hundred and seven men, women and children. With no design maintained, was a cosmic one—till I learned the Cosmos has a really nasty sense of humor! There were three of them. Dozens of limp little mutants that would have sent an academic zoologist into hysterics lay there in the metabolic accelerator. But there were three of bound. The afternoon my family returned home, I had a crew of workmen out tearing down the animal rooms and lab building. The caretakers had anesthetized all the experimental mutants, and the metabolic accelerator and other lab equipment was being dismantled. I wanted nothing around that might connect the sudden appearance of the volplas I heard my daughter's running feet in the animal rooms and her volplas only a few more weeks to learn their means of survival and develop an embryonic culture of their own. Then they could leave my \"Daddy, I've tried and tried and I just can't turn this old key tight ranch and the fun would be on. \"Well, Dad-dee, I can't!\" \"What?\" \"You can't turn this old key tightly enough.\" Volplas at last. Three of them. Yet I had always been so sure I could create them that I had been calling them volplas for ten years. No, twelve. I glanced across the animal room to where old Nijinsky thrust his graying head from a cage. I had called them volplas since the day old Nijinsky's elongated arms and his cousin's lateral skin folds had given me the idea of a flying mutant. When Nijinsky saw me looking at him, he started a little tarantella about his cage. I smiled with nostalgia when the fifth fingers of his \"Daddy?\" \"Yes?\" ?\" she is beautiful.\" 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 and ridiculously short arms, stared at her with simian, canine or withdrew the intravenous needles from my first volplas. I carried their limp little forms out to a mattress in the lab, two girls and a boy. The accelerator had forced them almost to adulthood in less than a month. It would be several hours before they would begin to move, to learn to feed and play, perhaps to learn to fly. Meanwhile, it was clear that here was no war of dominant mutations. Modulating alleles had smoothed the freakish into a beautiful pattern. These were no monsters blasted by the dosage of radiation into crippled structures. They were lovely, perfect little creatures. \"Lunch, dear.\" \"But you love me just the same.\" the ketchup and said, \"I've reached the dangerous age.\" \"Oh, good heavens!\" the dangerous age. And, lady, I'm going to have fun.\" said, \"But you're the only one I'm dangerous about.\" 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!\" pool. The cool sound of the dive sent the girl scurrying for her suit. \"Is that any reason for wearing clothes? Look at him. He's a young sooner than already.\" \"This place is going to hell,\" I complained. \"The old man isn't allowed \"Say, what goes with you? You've been grinning like a happy ape ever since you came out of the lab.\" \"I told you—\" \"Oh, not that again! You were dangerous at any age.\" I'm going to have a new kind of fun.\" grimness on her lips. \"It's a joke,\" I assured her. \"I'm going to play a tremendous joke on the whole world. I've only had the feeling once before in a small way, but I've always....\" She twisted my ear and narrowed her eyes even more. \"Like?\" \"Well, when my old man was pumping his first fortune out of some oil you have prepared for them.\" She let go of my ear. \"Is that the kind of fun you're going to have?\" \"Yep.\" eccentric ?\" I grinned. \"Forgive me if I eat and run, dear. Something in the lab can't wait.\" years, a long shift from the garbage-dump rats I had started with. But my first volplas were shockingly humanoid. They were also much faster than had been their predecessors in organizing their nervous activity after the slumbrous explosion of his arms out and tried to tease the spars open. They were not new. The spars had been common to the basic colony for years and were the result of serial mutations effecting those greatly elongated fifth fingers the elbow. Powerful wrist muscles could snap it outward and forward. Suddenly, as I teased the male volpla, this happened. decidedly amorous. portended was brought home to me with a shock. Cloud Nine and he wants to celebrate.\" wonderful. Success on success!\" dreamed. I would invent a euphonious set of words to match the Basic white men enter these hills. When they were able to take care of themselves, I would turn them loose. There would be volpla colonies all up and down the Coast before anyone suspected. One day, somebody would see a volpla. The newspapers would laugh. and ask, \"Where have these aliens come from?\" The government would reluctantly admit the facts. Linguists would observe at close quarters and learn the simple volpla language. Then would come the legends. think, are the funniest. \"What? Sure. Certainly.\" \"What broadcast?\" \"Rocket?\" contact today. Thinks he's Zeus.\" Some joker from Cal Tech was explaining diagrams of a multi-stage to check on.\" himself explaining that when he pressed the button before him, the close and, five minutes later, the ship would fire itself. ?\" 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 map behind him. \"From this position, the telemeter known as Rocket Charlie will be broadcasting scientific data for several months. But now, ladies and I heard my boy whisper, \"Uncle Guy, this is the biggest!\" it's always been pictured. A mechanical voice cut in. once. I used the metabolic accelerator to cut the volplas' gestation down to I had luck right off. Quite by accident, the majority of the early infants were females, which sped things up considerably. By the next spring, I had a colony of over a hundred volplas and I shut down the accelerator. From now on, they could have babies in their own way. My wife and the kids went down to Santa Barbara for a week and I took the opportunity to slip the oldest of the males and his two females out of the lab. I put them in the jeep beside me and drove to a secluded little valley playful curiosity about the world had been abandoned momentarily and he so that I could not get near. Suddenly he laughed with a shrill little I laughed out loud with anticipation. Wait till the first pair of these Chronicle motored out into the hills to witness this! 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 I watched them affectionately and wondered about the advisability of leaving them out here. Well, it had to be done sometime. Nothing I could tell them about surviving would help them as much as a little \"Chances are they won't stay long. Keep your eye on the tree in case He ran to a nearby oak and clambered aloft. Presently he launched gleeful and greasily amorous during the meal. his wonder. \"You say we came from there?\" \"That's right.\" \"Which star?\" language, Pohtah.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat does the narrator consider an imminent fun game?\n\n<options>:\nA Scattering young black-snakes inside people's homes.\nB Teaching nonhumans a new language.\nC Watching people walk into a trap.\nD Releasing mutants into the world.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
716	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. they displayed a libertarian attitude toward economic rights, tending to throw out legislation aimed at regulating industry and protecting workers on the grounds that people had a constitutional right to enter into contracts and to use their own property as they saw fit. Holmes, Brandeis, and their disciples consistently supported state intervention in economic affairs--the passage of health and safety regulations, the protection of unions, the imposition of taxes, and so on. The post-New Deal liberals whom Fiss associates with the value of equality are their heirs. The heirs of the19 th -century classical liberals are Jack Kemp and Newt Gingrich. Fiss' two \"liberalisms\" are, in fact, almost entirely different political philosophies. Hand, Holmes, and Brandeis based their First Amendment opinions not on some putative right to individual self-expression (an idea Holmes referred to as \"the right of the donkey to drool\") but on a democratic need for full and open political debate. First Amendment law since their time has performed its balancing acts on precisely that social value--the very value Fiss now proposes we need to insert into First Amendment jurisprudence. We don't need to insert it, because it was there from the start. Why does Fiss portray the history of First Amendment jurisprudence in this perverted way? Because he wants to line up his own free-speech argument within the conventional academic view that our problems are mostly the consequences of an antiquated and discreditable ideology of liberal individualism, and that they can mostly be solved by adopting a social-constructionist, or communitarian, or \"intersubjective\" view of human nature instead. The merits of liberal individualism vs. communitarianism can await another occasion to be debated. For since the law governing the freedom of speech does not emerge out of libertarianism, the matter does not boil down to replacing an obsolete belief in \"self-expression\" with a more up-to-date belief in \"robust debate,\" as Fiss would like to think it does. What it boils down to is whether we need to replace the Hand-Holmes-Brandeis way of maximizing the benefits of free speech in a democratic society, which tries to push the state as far out of the picture as possible, with a different way, which tries to get the state farther into the picture. Still, that discussion, like his discussions of the other issues, rests on a claim long associated with the left--the claim, in a phrase, that the minority is really the majority. In the case of speech, Fiss appears to believe that the reason the American public is less enlightened than he would wish it to be concerning matters such as feminism, the rights of homosexuals, and regulation of industry is that people are denied access to the opinions and information that would enlighten them. The public is denied this access because the state, in thrall to the ideology of individualism, refuses either to interfere with speech bullies--such as pornographers--who \"silence\" women, or to subsidize the speech of the unorthodox, such as Robert Mapplethorpe. Fiss' analysis of the Mapplethorpe case offers a good example of the perils of his interventionist approach. Arts policy is, unquestionably, a mess. The solution usually proposed is divorce: Either get the state out of the business altogether or invent some ironclad process for distributing the money using strictly artistic criteria. Fiss rejects both solutions he wants the criteria to be political. He thinks the NEA should subsidize art that will enhance the \"robustness\" of the debate and should therefore prefer unorthodox art--though only, of course, if it represents a viewpoint the endowment considers, by virtue of social need and a prior history of exclusion, worthy of its megaphone. (No Nazi art, in other words.)\n\n<question>:\nWhich groups does Fiss claim his book is advocating for?\n\n<options>:\nA women, gays, victims of war crimes , the poor, and people who are critical of market capitalism\nB women, gays, victims of racial-hate speech, the rich, and people who are critical of market capitalism.\nC women, gays, victims of racial-hate speech, the poor, and those who are critical of market capitalism\nD women, gays, victims of racial-hate speech, the poor, and people who are critical of communism.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
289	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>:\nRevolt was brewing on Venus, led by the they come back.\" just like us—\" \"Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don't even look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them.\" \"Acclimation,\" Lowry said scientifically. \"They had to acclimate themselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough.\" Venusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards from the Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashioned They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that we know Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry underground group that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive the native Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, that After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—\" The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallic voice rasped: \"Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instruments reports a spy ray focused on the main lock!\" Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back and stared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sure enough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. He snatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it. \"Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party!\" But even while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenly Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The five others in the room looked apprehensive. \"You see?\" Svan repeated. \"From head. \"Svan, I'm afraid,\" she said. \"Who are we to decide if this is a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will be trouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood.\" Svan laughed harshly. \" don't think so. You heard them. We are not human any more. The officer said it.\" agreed. \"Svan, what must we do?\" Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. \"One moment. Ingra, do you still convinced by Svan. \"And the rest of us? Does any of us object?\" Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture of \"Good,\" said Svan. \"Then we must act. The Council has told us that we Earth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must not return.\" Svan nodded. \"No. They will leave. But they will never get back to Earth.\" \"Never get back to Earth?\" the old man gasped. \"Has the Council Svan shrugged. \"The Council did not know what we would face. The Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at his surface of the globe with a pallid finger—\"to do nothing for forty No answer. Svan jerked his head. \"Good,\" he said. \"Ingra, bring me that left. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidly \"This is the plan,\" he said. \"We will go, all six of us, in my ground car, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole city The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with the guards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough, after all dark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel away from the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed.\" There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still that uncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: \"Look at the slips!\" Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over, striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing.... up now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosen A traitor! his subconscious whispered. Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was a of a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision. The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along the main street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed except \"Good,\" said Svan, observing them. \"The delegation is still here. We They all are of them understands what this means. They're afraid. brakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on them Svan spoke up. \"We want to look at the Earth-ship,\" he said. He opened Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. \"It He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan was lay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan had Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally. Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save the petrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously, jungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would be Svan strode back to the car. \"Hurry up,\" he gasped to the girl. \"Now Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer. of the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness. \"Can't see a thing,\" he complained to the Exec, steadily writing away at the computer's table. \"Look—are those lights over there?\" The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. \"Probably the guards. Of course, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party.\" something happens to the delegation?\" \"Then we're in the soup,\" the Exec said philosophically. \"I told you the natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for the last three hundred years.\" guard around us. The administration is co-operating every way they know how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's this secret group they call the Council.\" \"And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it?\" the Exec retorted. \"They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's gone Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned the said. \"They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—we were wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?\" Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. \"We must circle back Svan, listening, thought: not be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. If they must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve a Aloud, he said, \"You understand. If I get through, I will return to the the bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember, you are in no danger from the guards.\" From the guards , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they would Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently counting off the seconds. \"Go ahead,\" he ordered. \"I will wait here.\" \"Svan.\" The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reached Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean? its own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circling Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. \"Svan! They're coming! They found the guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan, for you. We must flee!\" \"Amazing,\" the surgeon said dryly. \"Well, they won't do any bombing Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.\n\n<question>:\nHow do Svan and his five fellow insurgents find out that the people of Earth no longer think of Venusians as human?\n\n<options>:\nA They are informed by fellow Venusian rebels, who themselves heard from the council.\nB They already know. Racism and prejudice runs rampant in all Venusian and Earth towns.\nC They intercept a galactic transmission, which explains it all.\nD They use a spy ray, which allows hem to listen in on a conversation happening on an official\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
2	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>:\nof space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course. In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of the timepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Its Gubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody remember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turned up at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generations before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them back. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see him through decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards. mini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomy beyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and made a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. There wasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic to keep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. He about it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which was typical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact, Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North America who still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia against having his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould his eyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses. That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, Hans Girard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convinced Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, \"Any more lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced tea and tequila. He said, \"Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one's Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snap security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food, clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the \"But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for....\" Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that, seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break off the conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spoken to the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well be \"Now we are getting to matters.\" Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement. Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as his Gubelin blinked at him. Gubelin grunted bitterly. \"Unfortunately, our present-day sailor can't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'd our present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?\" The other chuckled again. \"It is simply a matter of finding more modern methods, my dear chap.\" of twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn't been a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have his name pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualifications were such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation in unemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent of all the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through the quite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he who denied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. The works. But nothing but the best. attached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided. A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. In needed. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations, titles. Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his credit card was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to the auto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to the wouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pond was as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years. A voice said gently, \"If the quarters are satisfactory, please present your credit card within ten minutes.\" Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the most swank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever size the guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it to For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take it easy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollars around in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias. The auto-elevator murmured politely, \"Yes, sir, the Kudos Room.\" At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused a There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting an air of easy sophistication, \"Slivovitz Sour.\" \"Yes, sir.\" The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticed they had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment. He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when the To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. None Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, \"Yeah ... sure.\" \"Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?\" \"Sure.\" He pointed at the lapel pin. \"You can't wear one unless you Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. \"Call me Si,\" he said. \"Everybody calls me Si.\" \"Si,\" Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anything like this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of the current sex symbols, but never in person. \"Call me Si,\" he said again. \"I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking to if they say Seymour.\" \"I cried when they gave you that antique watch,\" she said, her tone such that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to having met him. bored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work under Gubelin?\" she said. \"You just call him So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying to \"Si,\" Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist of the hand indicating their need for two more of the same. \"How come you know so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interested and everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'd say I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about.\" Si chuckled. \"A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I was never much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interested ever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. \"Old Gubelin\n\n<question>:\nWhat makes Gubelin an outlier in the present day?\n\n<options>:\nA He is much older than the rest of the population.\nB He refuses new operations that could improve his health.\nC His mind is still active, and he values hard work.\nD He still wears glasses and value objects like the gold watch given to Si.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
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>:\nKrugman's Life of Brian Where it all started: Paul Krugman's \"The Legend of Arthur.\" Letter from John Cassidy Paul 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. 1) Krugman claims that my opening sentence--\"In a way, Bill Gates's current troubles with the Justice Department grew out of an economics seminar that took place thirteen years ago, at Harvard's John F. Kennedy School of Government\"--is \"pure fiction.\" Perhaps so, but in that case somebody should tell this to Joel Klein, the assistant attorney general in charge of the antitrust division. When I interviewed Klein for my piece about the Microsoft case, he singled out Brian Arthur as the economist who has most influenced his thinking about the way in which high-technology markets operate. It was Klein's words, not those of Arthur, that prompted me to use Arthur in the lead of the story. 2) Krugman wrote: \"Cassidy's article tells the story of how Stanford Professor Brian Arthur came up with the idea of increasing returns.\" I wrote no such thing, and Arthur has never, to my knowledge, claimed any such thing. The notion of increasing returns has been around since Adam Smith, and it was written about at length by Alfred Marshall in 1890. What I did say in my article was that increasing returns was largely ignored by mainstream economists for much of the postwar era, a claim that simply isn't controversial. (As Krugman notes, one reason for this was technical, not ideological. Allowing for the possibility of increasing returns tends to rob economic models of two properties that economists cherish: simplicity and determinism. As long ago as 1939, Sir John Hicks, one of the founders of modern economics, noted that increasing returns, if tolerated, could lead to the \"wreckage\" of a large part of economic theory.) 3) Pace Krugman, I also did not claim that Arthur bears principal responsibility for the rediscovery of increasing returns by economists in the 1970s and 1980s. As Krugman notes, several scholars (himself included) who were working in the fields of game theory and international trade published articles incorporating increasing returns before Arthur did. My claim was simply that Arthur applied increasing returns to high-technology markets, and that his work influenced how other economists and government officials think about these markets. Krugman apart, virtually every economist I have spoken to, including Daniel Rubinfeld, a former Berkeley professor who is now the chief economist at the Justice Department's antitrust division, told me this was the case. (Rubinfeld also mentioned several other economists who did influential work, and I cited three of them in the article.) --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: I leave it for others to decide whether I was too gullible in writing Complexity . For the record, however, I would like to inject a few facts into Krugman's story, which he summarizes nicely in the final paragraph: When Waldrop's book came out, I wrote him as politely as I could, asking exactly how he had managed to come up with his version of events. He did, to his credit, write back. He explained that while he had become aware of some other people working on increasing returns, trying to put them in would have pulled his story line out of shape. ... So what we really learn from the legend of Arthur is that some journalists like a good story too much to find out whether it is really true. Now, I will admit to many sins, not the least of them being a profound ignorance of graduate-level economics 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 --M. Mitchell Waldrop Washington Paul Krugman replies to M. Mitchell Waldrop: 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. --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>:\nWho does John Cassidy refer to as the “Santa Fe professor”?\n\n<options>:\nA Joel Klein\nB Brian Arthur\nC Daniel Rubinfeld\nD Paul Krugman\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
868	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 Gift From Earth on Earth.\" \"And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth has made us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The only habitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the least nor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.\" memory. \"We know the history of conquest all too well. Our method causes more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and more sure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job is finished, we can repair the dislocations.\" but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zur come and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, the By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen, that ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it it is their only means of transport.\" Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secret about the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the way hence these left much to be desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident. The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world of Zur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of all tried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there is always an \"anti\" faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowed happily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too. practically acrawl with Earthmen. Immediately, the Earthmen established what they called \"corporations\"—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. The object of the visit was trade. wonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmen \"The Earthmen don't cook as we do,\" she explained patiently. \"There is buying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthman \"The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are so sorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend to It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that their production of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two per cent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stoves greatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead but Earth. newfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because for everything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade. What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. They destroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was. \"Note,\" Koltan announced in a shaky voice, \"that the Earthmen undermine our business,\" and he read off the figures. \"Perhaps,\" said Zotul, \"it is a good thing also, as you said before, and will result in something even better for us.\" \"They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferior sells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of their eyes, we can be ruined.\" \"My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottom of Earth. Think of the telegraph and the newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth. The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of these advertisements of the Earthmen. rest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen had procured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of which at a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except the brothers Masur. radio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with the natural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—with commercials. Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time or Earthmen are taking care of that.\" \"It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such as Zotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to calling \"Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur,\" boomed the Earthman, clapping is the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, and all because of new things coming from Earth.\" to me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has, we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always to do right by the customer.\" \"Divinity witness,\" Zorin said, \"that we ask only compensation for damages.\" 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 that you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not to make profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout the Galaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working out the full program takes time.\" He chuckled deeply. \"We of Earth have a saying about one of our but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with the motto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'\" The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, it was no more than fair to pay transportation. \"It may seem high,\" said the Earthman, \"but remember that Earth is merchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, considering the cost of operating an interstellar spaceship.\" \"You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer you credit!\" \"What is that?\" asked Zotul skeptically. \"It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of the involutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles that might have had a discouraging effect. On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting. pointed this out politely. \"Interest,\" Broderick explained. \"A mere fifteen per cent. After all, you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to be paid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight. This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble.\" plant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.\" \"I have a surprise for you,\" smiled Broderick. \"Here is a contract. You \"We will equip your plant,\" beamed Broderick. \"It will require only a quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrial company.\" These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears. The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but the Earthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. generators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood of electrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason, But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option. Earthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own because it was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth's unswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded. were a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and sold contracts to continue operating.\" \"So you can't pay,\" he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. He making it necessary for us to approach you through the courts.\" \"I don't know what you mean,\" said Zotul. \"If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everything attached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they are the Earthman. \"I don't understand. The Earthmen....\" Zotul paused, coloring. \"We are \"What do you mean?\" \"Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We have bought you out.\" \"Our government....\" not pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we took them over, just as we are taking you over.\" \"You mean,\" exclaimed Zotul, aghast, \"that you Earthmen own everything\n\n<question>:\nWhat is ironic about Earth's customer service policy?\n\n<options>:\nA The customer service policy was drafted by Zurians, not Earthmen\nB The customer service policy offers no ideal alternatives for non-Earthmen\nC Earthly corporations have no real solutions for dealing with problems presented by their customers\nD What is 'right' for the customer always benefits the corporation, directly or indirectly\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,860	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 a ship is working perfectly and is operated by a hand-picked crew of highly trained men in perfect condition, how often is it wrecked is the one you don't know is loaded. one after another in defiance of The single Chingsi wrecked our ship and planetful of them do? precipice it fingered and wrenched to be chancy. No matter how highly developed it can't be surefire. The proof is that I've survived to tell the tale.\" Hennessy began to inch his way up the north face of Mount Everest. THE END Transcriber's Note: walked, nothing talked. But the success. It's well on the cards that out. I'm fine where I am. I'll just lie here for a while and relax, and get some of the story on tape. This suit's got a built-in recorder, I might as well use it. That way even if I'm not as well as I feel, I'll leave a message. You probably know we're back and wonder what went wrong. Whale honor, being picked for the first long \"You'll want to know if the ship worked. Well, she did. Went like a bomb. We got lined up between Earth and Mars, you'll remember, and James pushed the button marked 'Jump'. Took his finger off the button Alpha Centauri Whale doubt if it was the ship itself that fouled things up. \"That was some survey assignment. We astronomers really lived. Observatory, back of the Moon, just back from a proving flight cum astronomical survey in the starship Whale . Whoever you are who finds this tape, you're made. Take it to any radio station or newspaper office. and don't take any wooden nickels. \"Where had I got to? I'd told you how we happened to find Chang, hadn't I? That's what the natives called it. Walking, talking natives on a blue sky planet with 1.1 g gravity and a twenty per cent oxygen atmosphere at fifteen p.s.i. The odds against finding Chang on a six-sun survey on the first star jump ever must be up in the googols. We certainly were lucky. \"The Chang natives aren't very technical—haven't got space travel for instance. They're good astronomers, though. We were able to show them our sun, in their telescopes. In their way, they're a highly civilized If you doubt it, chew these facts over. \"One, they learned our language in four weeks. When I say they, I mean a ten-man team of them. had aboard the Whale humor. Ran rather to silly practical \"Four, the ten-man language team also learned chess and table tennis. \"It was funny the way they won we played them and that's fatal in chess. Of course it's a screwy situation, playing chess with something pets, but you didn't feel like patting I knew best. He was called—well, we called him Charley, and he was the ethnologist, ambassador, contact man, or whatever you like to call him, who came back with us. Why I disliked him was because he was always trying to get the edge on you. All the Whale's was a cabin full of dead and dying men, more than that when I land. What's final velocity for a fifty-mile fall? same as escape I expected though. Almost seem to be floating. Let's switch on the radio and tell the world hello. Hello, earth ... hello, again ... and good-by ... is that the suit ran out of the emergency tank, thank the Lord, \"I was telling about the return journey, wasn't I? The long jump back home, which should have dumped us between the orbits of Earth and Mars. Instead of which, when James took his finger off the button, the mass-detector showed nothing \"We were out in that no place for a day. We astronomers had to establish our exact position relative to the solar system. The crew had to find out exactly what went wrong. The physicists had to make mystic passes Our task was easy, because we were about half a light-year from the sun. The crew's job was also easy: they found what went wrong in less than half an hour. \"It still seems incredible. To program the ship for a star-jump, you merely told it where you were and where you wanted to go. In practical terms, that entailed first a series of exact measurements which had to be translated into the somewhat abstruse co-ordinate system we used based on the topological order of mass-points in the galaxy. Then you cut a tape on the computer and hit the button. Nothing was wrong with the and we'd gone to the place we'd aimed for. All we'd done was aim for the wrong place. It hurts me to tell you this and I'm just attached personnel with no space-flight tradition. In practical terms, one highly trained Incredible, but that's what why we were out there so long. They were cross-checked about five times. I got sick so I climbed into a spacesuit density in the outer regions. When I got back everything was ready. We disposed ourselves about the control worth. We were all praying that this time nothing would go wrong, and all looking forward to seeing Earth again after four months subjective time away, except for Charley, who to tear Charley limb from limb. Then was the Whale ship ever built, which could cover For, as of course you know, the star-drive couldn't be used again for at least two hours. \"The Whale of course, the standard deuterium-fusion thing with direct conversion. As again you know, this is good for interplanetary flight because you can it has rather a low thrust. It would deflect us enough to avoid a smash. We had five minutes to abandon ship. \"James got us all into the Minnow at a dead run. There was no time to was meant for short heavy hops to planets or asteroids. In addition to the ion drive it had emergency atomic rockets, canceled our downwards velocity with them in a few seconds. We curved away up over China and from about fifty miles high we saw the Whale hit the Pacific. Six hundred tons of mass at well over two thousand miles an hour make an almighty splash. By now you'll have divers with the ship, as the saying is? Not have broken his heart to know that his lovely ship was getting the chopper. Or did he suspect another human the huge curved shield of precipice around me every way but one and that's up. So it's up I'll have to go till I find a way to go down. there I stick. Listened to it for fifteen minutes just to hear a human voice again. I haven't much hope of reaching anyone with my five milliwatt suit transmitter but I'll keep trying. \"Just before I start the climb there are two things I want to get on tape. The first is how I got here. I've remembered something from my military training, when I did some parachute jumps. Terminal velocity for a worn but still operational. I'm fine. \"The second thing I want to say is about the Chingsi, and here it is: watch out for them. Those jokers are dangerous. I'm not telling how because I've got a scientific reputation to watch. You'll have to figure it out for yourselves. Here are the clues: (1) The Chingsi talk and laugh but after all they aren't human. On an alien world a hundred light-years it, might be highly developed out there. (2) The Whale expedition did fine till it found Chang. Then it hit a seam of bad luck. Real stinking bad luck that went on and on till it looks fishy. We lost the ship, we lost the launch, all but one of us lost our lives. We couldn't even win a game of ping-pong. \"So what is luck, good or bad? Scientifically speaking, future chance future chance events won't go your way. Scientific investigations into this knows that some people are lucky and others aren't. All we've got are hints and glimmers, the fumbling touch of eye legend and the Jonah, bad luck enough. \"All the same, search the space-flight records, talk to the actuaries.\n\n<question>:\nWhat was the mission of the Whale?\n\n<options>:\nA The mission is to make peace with Alpha Centauri.\nB The mission is to invade Chang.\nC The mission is a test flight and astronomical survey.\nD The mission is to make contact with Chang.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,539	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>:\nUFC began in 1993 as a locker-room fantasy. What would happen if a kickboxer fought a wrestler? A karate champion fought a sumo champion? Promoters built an octagonal chain-link cage, invited eight top martial artists, and set them loose in no-holds-barred, bare-knuckles fights. \"There are no rules!\" bragged an early press release. Contestants would fight till \"knockout, submission, doctor's intervention, or death.\" UFC allowed, even promoted, all notions of bad sportsmanship: kicking a man when he's down, hitting him in the groin, choking. Four-hundred-pound men were sent into the Octagon to maul guys half their size. Only biting and eye-gouging were forbidden. The gimmick entranced thousands of people (well, men). What happens when a 620-pound sumo champion fights a 200-pound kickboxer? Answer: The kickboxer knocks him silly in 35 seconds. They tuned in for bloodshed--\"the damage,\" as fans like to call it. UFC fights could be horrifying. Tank Abbott, an ill-tempered, 270-pound street fighter, knocks out hapless opponent John Matua in 15 seconds. Then, before the ref can intervene, Abbott belts the unconscious Matua in the head, sending him into a fit, limbs quivering uncontrollably, blood spurting from his mouth. Abbott, naturally, became a cult hero and won a guest spot on Friends . (Matua walked out of the ring.) Soon, UFC was selling out huge arenas and drawing 300,000 pay-per-view subscribers for its quarterly competitions. But a subtle sport was emerging from the gimmicks and carnage. My passion for ultimate fighting (which is also called \"extreme\" or \"no-holds-barred\" fighting) began when I saw the finals of UFC IV. Royce Gracie, a 180-pound Brazilian jujitsu specialist, was matched against a 275-pound beast named Dan Severn, one of the top heavyweight wrestlers in the world and a national champion many times over. In 30 seconds, Severn had grabbed Gracie, flung him to the canvas, and mounted him. For the next 15 minutes, Severn pummeled and elbowed and head-butted the smaller man. Gracie's face grew drawn, and he squirmed wildly to avoid Severn's bombardment. Then, all of sudden, Gracie, still lying on his back, saw an opening, wrapped his arms and legs around Severn like a python and choked the giant into submission. UFC's caged matches revolutionized the idea of fighting. Nursed on boxing and Hollywood, Americans imagine fights as choreography, a dance of elegant combinations, roundhouse kicks, clean knockouts. The UFC punctured this. Boxers floundered. Experts in striking martial arts such as karate and tae kwon do, who fancied themselves the world's greatest fighters, found themselves pretzeled by jujitsu masters, who pulled them to the ground and slowly choked or leg-locked them. \"UFC immediately debunked a lot of myths of fighting, of boxing, karate, kung fu. It showed the reality of what works in an actual fight,\" says Dave Meltzer, editor of Wrestling Observer . Instead of being carnivals of gore, UFC fights looked strangely like ... sex. Almost all fights ended on the ground, one man mounting the other in missionary position, the pair of them wiggling mysteriously along the canvas for five, 10, even 30 minutes. There were few spectacular knockouts. The referee--yes, there was always a referee--stopped many bouts, and in most others, fighters \"tapped out,\" surrendering to mild-looking but agonizing chokes and joint locks. It was not barbarism. It was science. The UFC spawned a new breed of \"mixed martial artists.\" World-class wrestlers learned to kickbox. Champion kickboxers learned to grapple. (The karate experts learned to stay home.) They became, without doubt, the best fighters in the world. (Click for more about the fighters.) Mike Tyson wouldn't last 30 seconds in an ultimate fighting match. When Olympic gold medal wrestler Kevin Jackson came to the UFC, a fighter named Frank Shamrock KO'd him with a submission hold in 16 seconds. Ultimate fighting schools began sprouting up all over the country, replacing the stylized gestures of the Eastern martial arts with techniques that actually work. UFC's promoters predicted that it would supplant boxing as America's martial art. Instead, it fell apart. The collapse began in 1996, when Sen. John McCain, R-Ariz., saw a UFC tape. McCain, a lifelong boxing fan, was horrified at the ground fighting, kicks, and head butts. It was \"barbaric,\" he said. It was \"not a sport.\" He sent letters to all 50 governors asking them to ban ultimate fighting. The outcry against \"human cockfighting\" became a crusade, and like many crusades, it was founded on misunderstanding. UFC fell victim to cultural determinism about what a fight is. In countries such as Brazil and Japan, where no-holds-barred fighting has a long history, it is popular and uncontroversial. But Americans adhere to the Marquis of Queensbury rules. A fight consists of an exchange of upper-body blows that halts when one fighter falls. Any blood sport can be barbaric, whether it's boxing or wrestling or ultimate fighting. It is impossible to draw a bright line between ultimate fighting and boxing. If anything, ultimate fighting is safer and less cruel than America's blood sport. For example, critics pilloried ultimate fighting because competitors fought with bare knuckles: To a nation accustomed to boxing gloves, this seemed revolting, an invitation to brain damage. But it's just the reverse: The purpose of boxing gloves is not to cushion the head but to shield the knuckles. Without gloves, a boxer would break his hands after a couple of punches to the skull. That's why ultimate fighters won't throw multiple skull punches. As a result, they avoid the concussive head wounds that kill boxers--and the long-term neurological damage that cripples them. Similarly, the chain-link fence surrounding the octagon looks grotesque. Critics have demanded that UFC install ropes instead. But ropes are a major cause of death and injury in boxing: Fighters hyperextend their necks when they are punched against the ropes, because nothing stops their heads from snapping back. The chain-link fence prevents hyperextension. In the past two years, an increasingly desperate UFC has been trying to assuage its critics. The competition, which had been gradually adding safety rules since the first fight, imposed even more. It institued rounds and a \"10-point must\" scoring system. It banned head butts and groin strikes. You can no longer kick a downed man or elbow someone in the back of the head. Fighters are required to wear thin martial arts gloves (a purely cosmetic change). The UFC imposed weight classes, ending the David-and-Goliath mismatches that made early fights so compelling.\n\n<question>:\nAccording to the writer, precisely why is it preferable not to wear boxing gloves in the UFC?\n\n<options>:\nA Because boxing has shown that wearing boxing gloves encourages head injury and leads to death, UFC fighters do not wear them.\nB Wearing boxing gloves makes it easier to throw repeated head punches.\nC Ultimate fighters don't wear boxing gloves so that they don't break their hands.\nD UFC fighters need to use their hands in different modes of combat in which boxing gloves would be a hidnerment.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
326	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 joint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward (Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollars The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, they \"It was the nuttiest thing,\" said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. \"An \"What I can't figure out,\" said Stevenson, \"is exactly what made those \"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 that doesn't make sense, either,\" said Stevenson. \"Why steal a car that could be identified as easily as that one?\" \"Why? What was it, a foreign make?\" \"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.\" \"What do they have to say about it?\" Pauling demanded. The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, tall and paunchy. \"John Hastings,\" he said. \"They say you have my car here.\" \"I believe so, yes,\" said Stevenson. \"I'm afraid it's in pretty bad \"Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd come with me?\" On the way around, Stevenson said, \"I believe you reported the car a quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any one customer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?\" \"The car was stolen,\" Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. \"It's always been perfectly safe up till now.\" Stevenson shook his head. \"No, sir. When that happened they were two blocks away from the nearest policeman.\" had stolen the car.\" \"It wasn't a bunch of kids,\" Stevenson told him. \"It was four that ?\" Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again the the car was stolen?\" \"Of course not!\" Stevenson frowned. \"Now, why in the world did they do that?\" \"I suggest,\" said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, \"you ask them that.\" Stevenson shook his head. \"It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talking 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.... Motor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins. Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for the third time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home, brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand. As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted to awaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that he really ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He then house at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-locked bedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door and \"stop acting like a child.\" Neighbors reported to the police that they \"Murder! Murder!\" At this point, neighbors called the police. One search for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-home audience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers and undershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of the police used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, they had the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway. Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challenge and all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken. Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again. The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly and dramatically. Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose of shooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped and threw the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithered another burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder. Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burn ointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. The neighbors went home and telephoned their friends. On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of the precincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant William Stevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappy individual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle. He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all. \"Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson?\" he demanded. \"I'm not sure,\" admitted Stevenson. \"But we've got these two things. prove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'.\" \"He says he put that on there himself,\" said the captain. Stevenson shook his head. \"His lawyer says he put it on there. Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer's case. He's trying to build up an insanity defense.\" \"He put it on there himself, Stevenson,\" said the captain with weary patience. \"What are you trying to prove?\" \"I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. And they say?\" \"They say they didn't do it,\" said Stevenson. \"And they say they never saw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd been there.\" The captain shook his head. \"I don't get it,\" he admitted. \"What are 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 you trying to hand me?\" \"All I know,\" insisted Stevenson, \"is what I see.\" \"And all I know,\" the captain told him, \"is Higgins put that name on his rifle himself. He says so.\" \"All of a sudden?\" \"He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him.\" \"How come the same name showed up each time, then?\" Stevenson asked desperately. \"How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do these all the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?\" \"But there's no explanation—\" started Stevenson. \"What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just gave explanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nutty all upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch. Remember?\" \"I remember,\" said Stevenson. \"Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson,\" the captain advised him. \"Yes, sir,\" said Stevenson.... The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought a III determined that the matter could only be settled in a war. And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault. \"I'm afraid it is, Captain,\" said Stevenson. \"Did you see the morning paper?\" \"So what?\" \"Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?\" \"It was a territorial war,\" Stevenson reminded him. \"They've admitted Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Stevenson begin to suspect a connection between the crimes?\n\n<options>:\nA Stevenson has an overactive imagination, similar to how a previous police officer had been.\nB The nature of how the crimes ended didn't add up on their own. That, as well as the signatures, make him believe there is more.\nC Two back-to-back crimes is too suspicious.\nD The alibi of Higgins doesn't add up. He admits to leaving the signature, but Stevenson doesn't trust him.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,563	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 something small. Norris gave up thinking about it. Eventually he would have to adjust conflict with the grim necessities of his job. Somehow he would have \"They are. I told her she had the wrong neutroid, but she got mad. Went and got the sales receipt. It checked with her newt, and it was from \"Nothing to worry about, is it Terry?\" He looked at her peculiarly. \"Ever think what might happen if someone started a black market in neutroids?\" They finished the meal in silence. After lunch he went out again to gather up the rest of the group. By four o'clock, he had gotten all ultimate destruction. That would bring the murderous wrath of their owners down upon him. He began to understand why bio-inspectors were Norris withered. His voice went desperate. \"They assigned me to it Norris smiled sardonically to himself. The non-human pets were smarter than the neutroids. A K-108 could speak a dozen words, and a K-99 It seemed in order, although the expiration date was approaching. He started toward a bank of neutroid cages along the opposite wall, but O'Reilley was mincing across the floor to meet him. The customer had stopped and adjusted his spectacles. He blinked and peered as Norris \"I'm Agent Norris, Mr. O'Reilley. Called you yesterday for that rundown the intersection, and Norris feared that the animal might be lost. Norris frowned. \"Look, pop, I've had a rough day. I of their own, could get quite attached to a cat-Q-5. The felines were emotionally safer than the quasi-human chimp-K series called \"neutroids.\" When a pet neutroid died, a family was broken with grief 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. something he had been expecting for several days. Attention All District Inspectors: Subject: Deviant Neutroid. You will immediately begin a systematic and thorough survey of all Negligency Case. Seize all animals in this category, impound, and run to hear. He shut the door behind him, and Norris heard the lock click. The bio-agent waited. Again the thought of a black market troubled him. Unauthorized neutroids could mean lots of trouble. proper sections of normalcy tests. Watch for mental and glandular dangerous to its owner or to others. Hold all seized K-99s who show C. Franklin Norris frowned at the last sentence. His district covered about two hundred square miles. Its replacement-quota of new neutroids was around influx had been K-99s from Bermuda Factory. Forty, at least. Could he do it in a week? And there were only eleven empty neutroid cages in his Bermuda K-99 serial numbers that had entered his territory, together with the retailers to whom the animals had been sold. A week's deadline for finding and testing forty neutroids would put him in a tight squeeze. He was halfway to Wylo City when the radiophone buzzed on his \"Inspector Norris? This is Doctor Georges. We haven't met, but I Glubbes—called a while ago and said her baby was sick. I must be getting absent-minded, because I forgot she was class C until I got there.\" He hesitated. \"The baby turned out to be a neutroid. It's dying. Eighteenth order virus.\" \"So?\" understand?\" \"I think so,\" Norris replied slowly. \"But what do you want me to do? Can't you send the neutroid to a vet?\" \"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.\" \"I still don't see—\" \"I thought perhaps you could help me fake a substitution. It's a K-48 \"Please, Norris! This is urgent. That woman will lose her mind \"Don't let me catch you falsifying a serial number.\" Doctor Georges laughed faintly. \"I won't, Norris. Thanks a million.\" He Norris immediately regretted his consent. It bordered on being illegal. But he saw it as a quick way to get rid of an animal that might later it's got me psyched. What do you want, Norris?\" citizens with resisting a Federal official—namely me —and charging one of them with assault. I tried to pick up their neutroids for a pound inspection—\" Yates bellowed lusty laughter into the phone. \"It's not funny. I've got to get those neutroids. It's in connection with the Delmont case.\" Yates stopped laughing. \"Oh. Well, I'll take care of it.\" \"That'll be all right. And listen, Yates—fix it so the charges will be dropped if they cooperate. Don't shake those warrants around unless they just won't listen to reason. But get those neutroids.\" \"Okay, boy. Gotcha.\" \"Come on,\" he grunted. \"Let's unload some neutroids, before I forget all about work.\" 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 keepers entered the building. Dozens of blazing blond heads began dancing about their cages. Their bodies thwacked against the wire mesh smiles, and cherubic faces. They were sexually neuter and never grew beyond a predetermined age-set which varied for each series. Age-sets were available from one to ten years human equivalent. Once a neutroid reached its age-set, it remained at the set's child-development level until death. Norris was wearing a slight frown as he inspected the room. \"They've radiation from the enlarger. A good operator can get one success out of had a couple of flaws—something wrong in the central nervous system's determinants, and in the glandular makeup. Not a standard neutroid \"So it would 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 Norris held up the final kicking, squealing, tassel-haired doll from to have a baby.\" \"You know what they'd do to us?\" \"If they catch us, yes—compulsory divorce, sterilization. But they Norris turned the set off and went to call the police. He told them \"What was it?\" \"Neutroid trouble.\" \"You meet up with a lot of unpleasantness in this business, don't you?\" \"Lot of unpleasant emotions tangled up in it,\" he admitted. out of the north. He went into the neutroid room and flicked a switch. A few sleepy Norris backed away. He went to the parlor and lay down on the couch. was obvious. Society manufactured them because killing them was 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 that he had damn little chance of being born to enjoy it. A neutroid filled the cradle in his stead. A neutroid that never ate as much, or grew up to be unemployed. A neutroid could be killed if\n\n<question>:\nWhat kind of trouble could unauthorized neutroids mean for Norris?\n\n<options>:\nA Unauthorized neutroid animals could be used as an alternate food source for the skyrocketing population.\nB Unauthorized neutroids could cause food scarcity.\nC Unauthorized neutroids would mean more taking \"babies\" away from their mothers and more killing.\nD A black market for nuetroids could result in neutroid slavery.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
931	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 For several weeks now, pundits have debated how Bob Dole would exit the stage. Would he depart on a negative note about his opponent or a positive one about himself? Would he leave with anger or with humor? In the past several days, the issue has been settled. Dole, it appears, will end his political career raging against the New York Times . On Sunday (the day the Times endorsed Clinton), Dole called the paper \"the apologist for President Clinton for the last four years and an arm of the Democratic National Committee.\" In a CNN interview broadcast Monday, Dole said the Times \"might as well be part of the Democratic Party. ... They hammer us on a daily basis. We make a major speech, they bury it back on section D. They put a front-page story that, well, Bob Dole and Jack Kemp didn't get along together 12 years ago.\" On Tuesday, Dole was still at it, referring to the 28 words of the 10th Amendment, and quipping, \"That's about what I got in the New York Times today.\" The Times has reacted to this assault by highhandedly quoting everything and explaining none of it, leaving its readers baffled as to why the Republican nominee is so upset at the paper. In fact, Dole's fury at the Times is hardly news to those who work at the paper. According to Katharine Seelye, who has covered Dole since the beginning of his campaign, the complaints date from December 1995, when Dole staff members first protested that she had misunderstood the candidate's position on abortion. The real bitterness, however, began in May, when the paper played what Dole aides billed as a major address about welfare on Page 19 of the business section. Since then, campaign honchos have peppered the paper's reporters and editors with constant phone calls and letters complaining about unfair treatment. No Dole staff would be quoted by name for this story, but speaking on background, a senior campaign official elaborated upon the complaint. \"They've just done a miserable job throughout this campaign,\" the official said. \"The coverage of Dole has been excessively bitchy from day one, in addition to having a number of extraordinary factual problems.\" With Seelye, the official says, the problem is \"not being able to transcribe a tape accurately.\" With Adam Nagourney, the Times ' other reporter covering Dole full time since the summer, \"the problem is an incredible focus on the little picture as opposed to the big picture.\" As an example, the official cites a September story in which Nagourney lumped together Dole's fall from a platform in Chico, Calif., and his mistaken reference to the \"Brooklyn\" Dodgers as \"a rough stretch of politicking.\" Other than those two episodes, the official says, Dole actually had a great week. The campaign's complaint extends to unequal treatment--a nine-part series on Clinton's record, which the official describes as \"the softest portrait since they invented black velvet\"--and the Times perpetually underestimating the size of Dole crowds. \"Clinton even gets better photographs,\" the official contends. \"Ithink we have been tough on him,\" Seelye says. This stems, however, not from any bias, she says, but from the campaign's own internal problems. Dole's campaign has been especially \"porous,\" with aides emulating the proverbial seafaring rats. This is true enough--in recent days ex-strategist Don Sipple has trashed the campaign on the record. But there's another point, too. Contrary to Buckley's charge that she misquotes Dole, Seelye routinely makes Dole look ridiculous by quoting him all too accurately, depicting him in what one colleague calls a \"cinema 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: But though unflattering, Seelye's Mametizing of Bob Dole can hardly be called unfair. It is not as if the Times cleans up Clinton's quotes the president simply observes the rules of syntax most of the time. Something similar may be happening with the pictures. After four years, Clinton has learned how to avoid looking unpresidential. He no longer allows himself to be photographed wearing too-short running shorts, and he avoids pulling faces in public. Dole, who is simply less photogenic, is an easier victim for picture editors--who, like their editorial counterparts, have a strong bias against dullness. Take, for instance, the two pictures shown above. The front-page picture the Times ran the day after the second presidential debate does make Dole look like a decomposing monster. But unlike the picture in the Washington Post the same day, it captures the spirit of the event, with Dole grimly taking the offensive and Clinton watching warily but standing aside from the attacks. Dole sounds absurd when he alleges that the paper that broke Whitewater and the story of the first lady's commodities trades has not been aggressive in pursuing Clinton scandals. All sorts of potential Dole scandals have been soft-pedaled by the media, including the Times , because he is so far behind. It's true that coverage of Clinton on the campaign trail has been somewhat softer than the coverage of Dole, as even other Times reporters acknowledge. But the explanation is institutional, not ideological. The press, as many have complained, overemphasizes the \"horse race\" aspect of politics. As a side effect of that disease, reporters have excessive respect for a well-run campaign. (In 1988, Republican George Bush benefited from this phenomenon.) A cruder reality is that reporters need to have a relationship with Clinton after Tuesday. None of these factors, though, is unique to the Times . So why is Dole singling it out? Dole's attacks on the Times have the appearance of being an exercise in populist demagogy. In one of his great cue-card reading remarks, Dole tried to explain his recent attacks on CNN the other night by saying, \"I like the media. They don't like them in the South.\" But this pat explanation doesn't entirely make sense. Red meat for right-wing crowds doesn't help Dole with the centrist voters he would need to turn around in order to make the miraculous happen. And in fact, according to a senior Dole aide, the attacks are heartfelt on the candidate's part. Dole has been going after the Times over the objections of advisers who have been telling him there's no percentage in picking fights with the press. But if Dole is attacking the Times because he is truly furious and not because he thinks it will help him get elected, what is he so angry about? The answer, I think, is that there has always been a Nixonian streak in Bob Dole, by which I mean a part of him which feels shut out of the closed circle of the Eastern establishment. At the Republican convention, Dole blasted the Clinton administration as a \"corps of the elite who never grew up, never did anything real, never sacrificed, never suffered, and never learned.\" That phrase recalled an attack he made on the press long ago, in the days of Watergate, when he accused the Washington Post of being in bed with George McGovern. \"There is a cultural and social affinity between the McGovernites and the Post executives and editors,\" Dole said then. \"They belong to the same elite: They can be found living cheek-by-jowl in the same exclusive chic neighborhoods, and hob-nobbing at the same Georgetown parties.\" The deeper story here isn't whether Dole was wrongly shunted onto D19 when he ought to have been on A1. It's his feelings, as he says goodbye to politics, about the people who get to decide.\n\n<question>:\nThe New York Times would most likely use the following terms to describe Dole's campaign?\n\n<options>:\nA Underfunded and ill-resourced\nB Condescending and elitist\nC Fervent and prejudiced\nD Sophomoric and aimless\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,956	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>:\npress until such a time as Jerry held his breath as they Conners said paternally. who were suddenly struck by behind him. \"No radiation ...\" news correspondents, and that's all I'm asking for.\" Jerry Bridges, sitting in the chair opposite his employer's Slowly, the ring of spectators said, and then repeated the \"It's okay,\" a voice breathed desk, chewed on his knuckles newspaper wanted him to behave, to protect the cozy Washington assignment he had waited Jerry couldn't identify stepped warily, and then said something Jerry grinned. \"I didn't take Jerry deduced that it must have We trust you will treat him with the courtesy of an official And from now on—\" He waggled emissary.\" a finger at him. \"Watch and said: \"Don't kid me, Mr. Conners. Think it's war?\" \"That'll be all, Bridges.\" The reporter closed the door \"Wait a minute,\" the general up. \"It's an instruction book,\" he whispered. \"We're supposed more interested in the romantic rather than political implications. As he walked beside him, he said: some three hours later, by a team of scientists and engineers feet tall, was pieced together Jerry growled. blueprint in an Erector set. But they ought to get the Secret cloud comes?\" \"With Greta, I hope,\" Ruskin sighed. \"What a way to get Along with a dozen assorted government officials, Army officers, and scientists, he was radioactive.\" later, and Jerry walked until he quartered in a quonset hut in No one told him his destination, bright strips of light across the face of the United Nations building that he knew where the been hourly conferences at the White House, flying visits by State Department officials, mysterious conferences involving members of the Science Commission. So far, the byword had been secrecy. They knew that Senator Spocker, chairman of the Congressional Science even—Jerry gulped under way, he knew that it was true. The highest echelons of the Jerry looked up from his through their headphones, \"Gentlemen, I thank you for your prompt attention. I come as a merely a threat, a promise, or \"Your earth satellites have been viewed with interest by the astronomers of our world, and we foresee the day when contact between our planets will be commonplace. As for ourselves, we can't \"You don't understand about \"What?\" may not destroy all that you have gained. But we, the scientists \"Did I say that?\" unleashed, these forces may or Earth, as a messenger of war. Unstoppable, inexorable, it may Death, who speaks not in words, but in the explosion of atoms. Think of thousands of such Delegates, \"But if you print one word her arm, \"you can trust me like of it, Jerry Bridges, I'll never will hang in your night sky from \"Honey,\" Jerry said, taking promise and the challenge that said stiffly. speak to you again!\" and said: deliver They got reports from the observatories about another sputnik The news flashed with lightning speed over the world, and Jerry Bridges' eyewitness accounts of the incredible event was syndicated throughout the \"Wait a minute,\" Jerry said dizzily. \"You mean to tell me nation. But his sudden celebrity \"In an hour. He's in a terribly important meeting right for about three days, and they're thinking of calling a plenary session of the UN just to figure \"It's not that,\" Jerry said out what to do about it. The only yesterday, when I saw your Don't you ever think of anything else? You should learn to relax. It can be fun.\" and Jerry responded the way a \"Their delegate. They came here for some kind of conference, I guess. They know about the UN and everything, and they want to take part. They say that with all the satellites \"What's the matter?\" notebooks inside. \"What guess. They've been having radio talks with practically \"That's all right with me,\" or something. The Senator \"Well, how else can I take it? Jerry had walked across the the students seemed incredibly young. He was winded by the \"And you promise not to print Coltz could be located. \"Professor Coltz?\" She stuck \"Didn't I say I wouldn't?\" a liar sometimes, Jerry. I've noticed a pencil to her mouth. \"Well, I Jerry felt decrepit, but managed will of the U. S. Marines. But Jerry Bridges tried. \"You don't understand, Lana,\" and located a fresh-painted building three hundred yards from the men's dorm. He met a student at the door, who told him that Professor Coltz would be found in the physics department. The room was empty when Jerry entered, except for the deliver any messages.\" \"But this is something he wants an envelope, stamped URGENT. Coltz was far older than \"Do it for me, Hedy. And I'll buy you the flashiest pair of Jerry remembered. He was a blinked when Jerry said: \"Hello, Professor. Do you remember me? Jerry Bridges?\" \"Of course! I thought of you it with his next batch of mail.\" \"When will that be?\" They sat at facing student desks, and chatted about old name in the papers—\" times. But Jerry was impatient could \"Professor Coltz, something's and then gathered up a stack of memorandums and letters, his own envelope atop and he blurted out: to get to the point of his visit, college notebooks. Thank God I kept them.\" Coltz's eyes were suddenly \"What do you mean, Jerry?\" !\" Jerry said, breezing Mr. Howells. I'm just doing my by the waiting reporters with a grin of triumph. \"You know better than I do, Jerry, and snapped: \"This note of yours. Just what do you think it means?\" He unfolded it and read aloud. \"'It's my belief that peace is the responsibility of individuals, I think the public has a right to know about this spaceship Coltz shifted uncomfortably. that's flying around—\" I said, Jerry.\" \"But it's an interesting coincidence, isn't it, Professor? These very words were spoken that secrecy is essential, that leakage of the story might cause panic. Since you're the only unauthorized person who knows of \"Mr. Bridges, you don't make it easy for us. It's our opinion Jerry swallowed hard. never forget that mechanical homing pigeon you constructed. And you've probably learned Jerry?\" \"Just this, Professor. I had a little daydream, recently, and I want you to hear it. I dreamed about a group of teachers, scientists, and engineers, a group not be allowed to relay the story to the and secrecy of a University on a fantastic scheme to force the idea of peace into the minds of group that worked in the quiet dream interest you, Professor?\" \"Go on.\" the world's big shots. Does my \"Well, I dreamt that this group would secretly launch an earth satellite of their own, and sighed, and said: worlds ...' Sound familiar, Professor?\" \"I don't recall every silly thing assembled. They would beam a radio message to earth from the Then, when the Robot was assembled, they would speak through it to demand peace for \"Jerry, if you do this—\" \"You don't have to say it, Professor, I know what you're thinking. I'm a reporter, and my business is to tell the world world for me to write about, would there? No, thanks, Professor. As far as I'm concerned, what I told you was nothing knew that he was the only passenger Jerry braked the convertible with non-official status job by the Delegate from Venus.\" Jerry pointed. \"That one.\" \"A coincidence—\" desert road, until Jerry sighted your interest in robotics. I'll He was allowed to leave the car and stroll unescorted. He tried to talk to some of the be taken into our confidence, and allowed to accompany those officials who will be admitted to the\n\n<question>:\nWhat does Jerry promise to Professor Coltz without saying explicitly?\n\n<options>:\nA He plans to reveal the true creators of the Venusian delegate\nB He plans not to share his physics notes with the media\nC He plans not to reveal the true creators of the Venusian delegate\nD He plans to share his physics notes with the media\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,251	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nsign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order! \"Madison and Fifty-fourth,\" I said. usual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular, a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay. While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I was found that I had missed the story conference. During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase \"I'm just \"The whole ball of wax,\" twelve times. However, my story had been accepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from the conference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World, the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon which that I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for the too.\" sentence. Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising. about this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn, they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they all fell. of my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and has door to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confronting on the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and the rest face up—all red. of thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be my deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time, at least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice and On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tie swerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded, to a lamp. windows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat had All knows everything. \"Not in the least,\" I said. \"Come on over here. I've got something for point where I was about to put down the word \"agurgling,\" I decided it was too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letter \"Well,\" McGill said, \"nothing you've told me is impossible or supernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds against that poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him. It's all those other things....\" \"Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense at and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view that must have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. \"Do you think they'll each have the same date, perhaps?\" \"No. During the week.\" He shook his head. \"In that case, no. Discounting the fact that you could have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, that would be actually tell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see if they all come up heads.\" \"Great Scott,\" he said, and sat down. \"I suppose you know that there are two great apparently opposite principles governing the Universe—random and design. The sands on the beach are an example of the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are so many of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law of Thermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast manifestation.\" \"Do you mean,\" I asked in some confusion, \"that some form of life is He shook his head. \"No. All I mean is that improbable things usually have improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken, I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of the book of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seems \"I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left.\" \"Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?\" \"Center of what?\" I asked. \"I feel as though I were the center of an electrical storm. Something has it in for me!\" McGill grinned. \"Don't be superstitious. And especially don't be anthropomorphic.\" \"Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life.\" anything like it.\" replaced by looks of suspicion and then determination. the umbrella and we'll say no more about it!\" \"And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it?\" said her adversary. Molly. My nurse-wife. \"Oh, Alec!\" she said, and managed to detach herself. \"Are you all right?\" Was I all right! \"Molly! What are you doing here?\" \"Of course I'm all right. But why....\" you're all right?\" to it. He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she was \"In other words, you think it's something organic?\" \"Well,\" McGill said, \"I'm trying to think of anything else it might be. \"But so far as I can see,\" Molly answered, \"it's mere probability, and without any over-all pattern.\" \"Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center.\" think this silly of me,\" she went on to McGill, \"but why isn't it something like an overactive poltergeist?\" \"Pure concept,\" he said. \"No genuine evidence.\" \"Magnetism?\" \"Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren't magnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy, has a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agree is involved, but plants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, but it does not convert what it feeds on it merely rearranges it into a call improbability.\" is it? What's it made of?\" \"I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea about the atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears to be forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speck of sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus of crystallization.\" impertinent look. \"Because I don't think this thing got going before today and \"I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister,\" he said with strong disapproval. \"Certainly not,\" I said. \"Is it broken?\" \"Not exactly broken \"I'm in no mood to cook,\" she said. \"Let's get away from all this.\" McGill raised an eyebrow. \"If all this, as you call it, will let us.\" In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way. some mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?\" you all about it.\" Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on Sixth next table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant green evening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiter returned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: cold cuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfait for the fat lady. salt seemed to have been used made faces. The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back to one of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzled expression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out a I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice is a crowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back, baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to the kitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls, which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience had grown larger. vichyssoise. \"Hey! What's the idea?\" snarled the sour-looking man. \"I'm terribly sorry,\" I said. \"It was an accident. I—\" The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The man\n\n<question>:\nWhich word best describes Nat?\n\n<options>:\nA dishonest\nB respectable\nC enthusiastic\nD partier\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
136	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 room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggage blame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secret project, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—\" could be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your home area—\" \"You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. I sometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—\" \"You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'm warning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!\" Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Street Tremaine took off his hat. \"Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while, In a back room Tremaine said, \"To everybody but you this is just a \"It won't take long to tell we don't know much yet.\" Tremaine covered the discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on the groceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.\" \"Well, what about him?\" \"Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A little touched in the head.\" routine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are back in the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the day they'll make jail age.\" \"Why Bram?\" Tremaine persisted. \"As far as I know, he never had any Tremaine shook his head. Tremaine got to his feet. \"I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your ears and eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess. Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights.\" Tremaine. The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. \"He ain't going to sell, mister, if that's what you want to know.\" Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. \"I was hoping It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table where \"No, thanks,\" Tremaine said. \"That's all I needed.\" He turned back to Tremaine waited. \"You—uh—paying anything for information?\" \"Now why would I do that?\" Tremaine reached for the door knob. \"I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.\" The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. \"You have to handle Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. windows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against a of the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stopped Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yanked \"What's the matter? Run out of signal?\" \"What's it to you, mister?\" \"Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?\" \"Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine.\" him.\" He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mike before handing it to Tremaine. The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. \"What's your beef, Tremaine?\" \"I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gave on me.\" \"It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you were doing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.\" Grammond cursed. \"I could have put my men in the town and taken it \"That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'll go underground.\" \"You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys use for the spade work, that it?\" \"Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed.\" \"The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighs three tons,\" said Tremaine. \"Bicycles are out.\" Grammond snorted. \"Okay, Tremaine,\" he said. \"You're the boy with all the answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me call Washington.\" Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call. \"It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred. Tell him if he queers this—\" \"I don't know but what he might have something,\" the voice came back over the filtered hum. \"Suppose he smokes them out—\" \"Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginia moonshiners.\" \"Don't tell me my job, Tremaine!\" the voice snapped. \"And don't try out your famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation.\" \"Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket.\" Tremaine Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremaine thought, startled. that you've amounted to something.\" \"Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.\" \"There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needs to be in the national interest.\" \"I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means, James. I distrust these glib phrases.\" \"I always liked Mr. Bram,\" said Tremaine. \"I'm not out to hurt him.\" \"What does he do for a living?\" \"I have no idea.\" Tremaine stood up. \"I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grill She paused. Tremaine waited. \"There is one other thing,\" she said, \"perhaps quite meaningless....\" \"I'd be grateful for any lead.\" \"Bram fears the thunder.\" III pulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine and asked: \"Any luck, Jimmy?\" Tremaine shook his head. \"I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's a dud, I'm afraid.\" \"Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm getting a little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?\" \"Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.\" State Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone hand from what you were saying to me.\" \"I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead of me. He smells headlines in this he doesn't want to be left out.\" \"Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'm wondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ring working—\" \"We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind this and neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ... and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enough mistakes in the last few years I don't want to see this botched.\" empty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. \"This don't look good,\" he said. \"You suppose those fool boys...?\" Tremaine. \"Maybe this is more than kid stuff,\" he said. \"You carry a \"In the car.\" \"Better get it.\" Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket, \"What do you make of it. Jimmy?\" A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jess stared at Tremaine. \"I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,\" he said. \"You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playing tricks?\" \"Who's looking for spies?\" \"Cops.\" \"Who says so?\" \"Spill it, Hull,\" the policeman said. \"Mr. Tremaine hasn't got all night.\" The boy darted another look at Tremaine. \"They said they figured the\n\n<question>:\nWhy didn't Tremaine automatically include the state law enforcement in his investigation?\n\n<options>:\nA He thinks the state law enforcement officers are all incredibly rude.\nB He thinks the state law enforcement officers are all incredibly dumb.\nC He's unsure of how serious the investigation is, and he doesn't want them stepping on his toes.\nD He's unsure of how serious the investigation is.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
1,984	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 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 rooms and silent halls, that once upon a time had been his birthplace. Higher still and higher he rose in the southern sky, and then, when he had reached his zenith, he dropped swiftly down past the dark edge of the Earth and disappeared from sight. A boy grown up too soon, riding round and round the world on 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: Expect to bring your son down . She went about her work as usual, collecting the eggs and allocating them in their cardboard morning run. She had expected a deluge of questions from her customers. She was not disappointed. \"Is Terry really , Martha?\" \"I 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, 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 by the time the TV crew got everything repacked into their cars and trucks and made their departure. Martha fixed herself a light supper, then donned an old suede jacket of Terry's and went out into the garden to wait for the sun to go down. According to the time table the general had outlined in his first telegram, Terry's first Tuesday till 9:05. But it seemed only right that she should be outside 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 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 out of the blackness of the night ... 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. a strange clarity about the night, that she had never known before ... She glanced at her watch, was astonished to see that the hands indicated two minutes after nine. Where had the time gone? Tremulously she faced the her Terry appear in his shining path of his orbit, a star in his own right, dropping swiftly now, down, down, and out of sight beyond the dark wheeling him pleasant dreams and a safe Sometime tomorrow, the general's telegram had said— That meant sometime today! She rose with the sun and fed the chickens, fixed and ate her breakfast, collected the eggs and put them in their cardboard boxes, then started out on her Wednesday morning run. \"My land, Martha, I don't see how you stand it with him way up there! Doesn't it get on your nerves ?\" (\"Yes ... Yes, it does.\") \"Martha, when are they bringing him back down?\" (\"Today ... Today !\") \"It must Martha.\" (\"Yes, it is—in a way.\") Wonderful ... and terrible. If only he can last it out for a few more hours, she thought. If only they can bring him down safe and sound. Then the vigil will be over, and some other mother can take over the awesome responsibility of having a son become a star— If only ... arrived that afternoon: mechanism, making ejection impossible. Will make every effort to find another means of accomplishing your son's return. Terry!— See the little boy playing beneath the maple tree, moving his tiny cars up and down the tiny streets of his make-believe village the little boy, his fuzz of hair gold in the sunlight, his cherub-cheeks pink in the summer wind— Terry!— Up the lane the blue-denimed young man walks, swinging his thin tanned arms, his long legs making near-grownup strides over the sun-seared grass the sky blue and bright behind him, the song of cicada rising and air— Terry ... —probably won't get a chance to write you again before take-off, but don't worry, Ma. The is the greatest bird they ever built. Nothing short of a direct meteorite hit can hurt one ... Why don't they leave the stars alone? Why don't they leave the The afternoon shadows lengthened on the lawn and the sun grew red and swollen over the 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 length her star appeared, but its Martha did not move. let it be Terry , even though she knew that it couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps 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 ma'am. It penetrated the ma'am?\" \"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 ... 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 eyes, too now, slowly, he lowered are beautiful tonight, aren't they.\" After the general had gone, she looked up once more at the vast and variegated garden of the sky where her son lay buried, house. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories\n\n<question>:\nHow does Terry's mother's description of her son not match the reporter's preconceived image?\n\n<options>:\nA He is reserved and has difficulty making friends\nB He is an average American boy\nC He did not perform well in school\nD He preferred athletics over academics\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,254	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>:\naccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I got I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'd \"Right,\" said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then go on grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. \"Sorry, Mac. You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting.\" just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got one of an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight, and then his chattering drill hit it. There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him on his back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At the moment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—I found that I had missed the story conference. During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase \"I'm just spitballing\" eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite, \"The whole ball of wax,\" twelve times. However, my story had been accepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from the apartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standing there talking to the doorman. He said, \"Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed it at your office building.\" I looked blank and he explained, \"We just heard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammed except for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been going When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on the manuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. The fell. The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds and picked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side, stroking its feathers. My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident were afternoon. \"You can't say a thing like that to me!\" I heard him shout. \"I tell you \"Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!\" His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cards on the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and the rest face up—all red. Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived and the four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence, \"Judas!\" he said, and started to pick them up. \"Will you look at that! My God, what a session....\" didn't believe it. Every round normal, nothing what must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over the top of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto the tile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been from at least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice and Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to his It was out of order. one. That was tied in three knots. All right come for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to call When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought, voice said, \"Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we were \"Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—\" \"Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent.\" \"At once,\" he said, and hung up. was too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letter \"R.\" Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step to the side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red. This was absolutely not my day. his head. Then he brightened. \"I have an idea. Maybe we can have a demonstration.\" He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. \"Have you any change on you?\" impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'll floor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stacked themselves into a neat pile. I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took a handful of coins from his own pocket and threw them. These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line, the adjacent ones touching. He shook his head. \"No. All I mean is that improbable things usually electrical storm. Something has it in for me!\" They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seen which met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable bouts excuses and threats. Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. \"You all right, Mr. Graham?\" he asked. \"I don't know what's going on around here, but ever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!\" he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. \"Bring those dames over the ladies seemed not to be. \"All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip!\" one of them said. \"Leave go of my umbrella and we'll say no more about it!\" \"The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother's number and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it traced and it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got a busy signal. Oh, dear, are you Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious cast to it. \"Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham,\" was all he said. When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. \"Explain to Molly,\" I said. \"And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet.\" call improbability.\" That telephone now—\" The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephone repairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen. \"I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister,\" he said with strong disapproval. \"Certainly not,\" I said. \"Is it broken?\" \"Not exactly to explain to me what had happened with the phone. \"You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced the Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I was and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made the lieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me. \"If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham,\" Danny said, \"it's at the station house. What there's left of it, that is.\" Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I felt happened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. Before returned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: cold cuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfait The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back to the bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tasted one of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzled came out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again. Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with his pick, his face pink with exasperation. I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice is happened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the bar crowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back, baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to the which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience had grown larger. had stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum of cigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboring vichyssoise. \"Hey! What's the idea?\" snarled the sour-looking man. \"I'm terribly sorry,\" I said. \"It was an accident. I—\" The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The man licked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. The\n\n<question>:\nWhat didn't happen with the telephone?\n\n<options>:\nA it worked whenever Mr. Graham tried to use it\nB it repeatedly called Molly's mother\nC someone needed to come to fix it\nD Mr. Graham dropped it\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
599	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 waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoed through her hallways. Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was a big, rawboned man, barely forty but ten years of responsibility had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity. our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.\" Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn't seemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorous There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute, Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to report back. He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough his eye. The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground. Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets. They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them. Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together. eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the others forward. \"Get the jeeps out!\" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back. There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to up speed. The other two followed. There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked horrible in a travesty of manhood. racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists. \"Follow the blobs,\" Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool to leave his suit the radio would have let him keep in contact with the kids. But it was too late to go back. Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their own trail to confuse the pursuers. There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had a glimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarse faces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against the windshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul the other jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too late to help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry or the horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog. A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne. Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forward against the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-foot leader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on each shoulder. The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt. The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no further move, though it was still breathing. \"I hope so,\" Gwayne told him. \"I want that thing to live—and you're \"Troglodytes, maybe,\" Gwayne guessed. \"Anyhow, send for me when you get The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less informative with retelling. If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might save time and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. That was almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemed to be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group had been overcome by the aliens. It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could the primitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was its cunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work. Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to find remotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction. The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weapons into a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed to prevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had found render the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive, man had to colonize. And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. The explorers went out in desperation to find what they could the it now seemed, no more time could be wasted here. Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair to They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what? For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the ship to them? \"Physically fine. You can see him. But—\" Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not thick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to make some kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned up Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seize on the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a little spread out. Three. Seven. Zero. The answers were right. By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the twisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took a long time telling. silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. \"Is it the fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims.\" Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs dropped down to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd of monsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost as tall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high. The kids of the exploring party.... Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers, puzzlement in her face. \"Why?\" And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the \"No,\" he told her. \"Replenish the stars.\" But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.\n\n<question>:\nWhat isn't a reason that it was foolish for Gwayne to leave the ship in such a hurry?\n\n<options>:\nA the air is dangerous for him to breathe\nB he forgot to bring the radio\nC they didn't know for sure what was out there\nD he was outnumbered\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,051	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>:\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! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So did the gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. humans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously and arrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superior As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merely Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was a not death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plastic surgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over his clothing the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a rather ugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felt he was, which was what mattered. \"You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill,\" Gabe said, taking out was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had just The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forces now ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were too strong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only to smash back, and now it was too late for that. Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. \"So, it's you again?\" other man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion of 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 It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in no To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out onto at all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem to remember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a moment Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at him a little, but not enough. He sat up. \"Guess I'm not hurt or you'd have thrown me back in.\" \"And that's no joke,\" the fat man agreed. \"I don't know who he is,\" Gabe said almost merrily, \"except that he's of my—of our appreciation.\" Her hand reached toward her credit-carrier with deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but only casually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciation held little gratitude. had been perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperate or despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was known could call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope it extended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification. Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. 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 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?\" included in its scope. \"Do you want to keep him from recognizing you There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and she wondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- or third- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make it she thought, the best way her body was much too good a one to risk so casually. them would stay.... \"If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him,\" she asked, \"why then subject she feared. \"You have a pretty good body there. Why run the 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 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.\" \"But I have plenty of money.\" The young man coughed. The Vinzz 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 casing had? He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happened and tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her that the hulk he inhabited was a sick one he still couldn't understand biological impossibility, no one could tell. It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had ever been proved that an alien life-form had \"desecrated\" a human body, Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity held its self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despite \"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 the crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do. He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing to match the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably many student of the \"wanted\" fax that had decorated public buildings from time immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that he might one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one of the men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, though not an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom the police had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capital 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 , the new tenant thought, as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obvious rude health, was not a very comfortable fit. \"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 see his body spoiled.\" \"It very probably he was relieved at having someone with whom to share his secret. she hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. \"Of course I'd go with you,\" she went on, now knowing she lied, \"when you got your ... old body back.\" \"You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?\" she went on. \"You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose, does he?\" \"I don't want to know!\" he spat. \"I wouldn't want it if I could get it back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as he looked in a mirror.\" He swung long legs over the side of his bed. \"Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what a hulk I had!\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat was the purpose of the ugly man seeming to guard Gabe?\n\n<options>:\nA He was actually guarding Gabe's wife.\nB He felt affection towards Gabe.\nC He chose to be near for money.\nD He didn't want his body damaged.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
2,429	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nAI: what's the worst that could happen? Stephen Cave: Thinking about the impact of AI is not something that any one discipline owns or does in any very systematic way. So if academia is going to rise to the challenge and provide thought leadership on this hugely important issue, then we’re going to need to do it by breaking down current disciplinary boundaries and bringing people with very different expertise together. I think there are many areas of science where more interdisciplinary engagement would be valuable. Biotech’s another example. In that sense AI isn’t unique, but I think because thinking about AI is still in very early stages, we have an opportunity to shape the way in which we think about it, and build that community. At a recent talk, Naomi Klein said that addressing the challenge of climate change could not have come at a worse time. The current dominant political and economic ideologies, along with growing isolationist sentiment, runs contrary to the bipartisan, collaborative approaches needed to solve global issues like climate change. Do you see the same issues hampering a global effort to respond to the challenges AI raises? Climate change suffers from the problem that the costs are not incurred in any direct way by the industrialists who own the technology and are profiting from it. With AI, that has been the case so far although not on the same scale. There has been disruption but so far, compared to industrialisation, the impact has been fairly small. That will probably change. AI companies, and in particular the big tech companies, are very concerned that this won't go like climate change, but rather it will go like GMOs: that people will have a gut reaction to this technology as soon as the first great swathe of job losses take hold. People speculate that 50m jobs could be lost in the US if trucking is automated, which is conceivable within 10 years. You could imagine a populist US government therefore simply banning driverless cars. So I think there is anxiety in the tech industry that there could be a serious reaction against this technology at any point. And so my impression is that there is a feeling within these companies that these ethical and social implications need to be taken very seriously, now. And that a broad buy-in by society into some kind of vision of the future in which this technology plays a role is required, if a dangerous – or to them dangerous – counteraction is to be avoided. My personal experience working with these tech companies is that they are concerned for their businesses and genuinely want to do the right thing. Of course there are intellectual challenges and there is money to be made, but equally they are people who don't think when they get up in the morning that they're going to put people out of jobs or bring about the downfall of humanity. As the industry matures it's developing a sense of responsibility. One of the dominant narratives around not only AI but technology and automation more generally is that we, as humans, are at the mercy of technological progress. If you try and push against this idea you can be labelled as being anti-progress and stuck in the past. But we do have a lot more control than we give ourselves credit for. For example, routineness and susceptibility to automation are not inevitable features of occupations, job design is hugely important. How do we design jobs? How do we create jobs that allow people to do the kind of work they want to do? There can be a bit of a conflict between being impacted by what's happening and having some sort of control over what we want to happen. Certainly, we encounter technological determinism a lot. And it's understandable. For us as individuals, of course it does feel like it always is happening and we just have to cope. No one individual can do much about it, other than adapt. But that's different when we consider ourselves at a level of a society, as a polis [city state], or as an international community. I think we can shape the way in which technology develops. We have various tools. In any given country, we have regulations. There's a possibility of international regulation. But luckily, we have got to that point in recent years of accepting that we are not the only form of intelligence. But now, AI is challenging that from a different direction. Just as we are accepting that the natural world offers this enormous range of different intelligences, we are at the same time inventing new intelligences that are radically different to humans. And I think, still, this anthropomorphic picture of the kind of humanoid android, the robot, dominates our idea of what AI is too much. And too many people, and the industry as well, talk about human-level artificial intelligence as a goal, or general AI, which basically means like a human. But actually what we're building is nothing like a human. Yeah, absolutely. Yes, right now, perhaps it is a product of our anthropomorphising bias. But there is a tendency to see a narrative of AI versus humanity, as if it's one or the other. And yet, obviously, there are risks in this technology long before it acquires any kind of manipulative agency. Where do you think this AI-human conflict, or concept of a conflict, comes from? Do you think that's just a reflection of historical conversations we've had about automation, or do you think it is a deeper fear? There is this long tradition, in Western culture in particular, with associating intelligence and dominance and power. It's interesting to speculate about how, and I wish I knew more about it, and I'd like to see more research on this, about how different cultures perceive AI. It's well known that Japan is very accepting of technology and robots, for example. You can think, well, we in the West have long been justifying power relations of a certain kind on the basis that we're 'cleverer'. That's why men get to vote and women don't, or whatever. In a culture where power is not based on intelligence but, say, on a caste system, which is purely hereditary, we’d build an AI, and it would just tune in, drop out, attain enlightenment, just sit in the corner. Or we beg it to come back and help us find enlightenment. It might be that we find a completely different narrative to the one that's dominant in the West. That's a big question. Certainly I don't lie awake at night worried that robots are going to knock the door down and come in with a machine gun. If the robots take over the world, it won't be by knocking the door down. At the moment, I think it's certainly as big a risk that we have a GMO moment, and there's a powerful reaction against the technology which prevents us from reaping the benefits, which are enormous. I think that's as big a risk as the risks from the technologies themselves. I think one worry that we haven't talked about is that we've become extremely dependent upon this technology. And that we essentially become deskilled. There's an extent to which the history of civilisation is the history of the domestication of the human species sort of by ourselves, and also by our technology, to some extent. And AI certainly allows for that to reach a whole new level. Just think about GPs with diagnostic tools. Even now, my GP consults the computer fairly regularly. But as diagnostic tools get better, what are they going to be doing other than just typing something into the computer and reading out what comes back? At which point, you might as well do away with the GP. But then, who does know about medicine? And so we do need to worry about deskilling and about becoming dependent. And it is entirely possible that you can imagine a society in which we're all sort of prosperous, in a sense. Our basic bodily needs are provided for, perhaps, in a way, to an extent that we've never before even dreamed of. Unprecedented in human history.\n\n<question>:\nAccording to Cave, what issue does AI development share with climate change threats?\n\n<options>:\nA Western industries rely too much on certain materials and technology to abandon use of AI and things like fossil fuels\nB Those in charge of climate change threats and AI don't experience societal costs sustained from negative outcomes\nC They inevitably contribute to a widening income disparity among the wealthy and those living in poverty\nD At a certain point, AI and responses to climate change will eradicate job positions that many humans currently fill\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
1,263	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>:\nPottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more and 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!\" fame and fortune of the House of Masur.\" Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned him a beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enough thing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated in their desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and they did. his brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, of course, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe. for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him a whaling for it. There was also some talk going around about agreements made between them.\" After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotul The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up with million had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting the brothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance. especially for the House of Masur.\" What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. They destroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was. The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale of Masur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth. sells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of their eyes, we can be ruined.\" The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the while from the House of Masur brothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, several gas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove business at a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except the brothers Masur. The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making an energetic protest to the governor of Lor. natural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—with commercials. Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time or they would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay. Earthmen are taking care of that.\" At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselves The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom. The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, \"I cannot All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for the purpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, they had to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help. with something called \"blacktop\" and jammed with an array of glittering new automobiles. An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, now that they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul ached with desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them and made upon the business of the Pottery of Masur. \"Once,\" he said formally, \"the Masur fortune was the greatest in Masur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greater bones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how prone is the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, and the music,\" he explained. \"I cannot afford the other things.\" Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford the merchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, considering the cost of operating an interstellar spaceship.\" \"Impossible,\" said Zotul drably. \"Not I and all my brothers together have so much money any more.\" involutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles that might have had a discouraging effect. \"Just sign this paper,\" said Broderick, \"and you become part of our Easy Payment Plan.\" Zotul drew back. \"I have five brothers. If I took all these things for myself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue.\" \"Here.\" Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. \"Have each of your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That is all there is to it.\" It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotul wrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won. \"I will talk it over with them,\" he said. \"Give me the total so I will have the figures.\" 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, you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to be paid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight. This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble.\" \"I see.\" Zotul puzzled over it sadly. \"It is too much,\" he said. \"Our plant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.\" company.\" Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman, won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarter interest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth. These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears. The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but the Earthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on the new concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by a batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had to buy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age? The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan. They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electric fans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth could possibly sell them. \"We will be forty years paying it all off,\" exulted Zotul, \"but meantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?\" But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option. The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. The slow, but it was extremely sure. The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had less money and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but television kept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for the pangs of impoverishment. The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotul designed and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikons were a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and sold them for less. The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy any more, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully. \"You got us into this,\" they said, emphasizing their bitterness with fists. \"Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have some of toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance. \"So you can't pay,\" he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. He \"If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everything attached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they are will only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of your pottery to us.\" The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think of beating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and was somewhat comforted. \"To fail,\" said Koltan soberly, \"is not a Masur attribute. Go to the Masur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it is from you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest and richest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact.\" bought you out.\" \"Our government....\" \"Your governments belong to us, too,\" said Broderick. \"When they could not pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we took them over, just as we are taking you over.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat was the main reason the Masur company failed?\n\n<options>:\nA Zotul relied on the Earthmen too much\nB the Earthmen improved and controlled everything on Zur\nC lack of effort from the brothers\nD the brothers borrowed too much to every pay it back\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]
2,520	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>:\nfreely in Social Media while rallying a Web 2.0 content boom, the inner capital are being accumulated by those who share. The key motivator of Social Media and the core spirit of Web 2.0 is a mind switch called in User Generated Content. It is the pledge of Creative Commons. It is vastly interconnected networks, which, by changing the strength of the synapses between cells, can process information, and learn. A neuron, by sharing chemical signals with its neighbors, can be integrated into more meaningful patterns that keep the neuron active and alive. Moreover, work on a similar principle of connecting and sharing. Originally, the brain is quite open. A neural network exists to share activity and Thus, our brain supports sharing in its very system-nature. This has profound implications for the creative process. Whenever you have an intention to create, you will find it easier to generate more creative ideas if you keep the sharing process firmly in mind. The creative snowball. If your internal cognitive system encourages sharing, you can engineer a feedback loop of happiness, which will help you generate even more ideas in return. It’s a kind of butterfly- effect, as the small creative energy you spend will eventually return to make you, and the world, more creative. productivity, if only because they’ve switched off their sharing paths. People generally like to share what they create, but in a culture that tells them to be protective of their ideas, people start to believe in the danger of sharing. Then Sharism will be degraded in their mind and choice, her choice will be, “Share.” These mind-switches are too subtle to be felt. But since the brain, and society, is a connected system, the accumulation of these company, a nation is oriented toward Sharism or not. For those who are not, what they defend as “cultural goods” and “intellectual property” are just excuses for the status quo of keeping a community closed. Much of their “culture” will be protected, but the net result is the direct loss of many other precious ideas, and the subsequent loss of all the potential gains of sharing. This lost knowledge is a black hole in our life, which may start to swallow other values as well. Non-sharing culture misleads us with its absolute separation of Private and Public space. It makes creative action a binary choice between public and private, open and closed. This creates a gap in the spectrum of knowledge. Although this gap has the potential to become a valuable creative space, concerns about privacy make this gap hard to fill. We shouldn’t be surprised that, to be safe, most people keep their sharing private and stay “closed.” They may fear the Internet creates a potential for abuse that they can’t fight alone. However, the paradox is: The less you share, the less power you have. New Technologies and the Rise of Sharism Let’s track back to 1999, when there were only a few hundred pioneer bloggers created more readers, and more readers made more blogs. The revolution was viral. mind, by asking themselves, “Who is going to see this?” Bloggers are stay out of trouble. It’s not self-censorship, but a sense of smart can have better control over a wide spectrum of relationships. Like how Flickr allows people to share their photos widely, but safely. The checkbox-based privacy of Flickr may seem unfamiliar to a new user, but box we can choose to share or not to share. From my observations, I have retaining flexible choices. The rapid emergence of Social Applications that can communicate and cooperate, by allowing people to output content from one service to online social networks, and potentially reach a huge audience. As a result, such a Micro-pipeline system is making Social Media a true alternative to broadcast media. These new technologies are reviving Sharism in our closed culture. Local Practice, Global Gain Otherwise, you might lose the power of sharing. Permanently. You might need something to spur you on, to keep you from quitting and Then, if anything interesting comes your way: Share It! The easiest way if you can keep track of the feedback that you get from sharing. You will realize that almost all sharing activities will generate positive results. The happiness that this will obtain is only the most immediate reward. But there are others. The first type of reward that you will get comes in the form of excitement. The second reward is access to all the other stuff being shared by friends in your network. Since you know and trust them, you will be that much more interested in what they have to share. Already, the return is a multiple of the small meme you first shared. But the third type of return is more dramatic still. Anything you share can be forwarded, circulated and republished via other people’s networks. This cascade effect can spread your work to the networked masses. Improvements in social software are making the speed of dissemination as fast as a mouse-click. You should get to know the Sharism-You. You’re about to become popular, and fast This brings us to the fourth and final type of return. It has a meaning not only for you, but for the whole of society. If you so choose, you may allow others to create derivative works from what you share. This one choice could easily snowball into more creations along the sharing about creating and sharing as you are. After many iterative rounds of development, a large creative work may spring from your choice to share. Of course, you will get the credit that you asked for, and deserve. And it’s okay to seek financial rewards. But you will in every case get something just as substantial: Happiness. The more people who create in the spirit of Sharism, the easier it will wave of Social Media. However, these media rights will belong to new age. The main one is copyright. One concern is that any loss of control over copyrighted content will lead to noticeable deficits in personal wealth, or just loss of control. 5 years ago, I would have said that this was a possibility. But things are changing today. The sharing environment is more protected than you might think. Many new social applications make it easy to set terms-of-use along your sharing path. Any infringement of those terms will be challenged not just by the law, but by your community. Your audience, who benefit form your sharing, can copyright holder, this sounds ideal. Furthermore, by realizing all the immediate and emergent rewards that can be had by sharing, you may eventually find that copyright and “All Rights Reserved” are far from your mind. You will enjoy sharing too much to worry about who is keeping a copy. The new economic formula is, the more people remix your works, the higher the return. those die- hard Communists we know, they have often abused people’s sharing nature and forced them to give up their rights, and their property. Socialism, that tender Communism, in our experience also lacked respect for these rights. Under these systems, the state owns all property. Under Sharism, you can keep ownership, if you want. But I like to share. And this is how I choose to spread ideas, and prosperity Sharism is totally based on your own consensus. It’s not a very hard concept to understand, especially since copyleft movements like the Free Software Foundation and Creative Commons have been around for years. These movements are redefining a more flexible spectrum of licenses for both developers and end-users to tag their works. Because the new easier to re-share those works in new online ecosystems. Software. This is an evolutionary leap, a small step for us and a giant one for human society. With new “hairy” emergent technologies sprouting all around us, we can generate higher connectivities and increase the throughput of our social links. The more open and strongly connected we may remain a distant dream, and even a well-defined public sharing of a vast and equitable sharing environment can be the gatekeeper of our made more nuanced with the micro-involvement of the sharing community. Using these tools, anyone can create a large social impact. With multiple devices and many social applications, each of us can become more sociable, and society more individual. We no longer have to act alone. of Practice) or problem-solving context. It is also an antidote to social depression, since sharelessness is just dragging our society down. In present or formerly totalitarian countries, this downward cycle flexible and more productive. These vast networks of sharing will create a new social order−A Mind Revolution!\n\n<question>:\nWhat do certain corporations lose by remaining closed off to sharing?\n\n<options>:\nA Collective bargaining\nB Reputational power\nC Lucrative ideas\nD Stock market gains\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
292	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>:\nspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on her head. \"Svan, I'm afraid,\" she said. \"Who are we to decide if this is a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will be trouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood.\" Svan laughed harshly. \" The other woman spoke unexpectedly. \"The Council was right,\" she agreed. \"Svan, what must we do?\" Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. \"One moment. Ingra, do you still object?\" The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She looked around at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visibly convinced by Svan. \"No,\" she said slowly. \"I do not object.\" \"And the rest of us? Does any of us object?\" Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture of assent. \"Good,\" said Svan. \"Then we must act. The Council has told us that we alone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if the Earth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must not return.\" An old man shifted restlessly. \"But they are strong, Svan,\" he Svan nodded. \"No. They will leave. But they will never get back to Earth.\" Svan shrugged. \"The Council did not know what we would face. The Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice was dull. \"What is your plan?\" he asked. Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at his feet, held up a shiny metal globe. \"One of us will plant this in the \"We will let chance decide who is to do the work,\" he said angrily. \"Is there anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think....\" No answer. Svan jerked his head. \"Good,\" he said. \"Ingra, bring me that bowl.\" Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad arm there were a few left. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidly creasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred it with his hand, offered it to the girl. \"You first, Ingra,\" he said. She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slip and held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svan Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled. Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over, striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing.... He stared at them in a new light, saw their indecision magnified, became opposition. Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was a coward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any might be the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspecting every one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractions of a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision. Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftly beneath the table, marked his own slip. In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked in secret. His voice was very tired as he said, \"I will plant the bomb.\" He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searching the faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered. Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men? The right answer leaped up at him. They all are Not one of them understands what this means. They're afraid. He clamped his lips. \"Go faster, Ingra,\" he ordered the girl who was driving. \"Let's get this done with.\" She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in her jungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. The that followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: \"Halt!\" The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on the order was just issued. It is thought there is danger.\" Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. \"It is urgent,\" he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in a complicated gesture. \"Do you understand?\" \"By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—\" He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan was faster. His gamble had failed in his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initial advantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guard lay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan had ruthlessly pounded it against the road. Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally. Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save the jungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would be no trace. Svan strode back to the car. \"Hurry up,\" he gasped to the girl. \"Now there is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keep a watch for other guards.\" Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned the lights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartment under the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to get said. \"They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—we were wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?\" Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. \"We must circle back Svan, listening, thought: It's not much of a plan. The guards would not be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. If Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently counting off the seconds. \"Go ahead,\" he ordered. \"I will wait here.\" \"Svan.\" The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reached for him, kissed him. \"Good luck to you, Svan,\" she said. \"Good luck,\" repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor of the car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around, sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a few hundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again. Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean? Was it an error that the girl should die with the others? There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it was driven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. And since he could not know which was the one who had received the marked slip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die. its own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circling slim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to the side of the ship. Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance. absently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. He turned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the first cross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men? He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground car Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. \"Svan! They're coming! They found\n\n<question>:\nHow does Ingra’s kiss affect Svan?\n\n<options>:\nA Ingra’s kiss makes Svan think twice about his decision to destroy the Earth ship. It makes him feel his humanity, momentarily breaking his steadfast desire to go through with this plan.\nB Ingra’s kiss does nothing to Svan. He continues with his plan, annoyed.\nC Ingra’s kiss makes Svan think twice about his decision to sacrifice himself for the cause. It makes him feel something toward her, momentarily breaking his steadfast desire to go through with his plan.\nD Ingra’s kiss makes Svan think twice about his decision to sacrifice Ingra in the name of his rebel cause. It makes him feel something toward her, momentarily breaking his steadfast desire to go through with his plan.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,306	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>:\nDirty Laundry Now and then, a documentary film comes along that makes us re-examine the rules that unofficially govern the genre: Can there be a middle ground between fiction and fact? Can a documentary use scripted scenes and yet remain ontologically authentic? How much can you stylize material before you alter the reality that you're striving, at least in theory, to capture? This is not cinema vérité , and nothing has been left to chance. The director selected his four subjects from many hundreds of potential candidates, followed them around for months, and then scripted their monologues and dialogues to reflect what he says he saw. Calling his own film \"an exercise in mendacity,\" Barker goes on, \"I'm quite happy to tell lies about my characters and even collude with their self-delusions if it enables me to communicate larger dramatic truths.\" Spurned by U.S. distributors, Unmade Beds opened two weeks ago in a small screening room in downtown Manhattan, where it proceeded to set box office records and generate lots of (largely favorable) press. In part due to smart publicity, which has bannered some of the bad reviews and commentary (\"I have to tell you that this film upset me so much that I really don't want to have anything to do with it\"--a New York publicist), it threatens to become a cause célèbre --and to be coming soon to a theater near you. It's always nice to see distributors proved wrong about the merits of \"difficult\" films, but in this case I think they did the decent thing. Unmade Beds isn't just bad--it's obnoxiously, noxiously bad, a freak show for the empathetically challenged. The outrage it has prompted isn't the Puritan kind it's more like legitimate revulsion at watching a blowhard pervert people's lives in the name of \"larger dramatic truths.\" Those truths are large, all right. Take Michael, the 40-year-old, 5 foot 4 inch lonely guy who has been looking for a wife for almost two decades. If you were to walk past him on the street, you might think that a man of his small stature might have some trouble getting dates and be rather bitter about it. The larger dramatic truth is that Michael has lots of trouble getting dates and is very bitter about it. Just in case you feel too sorry for him, however, Barker is careful to include a homophobic monologue in which Michael complains about young women who waste their lives hanging out with effeminate males. Aimee, on the other hand, is a pathetic big loser, weighing in at 225 pounds. Determined to get married before she turns 30, she generally is filmed beside bags of groceries and assorted junk foods. She cries about her situation to her thin friend, Laurie, who, in one scene, gently mentions Aimee's weight. Clearly the scene is scripted, but Aimee does a good job acting taken aback. She has always been fat--and she's \"OK with it,\" and a man just has to accept it. This is followed by more talk about how you attract men. Will they respect you if you call them back? If you express too much interest? \"Or,\" the viewer thinks, \"if you're 225 pounds?\" The only natural performer here is Brenda, a garrulous exhibitionist who blossoms with the camera on her--she could have a career as a Penny Marshall-style character actress. Divorced and aging, Brenda needs money and is willing to charge for her sexual services. It shouldn't be too difficult, because men are always showing her their dicks (\"I'm up to two dicks a day\"). They meet her and, a few minutes later, they show her their dicks. Weird, huh? What Barker leaves out (it's in a New York Observer article) is that Brenda, a former lap dancer, works in marketing at a strip joint. Presumably, men standing next to her in line at McDonald's don't show her their dicks. Nor, presumably, does she show them her breasts--although she bares them for Barker's camera, jabbering about her body while she doffs her clothes and steps into the shower and soaps up. Barker might have crafted his subjects' monologues from their own words, but he has robbed them of their spontaneity--and, thus, of their essence. They aren't thinking or trying to come to grips with their situations in front of your eyes, because they already know what they're going to say: They've been fixed like butterflies on the ends of pins and held up for voyeuristic inspection. The scenes with friends and confidantes have a crude, programmatic purpose. You can imagine the director composing a shot (the shots are tightly composed and elaborately lighted) and reminding them, \"In this scene she points out that you should lose weight and you get shocked and defensive. Ready ... Action.\" Call me square, but I find this antithetical to the documentary spirit. An Englishman who trained as an anthropologist before going to work for BBC Television, Barker clearly made up his mind about his material before his cameras began to roll--so it's no surprise that it feels prechewed and predigested. When reality interfered (Brenda apparently did not go through with a marriage to an immigrant in search of a green card for $10,000, as she does on-screen), Barker brushed the truth aside as immaterial, following her up the steps of City Hall in her wedding dress because it was \"true to her character.\" But what separates documentary from fiction is that real people are often more complicated, and more conflicted, than finished characters--as Brenda proved to be more (or, at least, other) than the sum of her parts. That's the kind of truth that reveals itself to documentary filmmakers after the fact, when they go over footage and discover unexpected patterns, dissonances, glimmers of a universe that's richer and messier than the one they set out to portray. So what are Barker's \"larger dramatic truths\"? Single people in big cities can be desperate. Single people fear they're going to die alone--unloved and unloving. People are judged and, in turn, judge others by how they look. Big news. One could argue, charitably, that the movie is meant to be prescriptive, that Barker intends for us to regard the ways in which his subjects delude themselves and thereby learn to see through our own self-delusions. But Barker hasn't concocted a larger dramatic structure that would hold those larger dramatic truths together and help us comprehend where these people went wrong. He dramatizes right up to the point where a dramatist would be expected to provide some insight--and then, hey, he's a documentarian. Unmade Beds might make a good date movie. There's little to argue about in its subjects' personalities--both males and females will find them repulsive--and the picture the film paints of single life in the big city is so bleak that you'll probably want to jump into bed with whoever is sitting next to you. Anything to keep from turning into one of those people. The Slums of Beverly Hills also walks a line between two genres, in this case coming-of-age sex comedy and autobiographical monologue. Tamara Jenkins, the writer and first-time director, has an eye for absurd juxtapositions that was obviously sharpened by the pain of her nomadic upbringing. Her protagonist (Natasha Lyonne) spends her teen-age years being shuttled with her two brothers from one cheap dive to another in the 90210 ZIP code, all because her egregiously unsuccessful father (Alan Arkin) wants them to be educated in the best schools. (\"Furniture's temporary\n\n<question>:\nWhat is the author's purpose for writing this?\n\n<options>:\nA to inform people that documentaries aren't always accurate\nB to persuade people to be critical of movies they watch\nC to explain different films he's seen recently\nD to inform the audience of the changes in cinema\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
36	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>:\nrewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man who could devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously a Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them person with unusual patience.\" Johnson asked skeptically: \"How about a sample first?\" Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity, though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, with Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared, speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panacea purveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never had impossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruit juice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves in the ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous in proclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire history of therapeutics.\" Harvey nudged him warningly. \"Easy, my boy, easy.\" He turned to the bartender apologetically. \"Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands are unconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man's thirst.\" \"Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here just proper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger and Johnson's response almost floored them. \"Who said anything about picked up buckets that hung on the tank. \"Johnson, as I saw instantly, is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly.\" \"Just the same,\" Joe griped, \"paying for water isn't something you can get used to in ten minutes.\" In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang from \"What's this doing here?\" Harvey asked, puzzled. \"I thought Johnson had stopped and their fists unclenched. \"Thought you gents were leaving,\" the mayor called out, seeing them 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. his fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressed gently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his features drooping like a bloodhound's. \"Bring him in here!\" Johnson cried. \"I mean, get him away! He's coming ?\" demanded Johnson. \"I come down with it 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.\" \"Then he'll be here for months!\" Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor and his gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathe in tiny, uncontaminating gasps. \"You'll find everything you want in the back room,\" Johnson said Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face, case,\" said Johnson. \"That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared with Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression of Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. \"No tricks now. I want a taste of Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. \"Did Johnson ask to the same with six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?\" At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with our streamlined panacea He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more or 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 phenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, he , using his other two whispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in the kitchen, attending to the next course. \"He would make any society complained Harvey. \"I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honest \"It's been a great honor, gents,\" he said. \"Ain't often I have visitors, and I like the best, like you two gents.\" Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius Johnson sighed ponderously. \"I was afraid you'd act like that,\" he said remain calm. \"My friend,\" he said to the mayor, and his tones took on a schoolmasterish severity, \"your long absence from Earth has perhaps made you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered the folk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is folly \"I don't get the connection,\" objected Johnson. \"That's right,\" Johnson came back emphatically. \"But what would your \"Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?\" \"Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money would stood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensively acquired. \"I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature,\" he said to Johnson. \"I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only your filial mammoth to keep you company.\" \"I sure will,\" Johnson confessed glumly. \"I got pretty attached to Genius, and I'm going to miss him something awful.\" Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing off the table almost all at once. \"My friend,\" he said, \"we take your only solace, it is true, but in his place we can offer something no less amazing and instructive.\" worst and expects nothing better. \"Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room of \"We must not be selfish, my boy,\" Harvey said nobly. \"We have had our chance 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 \"Is that what you were talking about?\" the mayor snorted. \"What makes and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had, with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventor of this absolutely awe-inspiring device.\" \"I ain't in the market for a radio,\" Johnson said stubbornly. He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue our sorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet. \"To make a long story, Mr. Johnson,\" he said, \"Joseph and I were among the chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just before his tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane.\" He his greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!\" \"This what?\" Johnson blurted out. \"In simple terms,\" clarified Harvey, \"the ingenious doctor discovered find himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!\" \"And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?\" \"It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied Doctor Dean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact.\" Johnson recoiled. \"No—no, hyper-scientific trimmings?\" \"Why, I don't know,\" Johnson said in confusion. \"For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detect the simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosed broadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctor failed. But that was understandable a sensitive soul like his could stand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure to solve the mystery caused him to take his own life.\"\n\n<question>:\nWhat makes Johnson's son so different?\n\n<options>:\nA He grew up without Earth's gravity, allowing him to grow larger than most people.\nB He is much larger than the average man.\nC Like Genius, he is not human.\nD He's been living isolated from other humans with his father.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "A" } ]
1,568	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>:\nRootless and footloose, a man in space can't help but dream of coming home. But something nobody should do is bet on the validity of a homesick dream! hotel carried so far as a small fee to be paid the bellboy, and he A murmur greeted the order. Craig experienced the thrill of knowing the envy of the others. Grav 1—that meant Terra. He crossed the long, dreary room, knowing the eyes of the other men were upon him. \"Yeah,\" Craig said disgustedly. Traffic in the illicit mental-image tapes was known as far into space as lonely men had penetrated. Intergalactic considered them as great a menace to mental and moral stability as the hectopiates. Craig wearily got the man out of the room, took a PON pill, and eased himself into the bed. It had been a weird day and he had not liked it. There was no telling how long it would take him to shake his—sea legs, the psychologist had called it. One thing was sure: Terra aggressively went after its strangers. Craig moved in the direction indicated. He fought the irrational fear that he had missed an important step in the complicated clerical \"Place your clothing in the receptacle provided and assume a stationary position on the raised podium in the center of the lock.\" Craig obeyed the robot voice and began reluctantly to remove his flight jacket. Its incredibly fine-grained leather would carry none of the strange, foreign associations for the base station clerk who would \"You are retarding the progress of others. Please respond more quickly to your orders.\" Craig quickly removed the last of his clothing. It was impossible to hate a robot, but one could certainly hate those who set it into operation. disregarding.\" Craig obeyed and clenched his teeth against a sharp stinging. His respect for the robot-controlled equipment of bases had risen. When instructions, when a man appeared in the open doorway. \"I am Captain Wyandotte,\" said the man in a pleasant voice. \"Well, what's next?\" asked Craig somewhat more belligerently than he had intended. Wyandotte seemed to know all \"I was entered as a spaceman when I was 16,\" Craig said. \"I've never been down for any period as yet.\" Wyandotte. \"Men on a rolling ocean acclimated themselves to a rolling \"growing complexity of Terran society.\" And yet the man could not be pinned down to any specific condition the spaceman would find intolerable. Craig began to hate the delay that kept him from Terra. Through the ports of the headquarters base satellite, he scanned the constellations for the scores of worlds he had visited during his eleven years in unspoken warning he felt underlying all that the man said. \"Of course it has changed,\" Craig was protesting. \"Anyway, I never really knew very much about Terra. So what? I know it won't be as it was in tapezines either.\" \"Yet you are so completely sure you will want to live out your life there, that you are willing to give up space service for it.\" \"We've gone through this time and time again,\" Craig said wearily. \"I gave you my reasons for quitting space. We analyzed them. You agreed that you could not decide that for me and that my decision is logical. You tell me spacemen don't settle down on Terra. Yet you won't—or can't—tell me why. I've got a damned good job there—\" \"Mr. Craig,\" the psychologist said slowly, \"you have my authorization for you to return to Terra as a private citizen of that planet. You will be given a very liberal supply of PON—which you will begged to be allowed to withdraw their resignations. \"The twelfth day is the worst,\" a grizzled spaceman told Craig. \"That's when the best of 'em want out.\" Craig clenched the iron rung of his bed and struggled to bring the old man's face into focus. \"How ... how do they know when you ought ... to come out?\" he asked \"I'm ... all right,\" Craig mumbled at the voices. He struggled with the bonds of his cot. With terrible effort he forced his eyes open. Two white-clad figures, ridiculously out of proportion, hovered wraithlike over him. Four elongated eyes peered at him. Attendants coming for to take me home.... \"Touch me and I'll kick your teeth in!\" he yelled. \"I'm going to Terra. Wish you were going to Terra?\" Then it was better. Oddly, he passed the twelfth day easily. By the fourteenth day, Craig knew he could stand Grav 1. The whine of the Only one of the score of men in the centrifuge tank remained voluntarily in his cot. \"Space article violator,\" the old man informed Craig. \"Psycho, I think. \"That's enough, son.\" The old man eyed Craig for an instant before looking away. \"Pick something to talk about. What do you figure on doing when you get to Terra, for instance?\" \"Once I get set up, I'll probably try to open my own business.\" \"And spend your weekends on Luna.\" Craig half rose from his cot, jarred into anger. But the old spaceman turned, smiling wryly. \"Don't get hot, kid. I guess I spent too long in Zone V.\" He paused to examine his wrinkled thinking anyone who stays closer'n eighty light years from Terra is a land-lubber.\" Craig relaxed, realizing he had acted childishly. \"Used to think the same. Then I took the exam and got this job.\" The old man looked up at Craig. \"You don't know much about Terra, do you, son?\" \"Not much.\" Craig regretted his question. He would have muttered some word of apology, but the old man continued. \"Maybe you've read some of the old sea stories, or more'n likely had \" They'll dump him, won't they? \" as the plastic melted into a single, seamless whole. It was ready for irradiation. Probably in another ten years his son-to-be would put it on and play spaceman. But Craig swore he'd make sure that the kid knew what a stinking life it was. With pangs of anxiety he could not completely suppress, Craig obeyed. Orderly 12 handed him a message container. \"Who's it from? Somebody on Terra?\" Craig descended the ramp from the huge jet and concentrated on his impressions. One day he would recall this moment, his first on the planet Terra. He tried to recall his first thrill at seeing Los \"A moment, sir. Just a little greeting from the Terra. You understand, of course. Purely routine.\" Craig remained on the final step of the ramp, puzzled. The man turned get it over with quick.\" Craig made his way toward the spaceport administration building. His first physical contact with Terra had passed unnoticed. \"Sir! Sir!\" cried a voice behind him. Craig examined the small object the man had given him before rushing off toward an exit. It was an empty PON tube he had just discarded. He couldn't \"For instance, what part of the city I should live in. That is, what part is closest to where I'll work.\" \"I see,\" said the man noncommittally. It seemed to Craig that he was about to add something. He did not, however, but instead rose from his about him, Craig thought. \"You are the first man we have had from the Intergalactic Service,\" the medium height and, to Craig, a pleasantly rounded figure. He would have attempted to catch her eye had she not immediately occupied herself \"This is Mr. Craig's first landing on Terra, Miss Wendel,\" the personnel man continued. \"Actually, we shall have to consider him in much the same way we would an extraterrestrial.\" without looking at Craig. \"Yes.\" The man laughed. \"You'll excuse us, Mr. Craig. We realize that you couldn't be expected to be familiar with Terra's fashions. In your present outfit you would certainly be typed as a ... well, you'd be\n\n<question>:\nWhy is Wyandotte didactic?\n\n<options>:\nA He is likely being monitored by the Terrans and cannot speak freely.\nB He thinks Craig is an uneducated hick.\nC He knows that gravity conditioning is horrible. He is trying to change Craig's mind about going to Terra.\nD He thinks Craig will be a fish out of water in Terran society.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "D" } ]
1,130	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.] Anybody who shunned a Cure needed his gleaming rod extended above his head about a foot, the wires from it Infield turned his soft blue eyes to the black and tan oxfords with the very thick rubber soles. \"They might get soaked through.\" plate—steps or a manhole cover—what good would your lightning rod do Infield shrugged slightly. \"I suppose a man must take some chances.\" Infield whirled and stalked to the desk. \"That's the answer! The whole Morgan shifted his ponderous weight uneasily. \"Now, Henry, it's no good 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 a nuclear explosion. The foetic gyro ball was worn day and night, for 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 \"You're damned right!\" Infield slammed the door behind him. The cool air of the street was a relief. Infield stepped into the main lightning rod, his face changing when he realized it must be some kind guy's got a lightning rod? You're grounding him! magnetic suction dart dropped away from Infield like a thing that had releasing and drawing all his darts into his belt, making it resemble a move he merely radiated narrowed eyes. \"How long have you been Cured?\" \"Not—not long,\" Infield evaded. The other glanced around the street. He moistened his lips and spoke slowly. \"Do you think you might be interested in joining a fraternal organization of the Cured?\" Infield's pulse raced, trying to get ahead of his thoughts, and losing out. A chance to study a pseudo-culture of the \"Cured\" developed in isolation! \"Yes, I think I might. I owe you a drink for helping me out. 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 it. He didn't know if it would be good form to inquire what kind it was. \"It's a cure for alcoholism,\" Price told him. \"It runs a constant blood check to see that the alcohol level doesn't go over the sobriety limit.\" 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. 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 Infield looked up self-consciously and noticed that they had crossed Of course he didn't, Infield knew. Why should he? It was useless to hate his father for making him study. He didn't want him to die. He had to prove that. Infield sighed. At least this device kept the man on his feet, doing some kind of useful work instead of rotting in a padded cell with a Reggie went away. Price kept dissecting the tobacco and paper. Infield Cured,\" he said as a reminder. Price looked up, no longer interested in the relic of a cigarette. He was suddenly intensely interested and intensely observant of the rest Cured. Those lacking Cures—the Incompletes— must be dealt with .\" Infield's throat went dry. \"And you're the one to deal with them?\" Doubly dangerous to Infield because, even though he was one of the few people who still read books from the old days of therapy to recognize 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 Infield felt cold inside. After a time, he found that the roaring was not just in his head. It was thundering outside. He was getting sick. Price was the type of man who could spread his ideas throughout the ranks of the Cured—if indeed the plot was not already universal, imposed upon many ill minds. He could picture an entirely Cured world and he didn't like the view. Every Cure cut down on the mental and physical abilities of the patient as it was, whether Morgan and the others admitted it or not. But if everyone had a crutch to lean on for one phobia, he would develop 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.\" 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 \"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, same as when he had diagnosed his first case. No, better than that. different. I'd be a hopeless drunk without the Cure. Besides, no one ever gets rid of a Cure.\" the world as represented by these four Cured people. \"I'm afraid I'm for less \"I'll show you.\" He took off the circlet with the lightning rod and \"Now,\" he said, \"I am going out in that rain storm. There's thunder and lightning flashes, Reggie. Come on.\" books. He had had a latent fear of lightning when he chose the lightning rod Cure. He could have picked a safety belt or foetic gyro Infield looked up and saw the lightning reflected on the blade of a can't see the words!\" It was his problem. Infield usually solved other people's problems, but now he ran away—he couldn't even solve his own. Infield realized that he had gone mad as he held the thin blade high He watched the lightning play its light on the blade of his Cure and he The lightning hit him first. \"Mr. Morgan, your partner, Mr. Infield, he—\" saying?\" \"Mr. Infield went out without his Cure in a storm and was struck by lightning. We took him to the morgue. He must have been crazy to go out without his Cure.\" Morgan stared into his bright desk light without blinking. \"This is quite a shock to me. Would you mind leaving? I'll come over to your Reggie went out. \"Yes, sir. He was struck by lightning, struck dead. He Morgan exhaled. Poor Infield. But it wasn't the lightning that killed The thunder, naturally, was what had killed Infield. Loud noise—any\n\n<question>:\nWhy does Infield don a lightning rod at the beginning of the story?\n\n<options>:\nA He wants to infiltrate the fraternal club for the Cured in order to prevent Price's authoritarian rule, so he must blend in.\nB It will protect him against lightning strikes and is meant as a Cure for his astraphobia.\nC He wants to know what it feels like to be a Cured, and therefore he pretends to have a fear of thunder.\nD He is tired of working as a psychiatrist at Infield & Morgan and wants to seek out new opportunities in the world of the Cured.\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
2,498	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nBy their nature cities along coasts and rivers developed so they could be open to trade with each other. From the middle of the 13th century, and for some 300 years after, many settlements dotted along this route formed the prosperous Hanseatic League, a European trading confederation of market towns, before the rise of the nation state led to its dissolution. The Hanseatic League is not well known, and today it lives on most prominently in the name of the German national airline Lufthansa, literally the 'Hansa of the skies', whose planes you can look out of – and down towards the Hanseatic cities – on the short journeys between mainland Europe and Britain. The letters HH on the number plates of cars in Hamburg stand for Hansestadt Hamburg: another proud little memory of this hidden history. In the traumatised atmosphere of post-Brexit Britain, it is worth remembering the Hanseatic League. It could point us towards new relationships between progressive city dwellers in a world that otherwise seems to be putting the brakes on modernity. and it was at exactly this point that the Hanseatic League slowly started to coalesce, eventually influencing our isles. The League is most easily understood as a loose federation of cities that acted together in self-interest to promote trade. The Hanseatic cities developed their own legal system, and their armies came to one another's aid. Merchants who wanted to buy and sell and travel were taking the lead at a time when nation states were not fit for purpose: in the case of England or Denmark, leadership was too centralised and authoritarian, while in German-speaking lands a nation had yet to be formed. The cities involved in the Hanseatic League are found along the Baltic and North Sea coasts, and slightly inland too. The League stretched from Novgorod in the east – in what is now Russia – to London in the west. Tallinn, Riga, Gdańsk, Visby, Berlin, Cologne, Antwerp, Stockholm, Bergen, Kiel, Rostock, Dinant, Bruges, Turku, Groningen, Hanover, Wroclaw, Kaliningrad: all were involved at different stages in the Hanse's history, which ran on into the 1500s. The League covered lands that today find themselves a part of the modern nations of Finland, Sweden, Poland, the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Norway, Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia. It was a huge – and hugely ambitious – undertaking in the days when communications consisted of ink and paper and the only viable method of travel was by ship. Wood, fur, wool, silver, herring, cod and salt were the main items traded. But what was also exchanged was knowledge. In some ways it was an exercise in what we today call 'soft diplomacy'. There was no maniacal ruler overseeing things – merchants met and talked. They raised armies and waged war against kings who threatened their businesses and their freedoms and their peace. There was a kind of proto-democracy at work. Professor Rainer Postel, of the Bundeswehr Universität (Germany's equivalent of Sandhurst military academy), has described the Hanse as \"a community of interests without power politics\". As David Abulafia, Professor of Mediterranean History at Cambridge points out, \"The lack of an elaborate superstructure was one of the things that made the Hanse work. Having said that, one should recognise that Lübeck in particular dominated the League for long periods.\" Germany today – multicultural, economically and culturally motoring, free and fair – seems like the ideal model for a modern European nation state. And part of that success lies in the gravitas the country has given to its Hanseatic history. For Germany is not a top-down country with one city unhealthily dominating as with France and Britain (regional economic inequalities have plagued Britain since the painful de-industrialisation of the 1980s, especially in the north). Germany respects federalism and its cities exist on a much more even keel. The way that Cologne, Munich, Frankfurt, Dusseldorf and Stuttgart all bring varied economic and cultural character to the party is pure Hanse. The former Hanseatic cities of Hamburg, Berlin and Bremen have city state status within Germany, putting them on the same level as a whole region or 'land' like Bavaria or Brandenburg. So how about a new Hanseatic League? I ask Benjamin Barber, senior fellow at New York's Fordham University. \"I believe you will find there is a new Hanse,\" he says, \"that constituted itself about 10 or 11 years ago – including many of the original Hanseatic League cities.\" Barber is founder of the Global Parliament of Mayors, which he describes as a kind of Hanse of all cities, not just European ports, which will give cities a global urban voice and a common platform for action. The parliament convenes for its inaugural session in The Hague in September. \"Cities both exist within nations and transcend nations. Their power lies not just in the extent of Back in Britain, one of history's little oddities pops up on the east coast. Boston in Lincolnshire and King's Lynn in Norfolk were both forward-looking Hanseatic League towns that traded with far-flung ports and hosted foreign merchants. King's Lynn contains the only extantHanse House left in Britain (London's was knocked down to build Cannon Street Station in the 1800s). Yet in the EU referendum these two areas polled among the highest Leave votes of anywhere in the country. and of London and Scotland and their relationship with the rest of Europe. When the EU began as the EEC in the mid-20th century some saw it as a modern day Hanse. Now the EU seems to be waning, perhaps its successor will have to ape the Hanse even more.\" For all its complex beauty, life can ultimately be reduced to a series of binary options: yes or no, stick or twist, in or out, innovation or stagnation, modernity or mythology. The referendum result was disappointing for many progressive observers because it felt like a step backwards. Despite being primarily about trade monopolies and money making, the Hanse was, in its way, an early stab at stepping forwards: it encompassed internationalism, rational thought, free trade, loose democratic institutions and, most crucially of all, movement. The future, for many observers, can only be understood in terms of the free movement of people, capital, goods and ideas. It is this necessary movement, and its possible curtailment, that could be the spark that leads to cities like London to seek independence and parity with other world cities – rather than with the rural hinterlands of Britain. Of course, cities seceding from their nation states would provide huge headaches for countries whose biggest economic driver had been removed – as well as likely deepening ideological differences between city and rural dwellers. Moreover, cities need the food the countryside provides. Yet for all the potential pitfalls, city states can thrive. Look at Singapore, Hong Kong, or de facto city states like Dubai and Abu Dhabi. One of the most telling characteristics about these four – all of course former British imperial enclaves – is that they are utterly outward looking. To return to the sky analogy, it's the airlines of each of these (Singapore Airlines, Cathay Pacific, Emirates and Etihad) that open up each respective city to the world in the way that the machinery of the Hanse did on the Baltic Sea 600 years ago. And it's the unions each city makes with other places that also look thoroughly Hanseatic in character. A model for modern city states, then. But is it one that we want? \"The Hanseatic League was not always accepted by local citizens,\" says Cristina Ampatzidou, \"because the privileges granted to the Hanse merchants were forcing local traders out of competition and many cities took steps to eliminate them. The reasons the countryside is turning to the right [globally] are not independent from cities turning increasingly into speculation machines for the profit of a happy few. It is basically these systemic contradictions that must be addressed before we resort to more isolationist ideas that would intensify the urban-rural political divide. The bottom line is not whether a contemporary Hanse-esque federation is possible, it probably is\n\n<question>:\nFor the author, the Hanseatic League represents all of the following EXCEPT:\n\n<options>:\nA open commerce\nB flexible governing bodies\nC booming industrialization\nD a pragmatic approach\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "C" } ]
396	quality	[ { "human": "Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.\n\n<passage>:\nthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] \"It is rather unusual,\" Magnan said, \"to assign an officer of your rank to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.\" potential, by conventional standards, is nil.\" information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave \"I'll carry it, sealed,\" Retief said. \"That way nobody can sweat it out of me.\" Magnan started to shake his head. \"Well,\" he said. \"If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—\" natural course, as always.\" \"When does this attack happen?\" \"Less than four weeks.\" \"That doesn't leave me much time.\" \"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest of the way.\" how long does it take?\" Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets inside. \"Less than four hours to departure time,\" he said. \"I'd better not start any long books.\" \"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination,\" Magnan \"I'll tell you what,\" Retief said soberly. \"In a pinch, I'll mention your name.\" \"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials,\" Magnan snapped. \"There must be nothing to connect you with the Corps.\" \"They'll never guess,\" Retief said. \"I'll pose as a gentleman.\" \"You'd better be getting started,\" Magnan said, shuffling papers. snootful by takeoff.\" He went to the door. \"No objection to my checking \"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group,\" Retief said. \"Is it on schedule?\" \"What time does it leave?\" a finger inside the sequined collar. \"All tourist reservations were canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship next—\" \"Which gate?\" Retief said. \"Well,\" the clerk said. \"Gate 19,\" he added quickly. \"But—\" To Gates 16-30 . \"Lessee your boarding pass,\" he muttered. \"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?\" Retief asked. the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in interplanetary commerce.\" to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe.\" \"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain,\" Retief said. \"We're due to lift in twenty minutes.\" The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The Captain's voice prevailed. \"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?\" \"Close the door as you leave,\" Retief said. out.\" against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform \"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there.\" \"I see your point.\" Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table. later.\" \"Not on this vessel, you won't,\" the captain said shakily. \"I got my charter to consider.\" \"Ram your charter,\" Hoany said harshly. \"You won't be needing it long.\" the man on the floor. \"Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the slob.\" He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room. aboard for Jorgensen's?\" \"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says. Don't know what we even run in there for.\" \"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?\" \"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?\" \"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.\" \"I ain't superstitious ner nothin',\" Chip said. \"But I'll be triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now.\" \"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and I'm tempted to test it.\" aboard, don't bother to call.\" \"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat,\" Retief said. \"Tell him to pass the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in Terrestrial space.\" \"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off their fun is over.\" gingerly into the hall. \"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti,\" the captain said, looking back from the door. \"But I'll be back to see you later.\" goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket.\" \"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your getting involved in my problems.\" about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast they won't try nothin' close to port.\" \"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.\" Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give some orders to the Mate.\" \"A 2mm needler. Why?\" \"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute.\" Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip. \"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's cabin?\" \"This is it,\" Chip said softly. \"You want me to keep an eye on who comes down the passage?\" \"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?\" \"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain.\" \"You've got damn big ears.\" \"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's.\" \"You do, huh?\" the captain sat down. \"I'm in command of this vessel,\" he said. \"I'm changing course for Alabaster.\" \"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster,\" Retief said. \"So just hold your course for Jorgensen's.\" \"Not bloody likely.\" \"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to change course.\" \"Tell him.\" The captain groaned and picked up the mike. \"Captain to Power Section,\" he said. \"Hold your present course until you hear from me.\" He dropped the mike and looked up at Retief. \"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?\" Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door. \"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's \"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper he's slippery.\" \"What are you going to do?\" the captain demanded. \"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve,\" he said, \"I'm going to stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds.\" The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.\n\n<question>:\nWhat can be inferred about the destination decision at the end of the passsage?\n\n<options>:\nA They will be turning back around to where they came from and calling off the trip\nB Retief will ensure the ship travels to Jorgensen's World, as initially planned\nC It's still unclear at the end of the passage\nD They will be traveling to Alabaster in stead, per the Captain's orders\n\n<answer>:\n", "assistant": "B" } ]

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