{"id": "62139_J05FWZR6_1", "pid": "62139_J05FWZR6_1_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nCAPTAIN CHAOS\n\n\n\n\n   By NELSON S. BOND\n\n\n\n\n   The Callisto-bound\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   needed\n\n\n   a cook. What it got was a piping-voiced\n\n\n   Jonah who jinxed it straight into Chaos.\n\n\n\n\n   We picked up our new cook on Phobos. Not Phoebus or Phoebe; I mean\n Phobos, Mars' inner moon. Our regular victual mangler came down with\n acute indigestion\u2014tasted some of his own cooking, no doubt\u2014when we\n were just one blast of a jet-tube out of Sand City spaceport. But since\n we were rocketing under sealed orders, we couldn't turn back.\n\n\n\n\n   So we laid the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   down on Phobos' tiny cradle-field and bundled\n our ailing grub-hurler off to a hospital, and the skipper said to me,\n \"Mister Dugan,\" he said, \"go out and find us a cook!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Aye, sir!\" I said, and went.\n\n\n\n\n   Only it wasn't that easy. In those days, Phobos had only a handful\n of settlers, and most of them had good-paying jobs. Besides, we were\n at war with the Outer Planets, and no man in his right senses wanted\n to sign for a single-trip jump on a rickety old patrolship bound for\n nobody-knew-where. And, of course, cooks are dime-a-dozen when you\n don't need one, but when you've got to locate one in a hurry they're as\n difficult to find as petticoats in a nudist camp.\n\n\n\n\n   I tried the restaurants and the employment agencies, but it was no\n dice. I tried the hotels and the tourist homes and even one or two\n of the cleaner-looking joy-joints. Again I drew a blank. So, getting\n desperate, I audioed a plaintive appeal to the wealthy Phobosian\n colonists, asking that one of the more patriotic sons-of-riches donate\n a chef's services to the good old I.P.S., but my only response was a\n loud silence.\n\n\n\n\n   So I went back to the ship. I said, \"Sorry, sir. We're up against it. I\n can't seem to find a cook on the whole darned satellite.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The skipper scowled at me from under a corduroy brow and fumed, \"But\n we've got to have a cook, Dugan! We can't go on without one!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"In a pinch,\" I told him, \"\n\n\n    I\n\n\n   might be able to boil a few pies, or\n scramble us a steak or something, Skipper.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Thanks, Dugan, but that won't do. On this trip the men must be fed\n regularly and well. Makeshift meals are O.Q. on an ordinary run, but\n when you're running the blockade\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   He stopped abruptly. But too late; I had caught his slip of the tongue.\n I stared at him. I said, \"The blockade, sir? Then you've read our\n orders?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The Old Man nodded soberly.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes. You might as well know, Lieutenant. Everyone will be told as soon\n as the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   lifts gravs again. My orders were to be opened four hours\n after leaving Sand City. I read them a few minutes ago.\n\n\n\n\n   \"We are to attempt to run the Outer Planets Alliance blockade at any\n spot which reconnaisance determines as favorable. Our objective is\n Jupiter's fourth satellite, Callisto. The Solar Federation Intelligence\n Department has learned of a loyalist uprising on that moon. It is\n reported that Callisto is weary of the war, with a little prompting\n will secede from the Alliance and return to the Federation.\n\n\n\n\n   \"If this is true, it means we have at last found the foothold we have\n been seeking; a salient within easy striking distance of Jupiter,\n capital of the Alliance government. Our task is to verify the rumor\n and, if it be true, make a treaty with the Callistans.\"\n\n\n\n\n   I said, \"Sweet howling stars\u2014some assignment, sir! A chance to end\n this terrible war ... form a permanent union of the entire Solar\n family ... bring about a new age of prosperity and happiness.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"If,\" Cap O'Hara reminded me, \"we succeed. But it's a tough job. We\n can't expect to win through the enemy cordon unless our men are in top\n physical condition. And that means a sound, regular diet. So we must\n find a cook, or\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The search,\" interrupted an oddly high-pitched, but not unpleasant\n voice, \"is over. Where's the galley?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   I whirled, and so did the Old Man. Facing us was an outlandish little\n figure; a slim, trim, natty little Earthman not more than five-foot-two\n in height; a smooth-cheeked young fellow swaddled in a spaceman's\n uniform at least three sizes too large. Into the holster of his harness\n was thrust a Haemholtz ray-pistol big enough to burn an army, and in\n his right hand he brandished a huge, gleaming carving-knife. He frowned\n at us impatiently.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well,\" he repeated impatiently, \"where is it?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The Old Man stared.\n\n\n\n\n   \"W-who,\" he demanded dazedly, \"might you be?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I might be,\" retorted the little stranger, \"lots of people. But I came\n here to be your new cook.\"\n\n\n\n\n   O'Hara said, \"The new\u2014What's your name, mister?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Andy,\" replied the newcomer. \"Andy Laney.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The Old Man's lip curled speculatively. \"Well, Andy Laney,\" he said,\n \"you don't look like much of a cook to\n\n\n    me\n\n\n   .\"\n\n\n\n\n   But the little mugg just returned the Old Man's gaze coolly. \"Which\n makes it even,\" he retorted. \"\n\n\n    You\n\n\n   don't look like much of a skipper\n to\n\n\n    me\n\n\n   . Do I get the job, or don't I?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The captain's grin faded, and his jowls turned pink. I stepped forward\n hastily. I said, \"Excuse me, sir, shall I handle this?\" Then, because\n the skipper was still struggling for words: \"You,\" I said to the little\n fellow, \"are a cook?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"One of the best!\" he claimed complacently.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You're willing to sign for a blind journey?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Would I be here,\" he countered, \"if I weren't?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And you have your space certificate?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I\u2014\" began the youngster.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Smart Aleck!\" That was the Old Man, exploding into coherence at last.\n \"Rat-tailed, clever-cracking little smart Aleck! Don't look like much\n of a skipper, eh? Well, my fine young rooster\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   I said quickly, \"If you don't mind, sir, this is no time to worry over\n trifles. 'Any port in a storm,' you know. And if this young man\n\n\n    can\n\n\n   cook\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   The skipper's color subsided. So did he, grumbling. \"Well, perhaps\n you're right, Dugan. All right, Slops, you're hired. The galley's\n on the second level, port side. Mess in three quarters of an\n hour. Get going! Dugan, call McMurtrie and tell him we lift gravs\n immediately\u2014\n\n\n    Slops!\n\n\n   What are you doing at that table?\"\n\n\n\n\n   For the little fellow had sidled across the control-room and now, eyes\n gleaming inquisitively, was peering at our trajectory charts. At the\n skipper's roar he glanced up at us eagerly.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Vesta!\" he piped in that curiously high-pitched and mellow voice.\n \"Loft trajectory for Vesta! Then we're trying to run the Alliance\n blockade, Captain?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"None of your business!\" bellowed O'Hara in tones of thunderous\n outrage. \"Get below instantly, or by the lavendar lakes of Luna I'll\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"If I were you,\" interrupted our diminutive new chef thoughtfully, \"I'd\n try to broach the blockade off Iris rather than Vesta. For one thing,\n their patrol line will be thinner there; for another, you can come in\n through the Meteor Bog, using it as a cover.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Mr. Dugan!\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n\n\n   The Old Man's voice had an ominous ring to it, one I had seldom heard.\n I sprang to attention and saluted smartly. \"Aye, sir?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Take this\u2014this culinary tactician out of my sight before I forget I'm\n an officer and a gentleman. And tell him that when I want advice I'll\n come down to the galley for it!\"\n\n\n\n\n   A hurt look crept into the youngster's eyes. Slowly he turned and\n followed me from the turret, down the ramp, and into the pan-lined\n cubicle which was his proper headquarters. When I was turning to leave\n he said apologetically, \"I didn't mean any harm, Mr. Dugan. I was just\n trying to help.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You must learn not to speak out of turn, youngster,\" I told him\n sternly. \"The Old Man's one of the smartest space navigators who ever\n lifted gravs. He doesn't need the advice or suggestions of a cook.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But I was raised in the Belt,\" said the little chap plaintively. \"I\n know the Bog like a book. And I was right; our safest course\n\n\n    is\n\n\n   by\n way of Iris.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Well, there you are! You try to be nice to someone, and what happens?\n He tees off on you. I got a little sore I guess. Anyhow, I told the\n little squirt off, but definitely.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Now, listen!\" I said bluntly. \"You volunteered for the job. Now\n you've got to take what comes with it: orders! From now on, suppose\n you take care of the cooking and let the rest of us worry about the\n ship\u2014Captain Slops!\"\n\n\n\n\n   And I left, banging the door behind me hard.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   So we hit the spaceways for Vesta, and after a while the Old Man called\n up the crew and told them our destination, and if you think they were\n scared or nervous or anything like that, why, you just don't know\n spacemen. From oil-soaked old Jock McMurtrie, the Chief Engineer, all\n the way down the line to Willy, our cabin-boy, the\n\n\n    Leo's\n\n\n   complement\n was as thrilled as a sub-deb at an Academy hop.\n\n\n\n\n   John Wainwright, our First Officer, licked his chops like a fox in a\n hen-house and said, \"The blockade! Oboyoboy! Maybe we'll tangle with\n one of the Alliance ships, hey?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Blinky Todd, an ordinary with highest rating, said with a sort of\n macabre satisfaction, \"I hopes we\n\n\n    do\n\n\n   meet up with 'em, that's whut I\n does, sir! Never did have no love for them dirty, skulkin' Outlanders,\n that's whut I didn't!\"\n\n\n\n\n   And one of the black-gang blasters, a taciturn chap, said nothing\u2014but\n the grim set of his jaw and the purposeful way he spat on his callused\n paws were mutely eloquent.\n\n\n\n\n   Only one member of the crew was absent from the conclave. Our new\n Slops. He was busy preparing midday mess, it seems, because scarcely\n had the skipper finished talking than the audio hummed and a cheerful\n call rose from the galley:\n\n\n\n\n   \"Soup's on! Come and get it!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Which we did. And whatever failings \"Captain Slops\" might have, he\n had not exaggerated when he called himself one of the best cooks in\n space. That meal, children, was a meal! When it comes to victuals\n I can destroy better than describe, but there was stuff and things\n and such-like, all smothered in gravy and so on, and huge quantities\n of this and that and the other thing, all of them unbelievably\n dee-luscious!\n\n\n\n\n   Beyond a doubt it was the finest feast we of the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   had enjoyed in\n a 'coon's age. Even the Old Man admitted that as, leaning back from\n the table, he patted the pleasant bulge due south of his belt buckle.\n He rang the bell that summoned Slops from the galley, and the little\n fellow came bustling in apprehensively.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Was everything all right, sir?\" he asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Not only all right, Slops,\" wheezed Captain O'Hara, \"but perfect!\n Accept my congratulations on a superb meal, my boy. Did you find\n everything O.Q. in the galley?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Captain Slops\" blushed like a stereo-struck school-gal, and fidgeted\n from one foot to another.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you very much. Yes, the galley was in fine\n order. That is\u2014\" He hesitated\u2014\"there is one little thing, sir.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"So? Well, speak up, son, what is it? I'll get it fixed for you right\n away.\" The Old Man smiled archly. \"Must have everything shipshape for a\n tip-top chef, what?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The young hash-slinger still hesitated bashfully.\n\n\n\n\n   \"But it's such a\n\n\n    little\n\n\n   thing, sir, I almost hate to bother you with\n it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No trouble at all. Just say the word.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, sir,\" confessed Slops reluctantly, \"I need an incinerator in\n the galley. The garbage-disposal system in there now is old-fashioned,\n inconvenient and unsanitary. You see, I have to carry the waste down\n two levels to the rocket-chamber in order to expel it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The skipper's brow creased.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm sorry, Slops,\" he said, \"but I don't see how we can do anything\n about that. Not just now, at any rate. That job requires equipment we\n don't have aboard. After this jump is over I'll see what I can do.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, I realize we don't have the regular equipment,\" said Slops shyly,\n \"but I've figured out a way to get the same effect with equipment we\n do have. There's an old Nolan heat-cannon rusting in the storeroom.\n If that could be installed by the galley vent, I could use it as an\n incinerator.\"\n\n\n\n\n   I said, \"Hold everything, Slops! You can't do that! It's against\n regulations. Code 44, Section xvi, says, 'Fixed armament shall be\n placed only in gunnery embrasures insulated against the repercussions\n of firing charges, re-radiation, or other hazards accruent to heavy\n ordnance.'\"\n\n\n\n\n   Our little chef's face fell. \"Now, that's too bad,\" he said\n discouragedly. \"I was planning a special banquet for tomorrow, with\n roast marsh-duck and all the fixings, pinberry pie\u2014but, oh, well!\u2014if\n I have no incinerator\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   The skipper's eyes bulged, and he drooled like a pup at a barbeque.\n He was a bit of a sybarite, was Captain David O'Hara; if there was\n anything he dearly loved to exercise his molars on it was Venusian\n marsh-duck topped with a dessert of Martian pinberry pie. He said:\n\n\n\n\n   \"We-e-ell, now, Mr. Dugan, let's not be too technical. After all, that\n rule was put in the book only to prevent persons which shouldn't ought\n to do so from having control of ordnance. But that isn't what Slops\n wants the cannon for, is it, son? So I don't see any harm in rigging\n up the old Nolan in the galley for incineration purposes. Did you say\n\n\n    all\n\n\n   the fixings, Slops?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Maybe I was mistaken, but for a moment I suspected I caught a queer\n glint in our little chef's eyes; it might have been gratitude, or, on\n the other hand, it might have been self-satisfaction. Whatever it was\n it passed quickly, and Captain Slops' soft voice was smooth as silk\n when he said:\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, Captain, all the fixings. I'll start cooking the meal as soon as\n the new incinerator is installed.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   So that was that. During the night watch two men of the crew lugged\n the ancient Nolan heat cannon from stores and I went below to check. I\n found young Slops bent over the old cannon, giving it a strenuous and\n thorough cleaning. The way he was oiling and scrubbing at that antique\n reminded me of an apprentice gunner coddling his first charge.\n\n\n\n\n   I must have startled him, entering unexpectedly as I did, for when I\n said, \"Hi, there!\" he jumped two feet and let loose a sissy little\n piping squeal. Then, crimson-faced with embarrassment, he said, \"Oh,\n h-hello, Lieutenant. I was just getting my new incinerator shipshape.\n Looks O.Q., eh?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"If you ask me,\" I said, \"it looks downright lethal. The Old Man must\n be off his gravs to let a young chuckle-head like you handle that toy.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But I'm only going to use it,\" he said plaintively, \"to dispose of\n garbage.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, don't dump your cans when there are any ships within range,\" I\n warned him glumly, \"or there'll be a mess of human scraps littering up\n the void. That gun may be a museum piece, but it still packs a wallop.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, sir,\" said Slops meekly. \"I'll be careful how I use it, sir.\"\n\n\n\n\n   I had finished my inspection, and I sniggered as his words reminded me\n of a joke I'd heard at a spacemans' smoker.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Speaking of being careful, did you hear the giggler about the old maid\n at the Martian baths? Well, it seems this perennial spinster wandered,\n by accident, into the men's shower room and met up with a brawny young\n prospector\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Captain Slops said, \"Er\u2014excuse me, Lieutenant, but I have to get this\n marsh-duck stuffed.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Plenty of time, Slops. Wait till you hear this; it will kill you. The\n old maid got flustered and said, 'Oh, I'm sorry! I must be in the wrong\n compartment\u2014'\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"If you don't mind, Mr. Dugan,\" interrupted the cook loudly, \"I'm\n awfully busy. I don't have any time for\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The prospector looked her over carefully for a couple of seconds; then\n answered, 'That's O.Q. by me, sister. I won't\u2014'\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I\u2014I've got to go now, Lieutenant,\" shouted Slops. \"Just remembered\n something I've got to get from stores.\" And without even waiting to\n hear the wallop at the end of my tale he fled from the galley, very\n pink and flustered.\n\n\n\n\n   So there was one for the log-book! Not only did our emergency chef lack\n a sense of humor, but the little punk was bashful, as well! Still, it\n was no skin off my nose if Slops wanted to miss the funniest yarn of a\n decade. I shrugged and went back to the control turret.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   All that, to make an elongated story brief, happened on the first day\n out of Mars. As any schoolchild knows, it's a full hundred million from\n the desert planet to the asteroid belt. In those days, there was no\n such device as a Velocity-Intensifier unit, and the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   , even though\n she was then considered a reasonably fast little patroller, muddled\n along at a mere 400,000 m.p.h. Which meant it would take us at least\n ten days, perhaps more, to reach that disputed region of space around\n Vesta, where the Federation outposts were sparse and the Alliance block\n began.\n\n\n\n\n   That period of jetting was a mingled joy and pain in the britches.\n Captain Slops was responsible for both.\n\n\n\n\n   For one thing, as I've hinted before, he was a bit of a panty-waist.\n It wasn't so much the squeaky voice or the effeminate gestures he cut\n loose with from time to time. One of the roughest, toughest scoundrels\n who ever cut a throat on Venus was \"High G\" Gordon, who talked like a\n boy soprano, and the meanest pirate who ever highjacked a freighter was\n \"Runt\" Hake\u2014who wore diamond ear-rings and gold fingernail polish!\n\n\n\n\n   But it was Slops' general attitude that isolated him from the command\n and crew. In addition to being a most awful prude, he was a kill-joy.\n When just for a lark we begged him to boil us a pot of spaghetti, so we\n could pour a cold worm's nest into Rick Bramble's bed, he shuddered and\n refused.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Certainly not!\" he piped indignantly. \"You must be out of your minds!\n I never heard of such a disgusting trick! Of course, I won't be a party\n to it. Worms\u2014Ugh!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yeah!\" snorted Johnny Wainwright disdainfully, \"And\n\n\n    ugh!\n\n\n   to you,\n too. Come on, Joe, let's get out of here before we give Slops bad\n dreams and goose-flesh!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Nor was hypersensitiveness Slops' worst failing. If he was squeamish\n about off-color jokes and such stuff, he had no compunctions whatsoever\n against sticking his nose in where it didn't belong.\n\n\n\n\n   He was an inveterate prowler. He snooped everywhere and anywhere from\n ballast-bins to bunk-rooms. He quizzed the Chief about engine-room\n practices, the gunner's mate on problems of ballistics, even the\n cabin-boy on matters of supplies and distribution of same. He was not\n only an asker; he was a teller, as well. More than once during the next\n nine days he forced on the skipper the same gratuitous advice which\n before had enraged the Old Man. By sheer perseverance he earned the\n title I had tagged him with: \"Captain Slops.\"\n\n\n\n\n   I was willing to give him another title, too\u2014Captain Chaos. God knows\n he created enough of it!\n\n\n\n\n   \"It's a mistake to broach the blockade at Vesta,\" he argued over and\n over again.\n\n\n\n\n   \"O.Q., Slops,\" the skipper would nod agreeably, with his mouth full\n of some temper-softening tidbit, \"you're right and I'm wrong, as you\n usually are. But I'm in command of the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   , and you ain't. Now, run\n along like a good lad and bring me some more of this salad.\"\n\n\n\n\n   So ten days passed, and it was on the morning of the eleventh day out\n of Sand City that we ran into trouble with a capital trub. I remember\n that morning well, because I was in the mess-hall having breakfast with\n Cap O'Hara, and Slops was playing another variation on the old familiar\n theme.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I glanced at the chart this morning, sir,\" he began as he minced in\n with a platterful of golden flapjacks and an ewer of Vermont maple\n syrup, \"and I see we are but an hour or two off Vesta. I am very much\n afraid this is our last chance to change course\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And for that,\" chuckled the Old Man, \"Hooray! Pass them pancakes, son.\n Maybe now you'll stop shooting off about how we ought to of gone by way\n of Iris. Mmmm! Good!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Thank you, sir,\" said Slops mechanically. \"But you realize there is\n extreme danger of encountering enemy ships?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Keep your pants on, Slops!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Eh?\" The chef looked startled. \"Beg pardon, sir?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I said keep your pants on. Sure, I know. And I've took precautions.\n There's a double watch on duty, and men at every gun. If we do meet up\n with an Alliance craft, it'll be just too bad for them!\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, sirree!\" The Old Man grinned comfortably. \"I almost hope we\n do bump into one. After we burn it out of the void we'll have clear\n sailing all the way to Callisto.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But\u2014but if there should be more than one, sir?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Don't be ridiculous, my boy. Why should there be?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, for one thing,\" wrangled our pint-sized cook, \"because rich\n ekalastron deposits were recently discovered on Vesta. For another,\n because Vesta's orbit is now going into aphelion stage, which will\n favor a concentration of raiders.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The skipper choked, spluttered, and disgorged a bite of half-masticated\n pancake.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Eka\u2014Great balls of fire! Are you sure?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Of course, I'm sure. I told you days ago that I was born and raised in\n the Belt, Captain.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I know. But why didn't you tell me about Vesta before? I mean about\n the ekalastron deposits?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why\u2014why, because\u2014\" said Slops. \"Because\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Don't give me lady-logic, you dope!\" roared the Old Man, an enraged\n lion now, his breakfast completely forgotten. \"Give me a sensible\n answer! If you'd told me\n\n\n    that\n\n\n   instead of just yipping and yapping\n about how via Iris was a nicer route I'd have listened to you! As it\n is, we're blasting smack-dab into the face of danger. And us on the\n most vital mission of the whole ding-busted war!\"\n\n\n\n\n   He was out of his seat, bustling to the audio, buzzing Lieutenant\n Wainwright on the bridge.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Johnny\u2014that you? Listen, change traj quick! Set a new course through\n the Belt by way of Iris and the Bog, and hurry up, because\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   What reason he planned to give I do not know, for he never finished\n that sentence. At that moment the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   rattled like a Model AA\n spacesled in an ionic storm, rolled, quivered and slewed like a drunk\n on a freshly-waxed floor. The motion needed no explanation; it was\n unmistakeable to any spacer who has ever hopped the blue. Our ship had\n been gripped, and was now securely locked, in the clutch of a tractor\n beam!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   What happened next was everything at once. Officers Wainwright and\n Bramble were in the turret, and they were both good sailors. They knew\n their duties and how to perform them. An instant after the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   had\n been assaulted, the ship bucked and slithered again, this time with the\n repercussions of our own ordnance. Over the audio, which Sparks had\n hastily converted into an all-way, inter-ship communicating unit, came\n a jumble of voices. A call for Captain O'Hara to \"Come to the bridge,\n sir!\" ... the harsh query of Chief McMurtrie, \"Tractor beams on stern\n and prow, sir. Shall I attempt to break them?\" ... and a thunderous\n\n\n    groooom!\n\n\n   from the fore-gunnery port as a crew went into action ... a\n plaintive little shriek from somebody ... maybe from Slops himself....\n\n\n\n\n   Then on an ultra-wave carrier, drowning local noises beneath waves of\n sheer volume, came English words spoken with a foreign intonation. The\n voice of the Alliance commander.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ahoy the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   ! Calling the captain of the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   !\"\n\n\n\n\n   O'Hara, his great fists knotted at his sides, called back, \"O'Hara of\n the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   answering. What do you want?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Stand by to admit a boarding party, Captain. It is futile to resist.\n You are surrounded by six armed craft, and your vessel is locked in\n our tensiles. Any further effort to make combat will bring about your\n immediate destruction!\"\n\n\n\n\n   From the bridge, topside, snarled Johnny Wainwright, \"The hell with\n 'em, Skipper! Let's fight it out!\" And elsewhere on the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   angry\n voices echoed the same defi. Never in my life had I felt such a\n heart-warming love for and pride in my companions as at that tense\n moment. But the Old Man shook his head, and his eyes were glistening.\n\n\n\n\n   \"It's no use,\" he moaned strickenly, more to himself than to me. \"I\n can't sacrifice brave men in a useless cause, Dugan. I've got to\u2014\" He\n faced the audio squarely. To the enemy commander he said, \"Very good,\n sir! In accordance with the Rules of War, I surrender into your hands!\"\n\n\n\n\n   The firing ceased, and a stillness like that of death blanketed the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n   It was then that Andy Laney, who had lingered in the galley doorway\n like a frozen figuring, broke into babbling incredulous speech.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You\u2014you're giving up like this?\" he bleated. \"Is this all you're\n going to do?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The Old Man just looked at him, saying never a word, but that glance\n would have blistered the hide off a Mercurian steelback. I'm more\n impetuous. I turned on the little idiot vituperatively.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Shut up, you fool! Don't you realize there's not a thing we can do but\n surrender? Dead, we're of no earthly use to anyone. Alive, there is\n always a chance one of us may get away, bring help. We have a mission\n to fulfil, an important one. Corpses can't run errands.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But\u2014but if they take us prisoners,\" he questioned fearfully, \"what\n will they do with us?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A concentration camp somewhere. Perhaps on Vesta.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And the\n\n\n    Leo\n\n\n   ?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Who knows? Maybe they'll send it to Jupiter with a prize crew in\n command.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's what I thought. But they mustn't be allowed to do that. We're\n marked with the Federation tricolor!\"\n\n\n\n\n   A sharp retort trembled on the tip of my tongue, but I never uttered\n it. Indeed, I swallowed it as comprehension dawned. There came to me\n the beginnings of respect for little Andy Laney's wisdom. He had been\n right about the danger of the Vesta route, as we had learned to our\n cost; now he was right on this other score.\n\n\n\n\n   The skipper got it, too. His jaw dropped. He said, \"Heaven help us,\n it's the truth! To reach Jupiter you've got to pass Callisto. If the\n Callistans saw a Federation vessel, they'd send out an emissary to\n greet it. Our secret would be discovered, Callisto occupied by the\n enemy....\"\n\n\n\n\n   I think he would have turned, then, and given orders to continue the\n fight even though it meant suicide for all of us. But it was too late.\n Already our lock had opened to the attackers; down the metal ramp we\n now heard the crisp cadence of invading footsteps. The door swung open,\n and the Alliance commandant stood smiling triumphantly before us.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhat is the most likely meaning of the slang O.Q.? (in twentieth-century American English)\n\n (A) cool\n (B) no worries\n (C) my bad\n (D) O.K./OK\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "D", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 27077, "query_start_index": 27079, "query_end_index": 27252, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "52855_MV65I88C_9", "pid": "52855_MV65I88C_9_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nTHE STAR-SENT KNAVES\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   BY KEITH LAUMER\n\n\n\n\n   Illustrated by Gaughan\n\n\n\n\n   When the Great Galactic Union first encounters\n\n\n   Earth ... is this what is going to happen?\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   I\n\n\n\n\n   Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,\n with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shouldered\n in a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane's\n travel-stained six foot one.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me.\" He nodded toward\n the florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like something\n that needed oiling. \"Something about important information regarding\n safeguarding my paintings.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's right, Mr. Snithian,\" Dan said. \"I believe I can be of great\n help to you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me....\" The red eyes bored\n into Dan like hot pokers.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guards\n here\u2014the papers are full of it\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,\n I'd have no concern for my paintings today!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been left\n unguarded.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Now, wait a minute\u2014\" Kelly started.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What's that?\" Snithian cut in.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds day\n and night\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Two hundred and twenty-five,\" Kelly snapped.\n\n\n\n\n   \"\u2014but no one at all in the vault with the paintings,\" Slane finished.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Of course not,\" Snithian shrilled. \"Why should I post a man in the\n vault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault,\" Dan said.\n \"There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"By the saints, he's right,\" Kelly exclaimed. \"Maybe we ought to have a\n man in that vault.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Another idiotic scheme to waste my money,\" Snithian snapped. \"I've\n made you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no more\n nonsense. And throw this nincompoop out!\" Snithian turned and stalked\n away, his cloak flapping at his knees.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'll work cheap,\" Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. \"I'm an\n art lover.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Never mind that,\" Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. He\n turned in at an office and closed the door.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. If\n those pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.\n Just how cheap would you work?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A hundred dollars a week,\" Dan said promptly. \"Plus expenses,\" he\n added.\n\n\n\n\n   Kelly nodded. \"I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. If\n you're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Dan looked around at the gray walls, with shelves stacked to the low\n ceiling with wrapped paintings. Two three-hundred-watt bulbs shed a\n white glare over the tile floor, a neat white refrigerator, a bunk,\n an arm-chair, a bookshelf and a small table set with paper plates,\n plastic utensils and a portable radio\u2014all hastily installed at Kelly's\n order. Dan opened the refrigerator, looked over the stock of salami,\n liverwurst, cheese and beer. He opened a loaf of bread, built up a\n well-filled sandwich, keyed open a can of beer.\n\n\n\n\n   It wasn't fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone off\n without a hitch.\n\n\n\n\n   Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearing\n from closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It was\n obvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of large\n canvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards\u2014and leaving the locks\n undamaged.\n\n\n\n\n   Yet the paintings were gone. Someone had been in those vaults\u2014someone\n who hadn't entered in the usual way.\n\n\n\n\n   Theory failed at that point; that left the experimental method. The\n Snithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. With\n such a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in the\n vault\u2014day and night\u2014waiting\u2014he would see for himself how they\n operated.\n\n\n\n\n   He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one of\n the brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the package, he\n slid a painting into view. It was a gaily colored view of an open-air\n cafe, with a group of men and women in gay-ninetyish costumes gathered\n at a table. He seemed to remember reading something about it in a\n magazine. It was a cheerful scene; Dan liked it. Still, it hardly\n seemed worth all the effort....\n\n\n\n\n   He went to the wall switch and turned off the lights. The orange glow\n of the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from the\n night-light over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give him\n a momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He groped\n his way to the bunk.\n\n\n\n\n   So far, so good, he reflected, stretching out. When they showed up,\n he'd have to handle everything just right. If he scared them off\n there'd be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at\u2014whatever\n his discovery might mean to him.\n\n\n\n\n   But he was ready. Let them come.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Eight hours, three sandwiches and six beers later, Dan roused suddenly\n from a light doze and sat up on the cot. Between him and the crowded\n shelving, a palely luminous framework was materializing in mid-air.\n\n\n\n\n   The apparition was an open-work cage\u2014about the size and shape of an\n out-house minus the sheathing, Dan estimated breathlessly. Two figures\n were visible within the structure, sitting stiffly in contoured chairs.\n They glowed, if anything, more brightly than the framework.\n\n\n\n\n   A faint sound cut into the stillness\u2014a descending whine. The cage\n moved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long blue sparks jumped,\n crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cage\n settled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostly\n switches....\n\n\n\n\n   The glow died.\n\n\n\n\n   Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His mouth\n was dry. This was the moment he'd been planning for, but now that it\n was here\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he had\n prepared for the occasion:\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Greeting, visitors from the Future....\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Hopelessly corny. What about:\n\n\n    Welcome to the Twentieth Century....\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs to\n Dan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it now\n looked like nothing more than a rough frame built of steel pipe, with\n a cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieves\n looked ordinary enough: Two men in gray coveralls, one slender and\n balding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticed\n Dan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on the\n table, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked at\n the stacked shelves.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Looks like the old boy's been doing all right,\" the shorter man said.\n \"Fathead's gonna be pleased.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A very gratifying consignment,\" his companion said. \"However, we'd\n best hurry, Manny. How much time have we left on this charge?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Plenty. Fifteen minutes anyway.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ah, magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Manny shuffled through the other pictures in the stack.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Like always,\" he grumbled. \"No nood dames. I like nood dames.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Look at this, Manny! The textures alone\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Manny looked. \"Yeah, nice use of values,\" he conceded. \"But I still\n prefer nood dames, Fiorello.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And this!\" Fiorello lifted the next painting. \"Look at that gay play\n of rich browns!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street,\" Manny said. \"They was\n popular with the sparrows.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Manny, sometimes I think your aspirations\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Whatta ya talkin? I use a roll-on.\" Manny, turning to place a painting\n in the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The painting\n clattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. \"Uh....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh-oh,\" Manny said. \"A double-cross.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I've\u2014ah\u2014been expecting you gentlemen,\" Dan said. \"I\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I told you we couldn't trust no guy with nine fingers on each hand,\"\n Manny whispered hoarsely. He moved toward the cage. \"Let's blow,\n Fiorello.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Wait a minute,\" Dan said. \"Before you do anything hasty\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Don't start nothing, Buster,\" Manny said cautiously. \"We're plenty\n tough guys when aroused.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I want to talk to you,\" Dan insisted. \"You see, these paintings\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Paintings? Look, it was all a mistake. Like, we figured this was the\n gent's room\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Never mind, Manny,\" Fiorello cut in. \"It appears there's been a leak.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Dan shook his head. \"No leak. I simply deduced\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Look, Fiorello,\" Manny said. \"You chin if you want to; I'm doing a\n fast fade.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Don't act hastily, Manny. You know where you'll end.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Wait a minute!\" Dan shouted. \"I'd like to make a deal with you\n fellows.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ah-hah!\" Kelly's voice blared from somewhere. \"I knew it! Slane, you\n crook!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Dan looked about wildly. The voice seemed to be issuing from a speaker.\n It appeared Kelly hedged his bets.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Mr. Kelly, I can explain everything!\" Dan called. He turned back to\n Fiorello. \"Listen, I figured out\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Pretty clever!\" Kelly's voice barked. \"Inside job. But it takes more\n than the likes of you to out-fox an old-timer like Eddie Kelly.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Perhaps you were right, Manny,\" Fiorello said. \"Complications are\n arising. We'd best depart with all deliberate haste.\" He edged toward\n the cage.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What about this ginzo?\" Manny jerked a thumb toward Dan. \"He's on to\n us.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Can't be helped.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Look\u2014I want to go with you!\" Dan shouted.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'll bet you do!\" Kelly's voice roared. \"One more minute and I'll have\n the door open and collar the lot of you! Came up through a tunnel, did\n you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You can't go, my dear fellow,\" Fiorello said. \"Room for two, no more.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Dan whirled to the cot, grabbed up the pistol Kelly had supplied. He\n aimed it at Manny. \"You stay here, Manny! I'm going with Fiorello in\n the time machine.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Are you nuts?\" Manny demanded.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm flattered, dear boy,\" Fiorello said, \"but\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Let's get moving. Kelly will have that lock open in a minute.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You can't leave me here!\" Manny spluttered, watching Dan crowd into\n the cage beside Fiorello.\n\n\n\n\n   \"We'll send for you,\" Dan said. \"Let's go, Fiorello.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The balding man snatched suddenly for the gun. Dan wrestled with him.\n The pistol fell, bounced on the floor of the cage, skidded into the\n far corner of the vault. Manny charged, reaching for Dan as he twisted\n aside; Fiorello's elbow caught him in the mouth. Manny staggered back\n into the arms of Kelly, bursting red-faced into the vault.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Manny!\" Fiorello released his grip on Dan, lunged to aid his\n companion. Kelly passed Manny to one of three cops crowding in on his\n heels. Dan clung to the framework as Fiorello grappled with Kelly. A\n cop pushed past them, spotted Dan, moved in briskly for the pinch. Dan\n grabbed a lever at random and pulled.\n\n\n\n\n   Sudden silence fell as the walls of the room glowed blue. A spectral\n Kelly capered before the cage, fluorescing in the blue-violet. Dan\n swallowed hard and nudged a second lever. The cage sank like an\n elevator into the floor, vivid blue washing up its sides.\n\n\n\n\n   Hastily he reversed the control. Operating a time machine was tricky\n business. One little slip, and the Slane molecules would be squeezing\n in among brick and mortar particles....\n\n\n\n\n   But this was no time to be cautious. Things hadn't turned out just the\n way he'd planned, but after all, this was what he'd wanted\u2014in a way.\n The time machine was his to command. And if he gave up now and crawled\n back into the vault, Kelly would gather him in and pin every art theft\n of the past decade on him.\n\n\n\n\n   It couldn't be\n\n\n    too\n\n\n   hard. He'd take it slowly, figure out the\n controls....\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose gently,\n in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan gritted\n his teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down the cage.\n Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-haloed cook\n waddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan rising slowly\n from the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage rose, penetrated a\n second ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted hall.\n\n\n\n\n   Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest an\n inch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn't traveled so\n much as a minute into the past or future.\n\n\n\n\n   He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled \"Forward\"\n and another labeled \"Back\", but all the levers were plain, unadorned\n black. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker type\n knife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance of\n something thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, it\n worked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in the\n usual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be here\n somewhere....\n\n\n\n\n   Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall.\n\n\n\n\n   A girl's head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase. In\n another second she would see him, and give the alarm\u2014and Dan needed\n a few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the controls.\n He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways, sliced through\n the wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed the lever\n back. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with flouncy curtains, a\n four-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing table\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was young. Not\n over eighteen, Dan thought\u2014as nearly as he could tell with the blue\n light playing around her face. She had long hair tied with a ribbon,\n and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and carried a tennis\n racquet in her left hand and an apple in her right. Her back to Dan and\n the cage, she tossed the racquet on a table, took a bite of the apple,\n and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt.\n\n\n\n\n   Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another;\n he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid the\n zipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot toward\n the outer wall as the girl reached behind her back....\n\n\n\n\n   Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hovering\n twenty feet above a clipped lawn.\n\n\n\n\n   He looked at the levers. Wasn't it the first one in line that moved the\n cage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man stepped\n out on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his face\n up\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was in a\n plain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a planter\n filled with glowing blue plants\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as she\n took a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-square\n sunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple core aside,\n seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her, whirled\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, the\n cage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off with\n an acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for the\n controls, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushed\n on, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town,\n approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared up\n fifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   He covered his ears, braced himself\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of the\n cage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop.\n Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud\n\n\n    click!\n\n\n   and the glow faded.\n\n\n\n\n   With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around at\n a simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered through\n elaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a potted\n plant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the far\n side of the room a desk. And behind the desk\u2014Something.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   II\n\n\n\n\n   Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, mounted on a torso like a\n hundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him from\n points eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfolded\n and reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss three\n peanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened just\n above the brown eyes.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Who're you?\" a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm ... I'm ... Dan Slane ... your honor.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What happened to Manny and Fiorello?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"They\u2014I\u2014There was this cop. Kelly\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh-oh.\" The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The many-fingered hands\n closed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted,\" the basso voice said. \"A\n pity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still....\" A noise like an\n amplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth.\n\n\n\n\n   \"How ... what...?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below a\n critical value,\" the voice said. \"A necessary measure to discourage\n big ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how you\n happen to be aboard the carrier, by the way?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I just wanted\u2014I mean, after I figured out\u2014that is, the police ... I\n went for help,\" Dan finished lamely.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one's\n anonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps at\n present. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes,\n accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make out\n the vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headed\n giraffe rearing up above scarlet foliage. The next poster showed a face\n similar to the beachball behind the desk, with red circles painted\n around the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fire\n into a black sky.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Too bad.\" The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted,\n caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked up\n to catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busily\n at work studying the ceiling.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I hope,\" the voice said, \"that you ain't harboring no reactionary\n racial prejudices.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"Gosh, no,\" Dan reassured the eye. \"I'm crazy about\u2014uh\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Vorplischers,\" the voice said. \"From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you call\n it.\" The Bronx cheer sounded again. \"How I long to glimpse once more my\n native fens! Wherever one wanders, there's no pad like home.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That reminds me,\" Dan said. \"I have to be running along now.\" He\n sidled toward the door.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Stick around, Dan,\" the voice rumbled. \"How about a drink? I can\n offer you Chateau Neuf du Pape, '59, Romance Conte, '32, goat's milk,\n Pepsi\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No, thanks.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"If you don't mind, I believe I'll have a Big Orange.\" The Vorplischer\n swiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted with\n a nipple and turned back to Dan. \"Now, I got a proposition which may be\n of some interest to you. The loss of Manny and Fiorello is a serious\n blow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You made the scene at a most\n opportune time. What I got in mind is, with those two clowns out of the\n picture, a vacancy exists on my staff, which you might well fill. How\n does that grab you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Time machine?\" The brown eyes blinked alternately. \"I fear some\n confusion exists. I don't quite dig the significance of the term.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That thing,\" Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. \"The machine I came\n here in. You want me\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Time machine,\" the voice repeated. \"Some sort of chronometer, perhaps?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Huh?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess the\n implied concept snows me.\" The nine-fingered hands folded on the desk.\n The beachball head leaned forward interestedly. \"Clue me, Dan. What's a\n time machine?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, it's what you use to travel through time.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. \"Apparently I've loused\n up my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no idea\n you were capable of that sort of thing.\" The immense head leaned back,\n the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. \"And to think I've been\n spinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But\u2014don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your time\n machines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted at\n this development\u2014and astonished as well. They regard this planet as\n Endsville.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"Your superiors?\" Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe he\n could reach the machine and try a getaway\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   \"I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly,\" the beachball said,\n following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inch\n yellow cylinder lying on the desk. \"Until the carrier is fueled, I'm\n afraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd best\n introduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader Fourth\n Class, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to develop\n new sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entire\n Secondary Quadrant.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That\n\n\n    has\n\n\n   to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could just\n materialize out of thin air like that.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan,\" Blote said. \"You\n shouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel,\n that everyone has. Now\u2014\" Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper\u2014\"I'll\n make a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in good\n condition for me. And in return\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    I'm\n\n\n   supposed to supply\n\n\n    you\n\n\n   with a time machine?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. \"I dislike pointing it out,\n Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegal\n entry, illegal possession of property, trespass\u2014then doubtless some\n embarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr.\n Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself would\n deal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder.\"\n The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under the\n desk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Whereas, on the other hand,\" Blote's bass voice went on, \"you and me\n got the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you up\n with an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, I\n should say. What about it, Dan?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ah, let me see,\" Dan temporized. \"Time machine. Time machine\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan,\" Blote rumbled ominously.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'd better look in the phone book,\" Dan suggested.\n\n\n\n\n   Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Time, time. Let's see....\" He brightened. \"Time, Incorporated; local\n branch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A sales center?\" Blote inquired. \"Or a manufacturing complex?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Both,\" Dan said. \"I'll just nip over and\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That won't be necessary, Dan,\" Blote said. \"I'll accompany you.\" He\n took the directory, studied it.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to notice\n it. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from a\n large.\" He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuel\n cells. \"Now, off to gather in the time machine.\" He took his place in\n the carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. \"Come, Dan.\n Get a wiggle on.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to a\n point\u2014but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.\n Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. \"Kindly direct\n me, Dan,\" Blote demanded. \"Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe you\n said.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't know the town very well,\" Dan said, \"but Maple's over that\n way.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky.\n Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Dan\n looked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Over there,\" he said. Blote directed the machine as it swooped\n smoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Better let me take over now,\" Dan suggested. \"I want to be sure to\n get us to the right place.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Very well, Dan.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimly\n seen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cage\n grew even fainter. \"Best we remain unnoticed,\" he explained.\n\n\n\n\n   The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifying\n landmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barely\n visible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambers\n along both sides of the passage at once.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ah, this must be the assembly area,\" he exclaimed. \"I see the machines\n employ a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's right,\" Dan said, staring through the haziness. \"This is where\n they do time....\" He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veered\n left, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulous\n figures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessed\n wrong\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus.\n Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concrete\n walls, the barred door and\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   \"You!\" a hoarse voice bellowed.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Grab him!\" someone yelled.\n\n\n\n\n   Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attempt\n to regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at a\n lever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figures\n as the carrier shot away through the cell wall.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   III\n\n\n\n\n   Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in the\n clear, he would have to decide on his next move\u2014fast. There was no\n telling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hide\n the carrier, then\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume.\n Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction.\n\n\n\n\n   The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign of\n mechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulous\n landscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against the\n deafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once.\n If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan worked\n the controls, dropping toward the distant earth.\n\n\n\n\n   The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, brought\n the carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last few\n inches and cut the switch.\n\n\n\n\n   As the glow died, the siren faded into silence.\n\n\n\n\n   Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noise\n was, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestrians\n in the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, why\n hadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or no\n sound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to a\n secluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in,\n reached for the controls\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dials\n before him frosted over. There was a loud\n\n\n    pop!\n\n\n   like a flashbulb\n exploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectangle\n which hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, faded\n to blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in a\n tight-fitting white uniform stepped through.\n\n\n\n\n   Dan gaped at the small rounded head, the dark-skinned long-nosed face,\n the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curly\n red-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neat\n pillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-set\n yellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened in\n a smile which showed square yellowish teeth.\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Alors, monsieur\n\n\n   ,\" the new-comer said, bending his knees and back in\n a quick bow. \"\n\n\n    Vous ete une indigine, n'est ce pas?\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No compree,\" Dan choked out \"Uh ... juh no parlay Fransay....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn't it? Stupid of me.\n Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Class\n five, Inter-dimensional Monitor Service.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That siren,\" Dan said. \"Was that you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Dzhackoon nodded. \"For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined to\n stop. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What outfit did you say you were with?\" Dan asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Inter-what?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best our\n language coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What do you want with me?\"\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhat is the author's purpose in providing such detailed descriptions of Blote and Dzhackoon?\n\n (A) To better familiarize the audience with the setting of the places Dan visited.\n (B) To explain why Dan was so intrigued by these characters.\n (C) To show that people in the future do not look as human as a character like Dan.\n (D) To show that these characters are unlike the human ones on Earth.\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "D", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 29885, "query_start_index": 29887, "query_end_index": 30313, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "62085_C1SL2YBE_3", "pid": "62085_C1SL2YBE_3_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nPied Piper of Mars\n\n\n\n\n   By FREDERIC ARNOLD KUMMER, Jr.\n\n\n\n\n   Elath Taen made mad music for the men of Mars.\n\n\n   The red planet lived and would die to the\n\n\n   soul-tearing tunes of his fiendish piping.\n\n\n\n\n   In all the solar system there is no city quite like Mercis, capital\n of Mars. Solis, on Venus, is perhaps more beautiful, some cities of\n Earth certainly have more drive and dynamitism, but there is a strange\n inscrutable air about Mercis which even terrestials of twenty years'\n residence cannot explain. Outwardly a tourists' mecca, with white\n plastoid buildings, rich gardens, and whispering canals, it has another\n and darker side, ever present, ever hidden. While earthmen work and\n plan, building, repairing, bringing their vast energy and progress\n to decadent Mars, the silent little reddies go their devious ways,\n following ancient laws which no amount of terrestial logic can shake.\n Time-bound ritual, mysterious passions and hates, torturous, devious\n logic ... all these, like dark winding underground streams run beneath\n the tall fair city that brings such thrilled superlatives to the lips\n of the terrestial tourists.\n\n\n\n\n   Steve Ranson, mounting the steps of the old house facing the Han\n canal, was in no mood for the bizarre beauties of Martian scenery. For\n one thing, Mercis was an old story to him; his work with Terrestial\n Intelligence had brought him here often in the past, on other strange\n cases. And for another thing, his mission concerned more vital matters.\n Jared Haller, as head of the state-owned Martian Broadcasting System,\n was next in importance to the august Governor Winship himself. As\n far back as the Hitlerian wars on earth it had been known that he\n who controls propaganda, controls the nation ... or planet. Martian\n Broadcasting was an important factor in controlling the fierce warlike\n little reddies, keeping the terrestial-imposed peace on the red\n planet. And when Jared Haller sent to Earth for one of the Terrestial\n Intelligence, that silent efficient corps of trouble-shooters,\n something was definitely up.\n\n\n\n\n   The house was provided with double doors as protection against the\n sudden fierce sandstorms which so often, in the month of Tol, sweep\n in from the plains of Psidis to engulf Mercis in a red choking haze.\n Ranson passed the conventional electric eye and a polite robot voice\n asked his name. He gave it, and the inner door opened.\n\n\n\n\n   A smiling little Martian butler met him in the hall, showed him into\n Haller's study. The head of M.B.C. stood at one end of the big library,\n the walls of which were lined with vivavox rolls and old-fashioned\n books. As Ranson entered, he swung about, frowning, one hand dropping\n to a pocket that bulged unmistakably.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ranson, Terrestial Intelligence.\" The special agent offered his card.\n \"You sent to Earth a while ago for an operator?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Jared Haller nodded. He was a big, rough-featured individual with gray\n leonine hair. A battering-ram of a man, one would think, who hammered\n his way through life by sheer force and drive. But as Ranson looked\n closer, he could see lines of worry, of fear, etched about the strong\n mouth, and a species of terror within the shaggy-browed eyes.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes,\" said Jared Haller. \"I sent for an operator. You got here\n quickly, Mr. Ranson!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Seven days out of earth on the express-liner\n\n\n    Arrow\n\n\n   .\" Ranson wondered\n why Haller didn't come to the point. Even Terrestial Intelligence\n headquarters in New York hadn't known why a T.I. man was wanted on\n Mars ... but Haller was one of the few persons sufficiently important\n to have an operator sent without explanation as to why he was wanted.\n Ranson put it directly. \"Why did you require the help of T.I., Mr.\n Haller?\" he asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Because we're up against something a little too big for the Mercian\n police force to handle.\" Jared Haller's strong hands tapped nervously\n upon the desk. \"No one has greater respect for our local authorities\n than myself. Captain Maxwell is a personal friend of mine. But I\n understood that T.I. men had the benefit of certain amazing devices,\n remarkable inventions, which make it easy for them to track down\n criminals.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Ranson nodded. That was true. T.I. didn't allow its secret devices\n to be used by any other agency, for fear they might become known to\n the criminals and outlaws of the solar system. But Haller still hadn't\n told what crime had taken place. This time Ranson applied the spur of\n silence. It worked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Mr. Ranson,\" Haller leaned forward, his face a gray grim mask,\n \"someone, something, is working to gain control of the Martian\n Broadcasting Company! And I don't have to tell you that whoever\n controls M.B.C. controls Mars! Here's the set-up! Our company, although\n state owned, is largely free from red-tape, so long as we stress the\n good work we terrestials are doing on Mars and keep any revolutionary\n propaganda off the air-waves. Except for myself, and half a dozen other\n earthmen in responsible positions, our staff is largely Martian.\n That's in line with our policy of teaching Mars our civilization until\n it's ready for autonomy. Which it isn't yet, by quite some. As you\n know.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Ranson nodded, eyes intent as the pattern unfolded.\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right.\" Haller snapped. \"You see the situation. Remove us ... the\n few terrestials at the top of M.B.C ... and Martian staff would carry\n on until new men came out from Earth to take our places. But suppose\n during that period with no check on their activities, they started\n to dish out nationalist propaganda? One hour's program, with the old\n Martian war-songs being played and some rabble-rouser yelling 'down\n with the terrestial oppressors' and there'd be a revolution. Millions\n of reddies against a few police, a couple of regiments of the Foreign\n Legion. It'd be a cinch.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But,\" ... Ranson frowned ... \"this is only an interesting supposition.\n The reddies are civilized, peaceful.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Outwardly,\" Haller snapped. \"But what do you or any other earthmen\n know about what goes on in their round red heads? And the proof that\n some revolt is planned lies in what's been happening the past few\n weeks! Look here!\" Haller bent forward, the lines about his mouth\n tighter than ever. \"Three weeks ago my technical advisor, Rawlins,\n committed suicide. Not a care in the world, but he killed himself. A\n week later Harris, head of the television department, went insane.\n Declared a feud with the whole planet, began shooting at everyone he\n saw. The police rayed him in the struggle. The following week Pegram,\n the musical director, died of a heart attack. Died with the most\n terrorized expression on his face I've ever seen. Fear, causing the\n heart attack, his doctor said. You begin to see the set-up? Three men,\n each a vital power in M.B.C. gone within three weeks! And who's next?\n Who?\" Jared Haller's eyes were bright with fear.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Suicide, insanity, heart attack.\" Ranson shrugged. \"All perfectly\n normal. Coincidence that they should happen within three weeks. What\n makes you think there's been foul play?\"\n\n\n\n\n   For a long brittle moment Jared Haller stared out at the graceful white\n city, wan in the light of the twin moons. When he turned to face\n Ranson again, his eyes were bleak as a lunar plain.\n\n\n\n\n   \"One thing,\" he said slowly. \"The music.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Music?\" Ranson echoed. \"Look here, Mr. Haller, you....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"It's all right.\" Jared Haller grinned crookedly. \"I'm not insane. Yet.\n Look, Mr. Ranson! There's just one clue to these mysterious deaths!\n And that's the music! In each instance the servants told of hearing,\n very faintly, a strange melody. Music that did queer things to them,\n even though they could hear it only vaguely. Music like none they'd\n ever heard. Like the devil's pipes, playing on their souls, while....\n Almighty God!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Jared Haller froze, his face gray as lead, his eyes blue horror. Ranson\n was like a man in a trance, bent forward, lips pressed tight until they\n resembled a livid scar. The room was silent as a tomb; outside, they\n could hear the vague rumbling of the city, with the distant swish of\n canal boats, the staccato roar of rockets as some earth-bound freighter\n leaped from the spaceport. Familiar, homey sounds, these, but beneath\n them, like an undercurrent of madness, ran the macabre melody.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   There was, there had never been, Ranson knew, any music like this.\n It was the pipes of Pan, the chant of robots, the crying of souls in\n torment. It was a cloudy purple haze that engulfed the mind, it was a\n silver knife plucking a cruel obligato on taut nerves, it was a thin\n dark snake writhing its endless coils into the room.\n\n\n\n\n   Neither man moved. Ranson knew all the tricks of visual hypnotism, the\n whirling mirror, the waving hands, the pool of ink ... but this was\n the hypnotism of sound. Louder and clearer the music sounded, in eerie\n overtones, quavering sobbing minors, fierce reverberating bass. Sharp\n shards of sound pierced their ears, deep throbbing underrhythm shook\n them as a cat shakes a mouse.\n\n\n\n\n   \"God!\" Haller snarled. \"What ... what is it?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Don't know.\" Ranson felt a queer irritation growing within him. He\n strode stiffly to the window, peered out. In the darkness, the broad\n Han canal lay placid; the stars caught in its jet meshes gently\n drifted toward the bank, shattered on the white marble. Along the\n embankment were great fragrant clumps of\n\n\n    fayeh\n\n\n   bushes. It was among\n these, he decided, that their unknown serenader lay concealed.\n\n\n\n\n   Suddenly the elfin melody changed. Fierce, harsh, it rose, until Ranson\n felt as though a file were rasping his nerves. He knew that he should\n dash down, seize the invisible musician below ... but logic, facts and\n duty, all were fading from his mind. The music was a spur, goading him\n to wild unreasoning anger. The red mists of hate swirled through his\n brain, a strange unreasoning bloodlust grew with the savage beat of the\n wild music. Berserk rage sounded in each shivering note and Ranson felt\n an insane desire to run amok. To inflict pain, to see red blood flow,\n to kill ... kill! Blindly he whirled, groping for his gun, as the music\n rose in a frenzied death-wail.\n\n\n\n\n   Turning, Ranson found himself face to face with Jared Haller. But the\n tall flinty magnate was now another person. Primitive, atavistic rage\n distorted his features, insane murder lurked in his eyes. The music was\n his master, and it was driving him to frenzy. \"Kill!\" the weird rhythm\n screamed, \"Kill!\" And Jared Haller obeyed. He snatched the flame-gun\n from his pocket, levelled it at Ranson.\n\n\n\n\n   Whether it was the deadly melody outside, or the instinct of\n self-preservation, Ranson never knew, but he drove at Haller with grim\n fury. The flame-gun hissed, filling the room with a greenish glare, its\n beam passing so close to Ranson's hair as to singe it. Ranson came up,\n grinning furiously, and in a moment both men were struggling, teeth\n bared in animalistic grins, breath coming in choked gasps, whirling\n in a mad dance of death as the macabre music distilled deadly poison\n within their brains.\n\n\n\n\n   The end came with startling suddenness. Ranson, twisting his opponent's\n arm back, felt the searing blast of the flame-gun past his hand. Jared\n Haller, a ghastly blackened corpse, toppled to the floor.\n\n\n\n\n   At that moment the lethal rhythm outside changed abruptly. From the\n fierce maddening beat of a few minutes before, the chords took on a\n yearning seductive tone. A call, it seemed, irresistible, soft, with\n a thousand promises. This was the song the sirens sang to Ulysses,\n the call of the Pied Piper, the chant of the houris in paradise. It\n conjured up pictures in Ranson's mind ... pictures of fairyland, of\n exquisitely beautiful scenes, of women lovely beyond imagination. All\n of man's hopes, man's dreams, were in that music, and it drew Ranson as\n a moth is drawn to a flame. The piping of Pan, the fragile fantasies of\n childhood, the voices of those beyond life.... Ranson walked stiffly\n toward the source of the music, like a man drugged.\n\n\n\n\n   As he approached the window the melody grew louder. The hypnotism of\n sound, he knew, but he didn't care. It was enthralling, irresistible.\n Like a sleepwalker he climbed to the sill, stood outlined in the tall\n window. Twenty feet to the ground, almost certain death ... but Ranson\n was lost in the golden world that the elfin melody conjured up. He\n straightened his shoulders, was about to step out.\n\n\n\n\n   Then suddenly there was a roar of atomic motors, a flashing of lights.\n A police boat, flinging up clouds of spray, swept up the canal,\n stopped. Ranson shook himself, like a man awakening from a nightmare,\n saw uniformed figures leaping to the bank. From the shadow of the\n\n\n    fayeh\n\n\n   bushes a slight form sprang, dodged along the embankment.\n Flame-guns cut the gloom but the slight figure swung to the left,\n disappeared among the twisting narrow streets. Bathed in cold sweat,\n Ranson stepped back into the room, where the still, terrible form of\n Jared Haller lay. Ranson stared at it, as though seeing it for the\n first time. Outside, there were pounding feet; the canal-patrolmen\n raced through the house, toward the study. And then, his brain weary as\n if it had been cudgelled, Ranson slid limply to the floor.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Headquarters of the Martian Canal-Patrol was brilliantly lighted by a\n dozen big\n\n\n    astralux\n\n\n   arcs. Captain Maxwell chewed at his gray mustache,\n staring curiously at Ranson.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Then you admit killing Haller?\" he demanded.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes.\" Ranson nodded sombrely. \"In the struggle. Self-defense. But even\n if it hadn't been self-defense, I probably would have fought with him.\n That music was madness, I tell you! Madness! Nobody's responsible when\n under its influence! I....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You killed Haller,\" Captain Maxwell said. \"And you blame it on this\n alleged music. I might believe you, Ranson, but how many other people\n would? Even members of Terrestial Intelligence aren't sacro sanct. I'll\n have to hold you for trial.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Hold me for trial?\" Ranson leaned forward, his gaunt face intent.\n \"While the real killer, the person playing that music, gets away? Look!\n Let me out of here for twelve hours! That's all I ask! And if I don't\n track down whoever was outside Haller's house, you can....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sorry.\" Captain Maxwell shook his head. \"You know I'd like to, Ranson.\n But this is murder. To let a confessed murderer, even though he is a\n T.I. man, go free, is impossible.\" The captain drew a deep breath,\n motioned to the two gray-uniformed patrolmen. \"Take Mr. Ranson.\"\n\n\n\n\n   And then Steve Ranson went into action. In one blinding burst of\n speed, he lunged across the desk, tore Captain Maxwell's pistol from\n its holster. Before the captain and the two patrolmen knew what had\n happened, they were staring into the ugly muzzle of the flame-gun.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sorry.\" Ranson said tightly. \"But it had to be done. There's hell\n loose on Mars, the devil's melody! And it's got to be stopped before it\n turns this planet upside down!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You can't get away with this, Ranson!\" Captain Maxwell shook his head.\n \"It'll only make it tougher for you when we nab you again! Be sensible!\n Put down that gun.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No good. Got to work fast.\" Ranson backed toward the door, gun\n in hand. \"Let this mad music go unchecked and it's death to all\n terrestials on Mars! And I'm going to stop it! So long, captain! You\n can try me for murder if you want, after I've done my job here!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Ranson took the key from the massive plastic door as he backed\n through the entrance. Once in the hall, he slammed the door shut,\n locked Maxwell and his men in the room. Then, dropping the gun into\n his pocket, he ran swiftly down the corridor to the main entrance of\n headquarters. In the hall a patrolman glanced at him suspiciously,\n halted him, but a wave of Ranson's T.I. card put the man aside.\n\n\n\n\n   Free of headquarters, Ranson began to run. Only a few moments, he\n knew, before Maxwell and his men blasted a way to freedom, set out in\n pursuit. Like a lean gray shadow Ranson ran, twisting, dodging, among\n the narrow streets, heading toward Haller's house. Mercis was a dream\n city in the wan light of the moons. One in either side of the heavens,\n they threw weird double shadows across the rippling canals, the aimless\n streets. Sleek canal-cabs roared along the dark waterways, throwing\n up clouds of spray, and on the embankments, green-eyed, bulge-headed\n little reddies padded, silent, inscrutable, themselves a part of the\n eternal mystery of Mars.\n\n\n\n\n   Haller's house stood dark and brooding beside the canal. Captain\n Maxwell's men had completed their examination and the place was\n deserted. Ranson stepped into the shadow of the clump of fragrant\n\n\n    fayeh\n\n\n   bushes, where the unknown musician had stood; there was little\n danger, he felt, of patrolmen hunting for him at Haller's house.\n The captain had little faith in copybook maxims about the murderer\n returning to the scene of the crime.\n\n\n\n\n   Ranson stood motionless for a moment as a canal boat swept by, then\n drew from his pocket a heavy black tube. He tugged, and it extended\n telescopically to a cane some four feet long. The cane was hollow, a\n tube, and the head of it was large as a man's two fists and covered\n with small dials, gauges. This was the T.I.'s most cherished secret,\n the famous \"electric bloodhound,\" by which criminals could be tracked.\n\n\n\n\n   Ranson touched a lever and a tiny electric motor in the head of the\n cane hummed, drawing air up along the tube. He tapped the bank where\n the unknown musician had stood, eyes on the gauges. Molecules of\n matter, left by the mysterious serenader, were sucked up the tube,\n registered on a sensitive plate, just as delicate color shades register\n on the plate of a color camera.\n\n\n\n\n   Ranson tapped the cane carefully upon the ground, avoiding those places\n where he had stood. Few people crossed this overgrown embankment, and\n it was a safe bet that no one other than the strange musician had\n been there recently. The scent was a clear one, and the dials on the\n head of the cane read R-2340-B, the numerical classification of the\n tiny bits of matter left behind by the unknown. The theory behind it\n was quite simple. The T.I. scientists had reasoned that the sense of\n smell is merely the effect of suspended molecules in the air acting\n upon sensitive nerve filaments, and they knew that any normal human\n can follow a trail of some strong odor such as perfumes, or gasoline,\n while animals, possessing more sensitive perceptions, can follow\n less distinct trails. To duplicate this mechanically had proven more\n difficult than an electric eye or artificial hearing device, but in\n the end they had triumphed. Their efforts had resulted in the machine\n Ranson now carried.\n\n\n\n\n   The trial was, at the start, clear. Ranson tapped the long tube on the\n ground like a blind man, eyes on the dial. Along the embankment, into a\n side street, he made his way. There were few abroad in this old quarter\n of the city; from the spaceport came the roar of freighters, the rumble\n of machinery, but here in the narrow winding streets there was only the\n faint murmur of voices behind latticed windows, the rustle of the wind,\n the rattle of sand from the red desert beyond the city.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   As Ranson plunged further into the old Martian quarter, the trail grew\n more and more confused, crossed by scores of other trails left by\n passersby. He was forced to stop, cast about like a bloodhound, tapping\n every square foot of the street before the R-2340-B on the dial showed\n that he had once more picked up the faint elusive scent.\n\n\n\n\n   Deeper and deeper Ranson plunged into the dark slums of Mercis. Smoky\n gambling dens, dives full of drunken spacehands and slim red-skinned\n girls, maudlin singing ... even the yellow glare of the forbidden\n san-rays, as they filtered through drawn windows. Unsteady figures made\n their way along the streets. Mighty-thewed Jovian blasters, languid\n Venusians, boisterous earthmen ... and the little Martians padding\n softly along, wrapped in their loose dust-robes.\n\n\n\n\n   At the end of an alley where the purple shadows lay like stagnant\n pools, Ranson paused. The alley was a cul-de-sac, which meant that\n the person he was trailing must have entered one of the houses. Very\n softly he tapped the long tube on the ground. Again with a hesitant\n swinging of dials, R-2340-B showed up, on the low step in front of one\n of the dilapidated, dome-shaped houses. Ranson's eyes narrowed. So the\n person who had played the mad murder melody had entered that house!\n Might still be there! Quickly he telescoped the \"electric bloodhound,\"\n dropped it into his pocket, and drew his flame-gun.\n\n\n\n\n   The old house was dark, with an air of morbid deadly calm about\n it. Ranson tried the door, found it locked. A quick spurt from his\n flame-gun melted the lock; he glanced about to make sure no one had\n observed the greenish glare, then stepped inside.\n\n\n\n\n   The hallway was shadowy, its walls hung with ancient Martian tapestries\n which, from their stilted symbolic ideographs must have dated back to\n the days of the Canal-Builders. At the end of the hallway, however,\n light jetted through a half-open door. Ranson moved toward it, silent\n as a phantom, muscles tense. Gripping his flame-gun, he pushed the door\n wide ... and a sudden exclamation broke from his lips.\n\n\n\n\n   Before him lay a gleaming laboratory, lined with vials of strange\n liquids, shining test-tubes, and queer apparatus. Beside a table,\n pouring a black fluid from a beaker into a test-tube, stood a man.\n Half-terrestial, half-Martian, he seemed, with the large hairless head\n of the red planet, and the clean features of an earthman. His eyes,\n behind their glasses, were like green ice, and the hand pouring the\n black fluid did not so much as waver at Ranson's entrance.\n\n\n\n\n   Ranson gasped. The bizarre figure was that of Dr. Elath Taen,\n master-scientist, sought by the T.I. for years, in vain! Elath Taen,\n outlaw and renegade, whose sole desire was the extermination of all\n terrestials on Mars, a revival of the ancient glories of the red\n planet. The tales told about him were fabulous; and this was the man\n behind the unholy music!\n\n\n\n\n   \"Good evening, Mr. Ranson,\" Elath Taen smiled. \"Had I known T.I.\n men were on Mars I should have taken infinitely more precautions.\n However....\"\n\n\n\n\n   As he spoke, his hand moved suddenly, as though to hurl the test tube\n at Ranson. Quick as he was, the T.I. man was quicker. A spurt of\n flame leapt from his gun, shattering the tube. The dark liquid hissed,\n smoking, on to the floor.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well done, Mr. Ranson.\" Elath Taen nodded calmly. \"Had the acid struck\n you, it would have rendered you blind.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's about enough of your tricks!\" Ranson grated. \"Come along, Dr.\n Taen! We're going to headquarters!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Since you insist.\" Elath Taen removed his chemist's smock, began, very\n deliberately, to strip off his rubber gloves.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Quit stalling!\" Ranson snapped. \"Get going! I....\" The words faded on\n the T.I. man's lips. Faintly, in the distance, came the strains of\n soft eerie music!\n\n\n\n\n   \"Good God!\" Ranson's eyes darted about the laboratory. \"That ... that's\n the same as Haller and I....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Exactly, Mr. Ranson.\" Elath Taen smiled thinly. \"Listen!\"\n\n\n\n\n   The music was a caress, soft as a woman's skin. Slow, drowsy, like\n the hum of bees on a hot summer's afternoon. Soothing, soporific, in\n dreamy, crooning chords. A lullaby, that seemed to hang lead weights\n upon the eyelids. Audible hypnotism, as potent as some drug. Clearer\n with each second, the melody grew, coming nearer and nearer the\n laboratory.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Come ... come on,\" Ranson said thickly. \"Got to get out of here.\"\n\n\n\n\n   But his words held no force, and Elath Taen was nodding sleepily under\n the influence of the weird dream-music. Ranson knew he should act,\n swiftly, while he could; but the movement of a single muscle seemed\n an intolerable effort. His skin felt as though it were being rubbed\n with velvet, a strange purring sensation filled his brain. He tried to\n think, to move, but his will seemed in a padded vise. The music was\n dragging him down, down, into the gray mists of oblivion.\n\n\n\n\n   Across the laboratory Elath Taen had slumped to the floor, a vague\n smile of triumph on his face. Ranson turned to the direction of\n the music, tried to raise his gun, but the weapon slipped from his\n fingers, he fell to his knees. Sleep ... that was all that mattered ...\n sleep. The music was like chloroform, its notes stroked his brain.\n Through half-shut eyes he saw a door at the rear of the laboratory\n open, saw a slim, dark, exotic girl step through into the room. Slung\n about her neck in the manner of an accordian, was a square box, with\n keys studding its top. For a long moment Ranson stared at the dark,\n enigmatic girl, watched her hands dance over the keys to produce the\n soft lulling music. About her head, he noticed, was a queer copper\n helmet, of a type he had never before seen. And then the girl, Elath\n Taen, the laboratory, all faded into a kaleidoscopic whirl. Ranson felt\n himself falling down into the gray mists, and consciousness disappeared.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhat would best describe the terrestrials' attitudes towards the reddies on Mars?\n\n (A) The terrestrials want to help the reddies claim their own freedom.\n (B) The terrestrials have complete disdain for the reddies and want to completely eradicate them.\n (C) The terrestrials want to help them be successful on Mars, so they provide motivating propaganda for them.\n (D) The terrestrials want to control the reddies so that the terrestrials can stay in control of Mars.\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "D", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 25621, "query_start_index": 25623, "query_end_index": 26122, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "63616_MQ1O9T2Q_6", "pid": "63616_MQ1O9T2Q_6_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nHAGERTY'S ENZYMES\n\n\n\n\n   By A. L. HALEY\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    There's a place for every man and a man for\n\n\n    every place, but on robot-harried Mars the\n\n\n    situation was just a little different.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placed\n twitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. He\n closed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the corner\n from jumping.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Just lie back, Harp,\" droned his sister soothingly. \"Just give in and\n let go of everything.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. And\n gently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibrated\n tenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs.\n\n\n\n\n   For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lunge\n he escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriously\n stationary sofa.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Harp!\" His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. \"Dr.\n Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it a\n trial?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper glared at the preposterous chair. \"Franz!\" he snarled. \"That\n prize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept for\n weeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling like\n a four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jiggling\n baby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it!\" Completely\n outraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told you\n last year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to run\n the whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that's\n causing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'd\n crack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.\n \"Vacation!\" he snorted. \"Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hook\n after a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-aged\n man! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are driving\n me to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,\n reasonable co\u00f6peration from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's the\n idiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Hey, Harp, old man!\" His brother-in-law, turning the pages of the\n new colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.\n \"Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunk\n twenty years ago?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper's hands twitched violently. \"Don't mention that fiasco!\" he\n rasped. \"That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wells\n spewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brain\n were the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique and\n scheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp's\n nervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interfere\n with the harmony of his home.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You're away behind the times, Harp,\" he declared. \"Don't you know\n that those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springs\n ever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has built\n the largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and that\n people are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,\n you missed a bet!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine from\n Scribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shaped\n structure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rock\n of Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circular\n skyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,\n other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in the\n drawing looked lovely and enticing.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why, I remember now!\" exclaimed Bella. \"That's where the Durants went\n two years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They came\n back in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martian\n springs had effected in the Durants. \"It's the very thing for you,\n Harp,\" he advised. \"You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gas\n they use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort of\n floats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. And\n you can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And not\n only that.\" Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant looking\n brother-in-law. \"The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated an\n enzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oil\n into its components without the need for chemical processing. There's a\n fortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learns\n to process the stuff!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. The\n magazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd and\n calculating. He even forgot to twitch. \"Maybe you're right, Scrib,\" he\n acknowledged. \"Combine a rest-cure with business, eh?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And that\n was when he saw the line about the robots. \"\u2014the only hotel staffed\n entirely with robot servants\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Robots!\" he shrilled. \"You mean they've developed the things to that\n point? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'll\n disfranchise him! I'll\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Harp!\" exploded Bella. \"Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thing\n about it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,\n why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing a\n tantrum? That's the only sensible way!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You're right, Bella,\" agreed Harper incisively. \"I'll go and find out\n for myself. Immediately!\" Scooping up his hat, he left at his usual\n lope.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well!\" remarked his sister. \"All I can say is that they'd better turn\n that happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of the\n soporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for the\n first time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazy\n lethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of the\n interval.\n\n\n\n\n   It seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strapping\n themselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. And then Harper\n was waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. He struggled out of\n the hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked by\n pneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel.\n\n\n\n\n   Appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting,\n green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of Martian\n copper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by a\n dozen arches. But most of all, the robots won his delighted approval.\n\n\n\n\n   He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high\n state of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done without\n his knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,\n he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in\n wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial\n duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently.\n\n\n\n\n   Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang the\n expense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and\n proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained\n office staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities\n of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into\n the field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Briskly\n he went over to the desk.\n\n\n\n\n   He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacy\n that was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.\n Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with the\n desk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of a\n robot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in the\n stress of the argument.\n\n\n\n\n   \"A nurse!\" shouted the woman. \"I want a nurse! A real woman! For what\n you charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I want\n one! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do you\n hear?\"\n\n\n\n\n   No one within the confines of the huge lobby could have helped hearing.\n The clerk flinched visibly. \"Now, Mrs. Jacobsen,\" he soothed. \"You know\n the hotel is staffed entirely with robots. They're much more expensive,\n really, than human employees, but so much more efficient, you know.\n Admit it, they give excellent service, don't they, now?\" Toothily he\n smiled at the enraged woman.\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's just it!\" Mrs. Jacobsen glared. \"The service is\n\n\n    too\n\n\n   good.\n I might just as well have a set of push buttons in the room. I want\n someone to\n\n\n    hear\n\n\n   what I say! I want to be able to change my mind once\n in awhile!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper snorted. \"Wants someone she can devil,\" he diagnosed. \"Someone\n she can get a kick out of ordering around.\" With vast contempt he\n stepped to the desk beside her and peremptorily rapped for the clerk.\n\n\n\n\n   \"One moment, sir,\" begged that harassed individual. \"Just one moment,\n please.\" He turned back to the woman.\n\n\n\n\n   But she had turned her glare on Harper. \"You could at least be civil\n enough to wait your turn!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper smirked. \"My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,\n are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't a\n normal human trait.\" Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckoned\n authoritatively to the clerk.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for a\n rest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuing\n your\u2014ah\u2014discussion with the lady.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing was\n Harper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper's\n implacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from his\n forehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about to\n deposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blow\n and another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow.\n\n\n\n\n   \"This is a helluva joint!\" roared the voice. \"Man could rot away to the\n knees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service!\" Again his fist\n banged the counter.\n\n\n\n\n   The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.\n Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and the\n irate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Here you are, Mr. Breen. I'm sure you'll find it comfortable.\" With a\n pallid smile he pressed a button and consigned Harper to the care of a\n silent and efficient robot.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The room was more than comfortable. It was beautiful. Its bank of clear\n windows set in the green glass wall framed startling rubicund views of\n the Martian hinterland where, Harper affectionately thought, fungi were\n busy producing enzymes that were going to be worth millions for him and\n his associates. There remained only the small detail of discovering how\n to extract them economically and to process them on this more than arid\n and almost airless planet. Details for his bright young laboratory men;\n mere details....\n\n\n\n\n   Leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went up\n to the domed roof restaurant. Lunching boldly on broiled halibut with\n consomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark blue\n sky of Mars, with Deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phase\n while Phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule.\n Leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slim\n cigar\u2014his first in months\u2014and inhaled happily. For once old Scribney\n had certainly been right, he reflected. Yes sir, Scrib had rung the\n bell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. With a wonderful sense of\n well-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax.\n\n\n\n\n   Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw that\n they were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had no\n further opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinated\n movements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypo\n into his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling him\n out.\n\n\n\n\n   Harper's tongue finally functioned. \"What's all this?\" he demanded.\n \"There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go!\"\n\n\n\n\n   He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.\n Inexorably it pushed him flat.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You've got the wrong room!\" yelled Harp. \"Let me go!\" But the hypo\n began to take effect. His yells became weaker and drowsier. Hazily, as\n he drifted off, he thought of Mrs. Jacobsen. Maybe she had something,\n at that.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   There was a tentative knock on the door. \"Come in,\" called Harper\n bleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, for\n the opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on the\n desk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Say, pardner,\" he said hoarsely, \"you haven't seen any of them robots\n around here, have you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper scowled. \"Oh, haven't I?\" he grated. \"Robots! Do you know what\n they did to me.\" Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. \"Came in here\n while I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyed\n in months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! The\n only meal I've enjoyed in months!\" Blackly he sank his chin onto his\n fist and contemplated the outrage.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why didn't you stop 'em?\" reasonably asked the visitor.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Stop a robot?\" Harper glared pityingly. \"How? You can't reason with\n the blasted things. And as for using force\u2014it's man against metal. You\n try it!\" He ground his teeth together in futile rage. \"And to think I\n had the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was ready\n to staff my offices with the things!\"\n\n\n\n\n   The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach and\n groaned. \"I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could use\n some of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions I\n ate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Tundra?\" A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. \"You\n mean you work out here on the tundra?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'm\n superintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty's\n Enzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worth\n mentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.\n Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where they\n could use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And in\n fact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,\n he's about out of business.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.\n But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With a\n horrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a third\n robot enter, wheeling a chair.\n\n\n\n\n   \"A wheel chair!\" squeaked the victim. \"I tell you, there's nothing\n wrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!\n Take it away!\"\n\n\n\n\n   The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular and\n ruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neither\n bribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered his\n ebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.\n\n\n\n\n   The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all to\n Jake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, \"Take\n me, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all the\n treatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strapped\n him down and marched out with him.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiver\n of the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,\n mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   There was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.\n Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think it\n out.\n\n\n\n\n   For five days now his pet robots had put him through an ordeal that\n made him flinch every time he thought about it. Which wasn't often,\n since he was almost past thinking. They plunked him into stinking\n mud-baths and held him there until he was well-done to the bone, he\n was sure. They soaked him in foul, steaming irradiated waters until he\n gagged. They brought him weird concoctions to eat and drink and then\n stood over him until he consumed them. They purged and massaged and\n exercised him.\n\n\n\n\n   Whenever they let him alone, he simply collapsed into bed and slept.\n There was nothing else to do anyway. They'd taken his clothes; and the\n phone, after an announcement that he would have no more service for two\n weeks, gave him nothing but a busy signal.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Persecution, that's what it is!\" he moaned desperately. And he turned\n his back to the mirror, which showed him that he was beginning to look\n flesh-colored instead of the parchment yellow to which he had become\n accustomed. He closed his mind to the fact that he was sleeping for\n hours on end like the proverbial baby, and that he was getting such an\n appetite that he could almost relish even that detestable mush they\n sent him for breakfast. He was determined to be furious. As soon as he\n could wake up enough to be.\n\n\n\n\n   He hadn't been awake long this time before Jake Ellis was there again,\n still moaning about his lack of treatments. \"Nothin' yet,\" he gloomily\n informed Harp. \"They haven't been near me. I just can't understand it.\n After I signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! And I can't\n find any way out of this section. The other two rooms are empty and the\n elevator hasn't got any button. The robots just have to come and get a\n man or he's stuck.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Stuck!\" snarled Harp. \"I'm never stuck! And I'm damned if I'll wait\n any longer to break out of this\u2014this jail! Listen, Jake. I've been\n thinking. Or trying to, with what's left of me. You came in just when\n that assinine clerk was registering me. I'll bet that clerk got rattled\n and gave me the wrong key. I'll bet you're supposed to have this room\n and I'm getting your treatments. Why don't we switch rooms and see what\n happens?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Say, maybe you're right!\" Jake's eyes gleamed at last with hope. \"I'll\n get my clothes.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harp's eyebrows rose. \"You mean they left you your clothes?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why, sure. You mean they took yours?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. \"Leave your things, will you?\n I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I have\n to go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. \"Maybe\n you could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It's\n okay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there in\n that fancy lobby.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper looked at his watch. \"Time to go. Relax, old man. The robots\n will be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'm\n sure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don't\n worry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new room\n he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for\n his first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake's\n clothing.\n\n\n\n\n   The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father's\n clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking\n up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he was\n shoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's number\n twelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch from\n his image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.\n \"This is room 618,\" he said authoritatively. \"Send up the elevator for\n me. I want to go down to the lobby.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He'd guessed right again. \"It will be right up, sir,\" responded the\n robot operator. Hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled to\n the elevator.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Only the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the huge\n suave lobby.\n\n\n\n\n   He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted the\n other visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of the\n elevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an island\n in a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring the\n oversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robots\n shared his self control.\n\n\n\n\n   The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.\n Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.\n With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines moving\n inexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. \"Get that patient!\" he\n ordered. \"Take him to the\u2014to the mud-baths!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No you don't!\" yelled Harper. \"I want to see the manager!\" Nimbly he\n circled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw things\n at the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.\n Especially, card indexes.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Stop it!\" begged the clerk. \"You'll wreck the system! We'll never get\n it straight again! Stop it!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Call them off!\" snarled Harper. \"Call them off or I'll ruin your\n switchboard!\" He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave.\n\n\n\n\n   With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up an\n electric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They became\n oddly inanimate.\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's better!\" Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed the\n collar of his flapping coat. \"Now\u2014the manager, please.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"This\u2014this way, sir.\" With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper across\n the width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyond\n speech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside and\n returned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and at\n the same time phrase his resignation in his mind.\n\n\n\n\n   Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harper\n flapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, who\n was busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metal\n desk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. \"My good\n man\u2014\" he began.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Don't 'my-good-man' me!\" snapped Harper. He glared back at the\n manager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he could\n stretch, he shook his puny fist. \"Do you know who I am? I'm Harper\n S. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why I\n haven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my way\n downstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?\n Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and those\n damnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,\n Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have a\n sheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplectic\n pattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.\n With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. \"\n\n\n    My\n\n\n   robots!\" he muttered.\n \"As if I invented the damned things!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Despondently he looked at Harper. \"Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If you\n don't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,\n at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in my\n resignation.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Again he sighed. \"The trouble,\" he explained, \"is that those fool\n robots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mix\n the two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live with\n robots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.\n We\u2014\" he grimaced disgustedly\u2014\"had to pioneer in the use of robots.\n And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.\n So\u2014Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now he\n hooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down and\n reached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. \"Oh, I\n don't know,\" he said mildly.\n\n\n\n\n   Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. \"What\n do you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,\n aren't you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. \"It seems to me that\n these robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might even\n make a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands\u2014at a\n reasonable price, of course\u2014and forget the outrages I've suffered at\n your establishment.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. \"You mean you want these robots\n after what you've seen and experienced?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. \"Of course, you'd have to take\n into consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. And\n there's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'm\n willing to discuss the matter with your superiors.\"\n\n\n\n\n   With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted his\n head. \"My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'll\n back you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.\n Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of\n the hotel.\" Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawny\n hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but\n across the lobby to the elevator.\n\n\n\n\n   Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like the\n treatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shoulders\n inside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was ready\n for the second step of his private Operation Robot.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day\u2014the kind of day unknown\n to the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,\n waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recovered\n from deceleration.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Look, Scrib!\" Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. \"It's finally\n opening.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. They\n watched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.\n\n\n\n\n   \"There he is!\" cried Bella. \"Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,\n it's amazing! Look at him!\n\n\n\n\n   And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fit\n and years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was the\n first pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, you old dog!\" exclaimed Scribney affectionately. \"So you did it\n again!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper smirked. \"Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought out\n Hagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Got\n both of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because they\n didn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bit\n for that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock to\n you. All right?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right?\" Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was human\n after all. \"All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some of\n those robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harper's smile vanished. \"Don't even mention such a thing!\" he yelped.\n \"You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things for\n weeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where they\n belong!\"\n\n\n\n\n   He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,\n waiting patiently in the background. \"Oh there you are, Smythe.\" He\n turned to his relatives. \"Busy day ahead. See you later, folks\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Same old Harp,\" observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block of\n stock. \"What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,\n honey?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Wonderful!\" She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they left\n the port.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhy was Harper able to buy the hotel's robots for such a cheap price?\n\n (A) Harper befriended the hotel manager and convinced him to sell the robots to him for cheap.\n (B) The hotel could not find anyone other than Harper to sell the robots to.\n (C) Harper had threatened to put the hotel out of business if they did not sell the robots to him.\n (D) The hotel was failing, so the company was happy to get rid of the robots.\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "D", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 28645, "query_start_index": 28647, "query_end_index": 29101, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "63833_V187YO4H_2", "pid": "63833_V187YO4H_2_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nJinx Ship To The Rescue\n\n\n\n\n   By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.\n\n\n\n\n   Stand by for\n\n\n    T.R.S. Aphrodite\n\n\n   , butt of the Space\n\n\n   Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only\n\n\n   her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her!\n\n\n\n\n   Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of the\n Tellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in the\n viscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with a\n jaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusport\n for two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now a\n miasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling across\n the mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility was\n dropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to find\n the way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus.\n\n\n\n\n   Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealth\n of feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and together\n they sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor.\n\n\n\n\n   The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship\n\n\n    Aphrodite\n\n\n   loomed\n unhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached the\n ventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of the\n fat spaceship.\n\n\n\n\n   \"It looks,\" he commented bitterly, \"like a pregnant carp.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley\u2014\"Cob\" to his friends\u2014nodded in\n agreement. \"That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The ship\n with the poison personality.\" Cob was the\n\n\n    Aphrodite's\n\n\n   Executive,\n and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execs\n on the\n\n\n    Aphrodite\n\n\n   . She generally sent them Earthside with nervous\n breakdowns in half that time.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Tell me, Captain,\" continued Cob curiously, \"how does it happen\n that you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? I\n thought....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You know Gorman?\" queried Strykalski.\n\n\n\n\n   Cob nodded. \"Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The same.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well,\" Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, \"I know Gorman's\n a prize stinker ... but you were in command of the\n\n\n    Ganymede\n\n\n   . And,\n after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How come\n this?\" He indicated the monitor expressively.\n\n\n\n\n   Strike sighed. \"Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing with\n me and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that you\n wouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharp\n operators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy with\n tradition.\n\n\n\n\n   \"The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polish\n immigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and Congressional\n Medal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in the\n abortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a United\n Nations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...\n me.\n\n\n\n\n   \"From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But something\n happened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest of\n them. Call it luck or temperament or what have you.\n\n\n\n\n   \"In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying the\n wrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take too\n much on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the\n\n\n    Ganymede\n\n\n   because I left my station where I was supposed to be running\n section-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were in\n danger....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The Procyon A people?\" asked Cob.\n\n\n\n\n   \"So you've heard about it.\" Strike shook his head sadly. \"My tactical\n astrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left my\n routine post and loaded up on colonists.\" He shrugged. \"Wrong guess. No\n nova. I made an ass of myself and lost the\n\n\n    Ganymede\n\n\n   . Gorman gave it\n to his former aide. I got this.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Cob coughed slightly. \"I heard something about Ley City, too.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Me again. The\n\n\n    Ganymede's\n\n\n   whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.\n We celebrated a bit too freely.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. \"That was the night\n after the\n\n\n    Ganymede\n\n\n   broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,\n wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Canalopolis?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Whitley nodded.\n\n\n\n\n   \"That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a Tellurian\n Embassy Ball.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I begin to see what you mean, Captain.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Strike's the name, Cob.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Whitley's smile was expansive. \"Strike, I think you're going to like\n our old tin pot here.\" He patted the\n\n\n    Aphrodite's\n\n\n   nether belly\n affectionately. \"She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely to\n meet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek\n\n\n    Ganymede\n\n\n   . \"She'll\n carry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Cob shrugged philosophically. \"Better than tanking that stinking rocket\n fuel, anyway. Deep space?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strike shook his head. \"Venus-Mars.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Cob scratched his chin speculatively. \"Perihelion run. Hot work.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.\n \"A surge-circuit monitor, so help me.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Cob nodded agreement. \"The last of her class.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed\n\n\n    Aphrodite\n\n\n   was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some ten\n years back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian Subjugation\n Incident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with a\n surge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was the\n planner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in its\n formative stage, and at the time of the\n\n\n    Aphrodite's\n\n\n   launching the\n surge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives.\n\n\n\n\n   Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Merit\n for her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamed\n of hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The\n\n\n    Artemis\n\n\n   , the\n\n\n    Andromeda\n\n\n   , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. The\n three vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raid\n had set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine.\n\n\n\n\n   All three were miserable failures.\n\n\n\n\n   The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuit\n too appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,\n wrongly.\n\n\n\n\n   The\n\n\n    Artemis\n\n\n   exploded. The\n\n\n    Andromeda\n\n\n   vanished in the general\n direction of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of a\n ruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.\n And the\n\n\n    Aphrodite's\n\n\n   starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend her\n store of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under\n 20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were a\n tangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull.\n\n\n\n\n   The\n\n\n    Aphrodite\n\n\n   was refitted for space. And because it was an integral\n part of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She became\n a workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. She\n carried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats and\n tanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift from\n Venusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.\n Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleet\n required it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to see\n to it that she did....\n\n\n\n\n   The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys saluted\n smartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve.\n\n\n\n\n   Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least a\n third of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner Planet\n Fleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a ship\n of his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere.\n\n\n\n\n   Cob sensed his discomfort. \"That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.\n Radar Officer. She's good, too.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strike shook his head. \"Don't like women in space. They make me\n uncomfortable.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Cob shrugged. \"Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of our\n ratings are women.\" He grinned maliciously. \"Equal rights, you know.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No doubt,\" commented the other sourly. \"Is that why they named\n this ... ship 'Aphrodite'?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent.\n\n\n\n\n   Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridge\n bulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungle\n of chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into an\n acceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuit\n rheostat.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it?\" commented Cob.\n\n\n\n\n   Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the\n\n\n    Ganymede's\n\n\n   flying-bridge. \"But she's home to us, anyway.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,\n hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strike\n reached for the squawk-box control.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flying\n bridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck will\n recall any enlisted personnel now on liberty....\"\n\n\n\n\n   Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.\n \"Orders, Captain?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.\n They're sending someone down from the\n\n\n    Antigone\n\n\n   , and I expect him by\n 600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. See\n to it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will start\n loading the mail at 599:30. That's about all.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, sir.\" Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, he\n paused. \"Captain,\" he asked, \"Who is the new E/O to be?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. \"A Lieutenant\n Hendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. \"I. V.\n Hendricks.\" He shook his head. \"Don't know him.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The other officers of the\n\n\n    T.R.S. Aphrodite\n\n\n   were in conference with\n the Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flying\n bridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and pale\n blue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on the\n shoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide the\n obvious trimness of her figure.\n\n\n\n\n   Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others.\n\n\n\n\n   \"... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 miles\n of Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,\n we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'm\n certain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy who\n designed her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs are\n specific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Your\n astrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus or\n minus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now be\n certain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,\n especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our rather\n leisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard.\" He\n nodded. \"That's the story. Lift ship in....\" He glanced at his wrist\n chronograph, \"... in an hour and five.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.\n \"Captain?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Come in, Cob.\" Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformed\n girl in the doorway.\n\n\n\n\n   Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind his\n eyes. \"Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant\n\n\n    I-vy\n\n\n   Hendricks?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strike looked blankly at the girl.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Our new E/O, Captain,\" prompted Whitley.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks,\" was all the Captain could find\n to say.\n\n\n\n\n   The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. \"Thank you, Captain.\" Her\n voice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. \"If I may have your\n permission to inspect the drives, Captain, I\n\n\n    may\n\n\n   be able to\n convince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seem\n to think ... a senile incompetent.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. \"Why, certainly ... uh ...\n Miss ... but why should you be so....\"\n\n\n\n\n   The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, \"Harlan\n Hendricks, Captain, is my father.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.\n Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous\n\n\n    Aphrodite\n\n\n   had burned a\n steering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fall\n while Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effected\n repairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was running\n ten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the Astrogation\n Officer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into the\n orbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall.\n\n\n\n\n   The\n\n\n    Aphrodite\n\n\n   rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury....\n\n\n\n\n   For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strike\n and Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week in\n space, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment between\n them. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with her\n father's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there was\n little she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivy\n spent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admit\n that he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman.\n\n\n\n\n   And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strike\n did. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she was\n dedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.\n There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy.\n\n\n\n\n   At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the\n\n\n    Aphrodite's\n\n\n   refrigeration\n units could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortable\n temperature. The thermometer stood at 102\u00b0F, the very metal of\n the ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,\n insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts and\n spaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under the\n sodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses to\n their shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing.\n\n\n\n\n   Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Graham\n called to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. The\n IFF showed the pips to be the\n\n\n    Lachesis\n\n\n   and the\n\n\n    Atropos\n\n\n   . The two\n dreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purely\n routine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breath\n was Celia Graham's notation that the\n\n\n    Atropos\n\n\n   carried none other than\n Space Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan.\n\n\n\n\n   Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall into\n Hell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so.\n\n\n\n\n   And she agreed.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. The\n thermometer stood at 135\u00b0 and tempers were snapping. Cob and Celia\n Graham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl's\n weight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge without\n speaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.\n Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,\n in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern California\n womanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food....\n\n\n\n\n   And then it happened.\n\n\n\n\n   Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from the\n scrambler. It was a distress signal from the\n\n\n    Lachesis\n\n\n   . The\n\n\n    Atropos\n\n\n   had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.\n Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the\n\n\n    Atropos\n\n\n   skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.\n The\n\n\n    Lachesis\n\n\n   had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantly\n trying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thundering\n power of the\n\n\n    Lachesis'\n\n\n   mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol's\n deathgrip on the battleship.\n\n\n\n\n   A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,\n but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful that\n even the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled\n\n\n    Atropos\n\n\n   away from a fiery end.\n\n\n\n\n   Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for the\n flying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front of\n Strykalski's face.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, dammit, hold it still so I can!\" snapped Strike. He read the\n message and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head.\n\n\n\n\n   She read it through and looked up exultantly. \"This is\n\n\n    it\n\n\n   ! This is\n the chance I've been praying for, Strike!\"\n\n\n\n\n   He returned her gaze sourly. \"For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recall\n I said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on those\n ships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the\n\n\n    Lachesis\n\n\n   , he won't let go\n that line even if he fries himself.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. \"That's not what I meant, and you know it!\n I mean this!\" She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat.\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's very nice, Lieutenant,\" commented Cob drily. \"And I know that\n you've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall that\n the last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part of\n the woodwork ... very messily, too.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Let me understand you, Ivy,\" said Strike in a flat voice. \"What you\n are suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us trying\n to pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blown\n skyhigh three times out of three. Very neat.\"\n\n\n\n\n   There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she sounded\n desperate. \"But we can save those ships! We can, I\n\n\n    know\n\n\n   we can! My\n father designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots off\n Callisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed specially\n trained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her in\n and save those ships!\" Her expression turned to one of disgust. \"Or are\n you afraid?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you so\n certain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...\n it'll be the last. For all of us.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We can do it,\" said Ivy Hendricks simply.\n\n\n\n\n   Strike turned to Cob. \"What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter in\n here?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Whitley shrugged. \"If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. \"We'll all be dead soon.\n And me so young and pretty.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strike turned to the squawk-box. \"Evans!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Evans here,\" came the reply.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Have Sparks get a DF fix on the\n\n\n    Atropos\n\n\n   and hold it. We'll home on\n their carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plot\n the course.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, Captain.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strike turned to Cob. \"Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve the\n black-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hinges\n of hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, sir!\" Cob saluted and was gone.\n\n\n\n\n   Strike returned to the squawk-box. \"Radar!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Graham here,\" replied Celia from her station.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Get a radar fix on the\n\n\n    Lachesis\n\n\n   and hold it. Send your dope up to\n Evans and tell him to send us a range estimate.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, Captain,\" the girl replied crisply.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Gun deck!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Gun deck here, sir,\" came a feminine voice.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spool\n of cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, sir!\" The girl switched off.\n\n\n\n\n   \"And now you, Miss Hendricks.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, Captain?\" Her voice was low.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Take over Control ... and Ivy....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Don't kill us off.\" He smiled down at her.\n\n\n\n\n   She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothly\n she turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward....\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,\n the\n\n\n    Lachesis\n\n\n   and the\n\n\n    Atropos\n\n\n   fell helplessly toward the sun. The\n frantic flame that lashed out from the\n\n\n    Lachesis'\n\n\n   tube was fading, her\n fission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.\n Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could she\n save her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 miles\n of the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominences\n that spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching for\n the trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,\n the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginning\n to melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plants\n on the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men were\n dying.\n\n\n\n\n   Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In her\n flying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships in\n the darkened viewport.\n\n\n\n\n   The temperature stood at 140\u00b0 and the air was bitter with the smell\n of hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through with\n perspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gasped\n for breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her with\n apprehension.\n\n\n\n\n   Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube on\n the gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the\n\n\n    Atropos\n\n\n   . It plunged\n straight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up against\n the hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,\n a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.\n Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American \"bolas,\" the three\n spacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plunge\n together.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    They were diving into the sun.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The heat in the\n\n\n    Aphrodite's\n\n\n   bridge was unbearable. The thermometer\n showed 145\u00b0 and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool by\n comparison.\n\n\n\n\n   Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack came\n out of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her field\n of vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuit\n rheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,\n but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrument\n panel.\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Ivy!\n\n\n   \" Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... the\n show ... after ... all.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward the\n control panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal on\n the surge-circuit.\n\n\n\n\n   Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep within\n old Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into the\n circuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in the\n tube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships in\n space slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line.\n\n\n\n\n   More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail.\n\n\n\n\n   Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. \"Strike, Celia's\n fainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We're trying, Cob!\" shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. The\n gauges showed the accumulators full. \"\n\n\n    Now!\n\n\n   \" He spun the rheostat to\n the stops, and black space burst over his brain....\n\n\n\n\n   The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. And\n it was shouting. \"We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're....\" And\n that was all.\n\n\n\n\n   The space-tug\n\n\n    Scylla\n\n\n   found them.\n\n\n\n\n   The three ships ...\n\n\n    Atropos\n\n\n   ,\n\n\n    Lachesis\n\n\n   , and old Aphrodisiac ...\n lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard out\n cold from the acceleration, and\n\n\n    Aphrodite's\n\n\n   tanks bone dry. But they\n were a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol....\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cob\n leaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of the\n Spatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and nodded\n with tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond the\n broad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled.\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right,\" said Strike, setting down his glass. \"What's on your mind,\n Cob? Something's eating you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. \"I\n understand that you goofballed your chances of getting the\n\n\n    Ganymede\n\n\n   back when Gorman spoke his piece to you....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"All I said to him....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. But\n you're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don't\n want to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But what\n about Ivy?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ivy?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Cob looked away. \"I thought that you and she ... well, I thought that\n when we got back ... well....\"\n\n\n\n\n   Strike shook his head. \"She's gone to the Bureau of Ships with a\n designing job.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Cob waved an expressive arm in the air. \"But dammit, man, I thought....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The answer is\n\n\n    no\n\n\n   . Ivy's a nice girl ... but....\" He paused and\n sighed. \"Since she was promoted to her father's old rank ... well....\"\n He shrugged. \"Who wants a wife that ranks you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Never thought of that,\" mused Cob. For a long while he was silent;\n then he pulled out an address book and leafed through until he came to\n the pages marked \"Canalopolis, Mars.\"\n\n\n\n\n   And he was gratified to see that Lieutenant Commander David Farragut\n Strykalski III was doing the same.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nHow are the events of the story best summated?\n\n (A) A delivery ship discovers and saves two other ships\n (B) A passenger ship transiting Earth - Venus accidentally starts falling into the sun\n (C) Strike\u2019s ship breaks down and has to be rescued from being pulled into the sun\n (D) A war ship disguised as a cargo ship changes course and saves lives from pulling into sun\u2019s gravity\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "A", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 26688, "query_start_index": 26690, "query_end_index": 27102, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "63392_7YS4HHFI_6", "pid": "63392_7YS4HHFI_6_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nDoorway to Kal-Jmar\n\n\n\n\n   By Stuart Fleming\n\n\n\n\n   Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns\n\n\n   to give him the key to the ancient city of\n\n\n   Kal-Jmar\u2014a city of untold wealth, and of\n\n\n   robots that made desires instant commands.\n\n\n\n\n   The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyes\n impassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.\n Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,\n and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more.\n\n\n\n\n   Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from the\n translucent Dome\u2014a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which the\n stars shone dimly.\n\n\n\n\n   Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now he\n had another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to pass\n himself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,\n after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest would\n not be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and he\n had to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the Triplanet\n Patrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,\n and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his only\n safety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He had\n to get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough.\n\n\n\n\n   They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw\u2014the very fact of the\n crashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But they\n didn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-feared\n raider in the System. In that was his only advantage.\n\n\n\n\n   He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street and\n then boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until the\n short, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared over\n the top of the ramp, and then followed.\n\n\n\n\n   The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel.\n\n\n\n\n   Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, and\n started to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quite\n young, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,\n and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw.\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right,\" the boy said quietly. \"What is it?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't understand,\" Syme said.\n\n\n\n\n   \"The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why, no,\" Syme told him bewilderedly. \"I haven't been following you.\n I\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. \"You could be lying,\" he said\n finally. \"But maybe I've made a mistake.\" Then\u2014\"Okay, citizen, you can\n clear\u2014but don't let me catch you on my tail again.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyes\n on the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the next\n street he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other side\n a block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass the\n intersection, and then followed again more cautiously.\n\n\n\n\n   It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,\n even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his hands\n on it, but the identity card itself\u2014that oblong of dark diamondite,\n glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity\u2014that could not be\n imitated, and the only way to get it was to kill.\n\n\n\n\n   Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. The\n boy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observation\n platform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight in\n the transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into the\n machine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticket\n went into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevator\n whisked him up.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The tower was high, more than a hundred meters above the highest level\n of the city, and the curved dome that kept air in Lillis was close\n overhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about the\n platform, and saw the bright-blue pinpoint of Earth. The sight stirred\n a touch of nostalgia in him, as it always did, but he put it aside.\n\n\n\n\n   The boy was hunched over the circular balustrade a little distance\n away. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim,\n deadly energy pistol in its holster and padded catlike toward the\n silent figure.\n\n\n\n\n   It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned by\n some slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the still\n air. He opened his mouth to shout, and brought up his arm in a swift,\n instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat its\n silent white pencil of flame, and the boy crumpled to the floor with a\n minute, charred hole in the white leather over his chest.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it into\n his pocket without a second glance. Then he raised the body in his arms\n and thrust it over the parapet.\n\n\n\n\n   It fell, and in the same instant Syme felt a violent tug at his wrist.\n Before he could move to stop himself, he was over the edge. Too late,\n he realized what had happened\u2014one of the hooks on the dead spaceman's\n harness had caught the heavy wristband of his chronometer. He was\n falling, linked to the body of his victim!\n\n\n\n\n   Hardly knowing what he did, he lashed out wildly with his other arm,\n felt his fingertips catch and bite into the edge of the balustrade. His\n body hit the wall of the tower with a thump, and, a second later, the\n corpse below him hit the wall. Then they both hung there, swaying a\n little and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion.\n\n\n\n\n   Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm into\n play, raising the forearm against the dead weight of the dangling body.\n Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel the\n sweat pouring from his brow, running saltily into his eyes. His arms\n felt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Then the hook\n slipped free, and the tearing, unbearable weight vanished.\n\n\n\n\n   The reaction swung Syme against the building again, and he almost\n lost his slippery hold on the balustrade. After a moment he heard the\n spaceman's body strike with a squashy thud, somewhere below.\n\n\n\n\n   He swung up his other arm, got a better grip on the balustrade. He\n tried cautiously to get a leg up, but the motion loosened his hold on\n the smooth surface again. He relaxed, thinking furiously. He could hold\n on for another minute at most; then it was the final blast-off.\n\n\n\n\n   He heard running footsteps, and then a pale face peered over the ledge\n at him. He realized suddenly that the whole incident could have taken\n only a few seconds. He croaked, \"Get me up.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The other\n pulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managed\n to get a leg over the edge and hoist his trembling body to safety.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Are you all right?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. His\n rescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandy\n hair, a sharp nose, and\u2014oddly conflicting\u2014pale, serious eyes and a\n humorous wide mouth. He was still panting.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm not hurt,\" Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in his\n dark, lean face. \"Thanks for giving me a hand.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You scared hell out of me,\" said the man. \"I heard a thud. I\n thought\u2014you'd gone over.\" He looked at Syme questioningly.\n\n\n\n\n   \"That was my bag,\" the outlaw said quickly. \"It slipped out of my hand,\n and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The man sighed. \"I need a drink.\n\n\n    You\n\n\n   need a drink. Come on.\" He\n picked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for the\n elevator, then stopped. \"Oh\u2014your bag. Shouldn't we do something about\n that?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Never mind,\" said Syme, taking his arm. \"The shock must have busted it\n wide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found a\n cafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had just\n killed. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed on\n the first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't be\n found until morning.\n\n\n\n\n   And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of\n\n\n    culcha\n\n\n   , he\n took it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. There\n it was\u2014his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and even\n friendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It was\n the\n\n\n    culcha\n\n\n   , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morning\n he'd find a freighter berth\u2014in as big a spaceport as Lillis, there\n were always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, and\n it was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone.\n\n\n\n\n   He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,\n graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Lissen,\" said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,\n caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. \"Lissen,\" he\n said again, \"I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,\n but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,\n but I hic!\u2014pardon\u2014seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going to\n tell you something, because I need your help!\u2014help.\" He paused. \"I\n need a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sure,\" said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AG\n plate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twisting\n in its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of their\n delicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilk\n after them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glow\n of\n\n\n    culcha\n\n\n   inside him.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I wanta go to Kal-Jmar,\" said Tate.\n\n\n\n\n   Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,\n a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something big\n was coming\u2014something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.\n \"Why?\" he asked softly. \"Why to Kal-Jmar?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,\n he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had been\n right; it was big.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remaining\n city of the ancient Martian race\u2014the race that, legends said, had\n risen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,\n the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectly\n preserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how many\n thousands of years. But they couldn't be reached.\n\n\n\n\n   For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protected\n Lillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysis\n as it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended both\n above and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knew\n what had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors of\n the present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knew\n anything about them or about Kal-Jmar.\n\n\n\n\n   In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earth\n scientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed it\n from every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robots\n that still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then they\n had tried everything they knew to pierce the wall.\n\n\n\n\n   Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated a\n bloody uprising of the present-day Martians\u2014resulting in a rapid\n dwindling of the number of Martians\u2014the Mars Protectorate had stepped\n in and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, any\n Earthman to go near the place.\n\n\n\n\n   Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.\n Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identical\n in properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found a\n force that would break it down.\n\n\n\n\n   And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-four\n hours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to Syme\n Rector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand credits\n on his sleek, tigerish head.\n\n\n\n\n   Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.\n For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should not\n occur to him that he had been indiscreet.\n\n\n\n\n   \"This is native territory we're coming to, Harold,\" he said. \"Better\n strap on your gun.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why. Are they really dangerous?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"They're unpredictable,\" Syme told him. \"They're built differently, and\n they think differently. They breathe like us, down in their caverns\n where there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen that\n way.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, I've heard about that,\" Tate said. \"Iron oxide\u2014very interesting\n metabolism.\" He got his energy pistol out of the compartment and\n strapped it on absently.\n\n\n\n\n   Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuous\n hill country in the distance. \"Not only that,\" he continued. \"They\n eat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off the\n deserts\u2014all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line to\n xopite. They seem intelligent enough\u2014in their own way\u2014but they never\n come near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.\n When the first colonists came here, they had to learn\n\n\n    their\n\n\n   crazy\n language. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen different\n things, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,\n but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"So you think they might attack us?\" Tate asked again, nervously.\n\n\n\n\n   \"They\n\n\n    might\n\n\n   do anything,\" Syme said curtly. \"Don't worry about it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'\n deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of a\n wilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring on\n sliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down again\n on the other side.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appeared\n across their path. \"Gully,\" he announced. \"Shall we cross it, or follow\n it?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. \"Follow, I guess,\"\n he offered. \"It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if we\n cross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Syme nodded and moved the sand car up to the edge of the gully. Then he\n pressed a stud on the control board; a metal arm extruded from the tail\n of the car and a heavy spike slowly unscrewed from it, driving deep\n into the sand. A light on the board flashed, indicating that the spike\n was in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car over\n the edge.\n\n\n\n\n   As the little car nosed down into the gully, the metal arm left behind\n revealed itself to be attached to a length of thick, very strong wire\n cable, with a control cord inside. They inched down the almost vertical\n incline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslides\n as they descended.\n\n\n\n\n   Finally they touched bottom. Syme pressed another stud, and above, the\n metal spike that had supported them screwed itself out of the ground\n again and the cable reeled in.\n\n\n\n\n   Tate had been watching with interest. \"Very ingenious,\" he said. \"But\n how do we get up again?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Most of these gullies peter out gradually,\" said Syme, \"but if we want\n or have to climb out where it's deep, we have a little harpoon gun that\n shoots the anchor up on top.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Good. I shouldn't like to stay down here for the rest of my\n natural life. Depressing view.\" He looked up at the narrow strip of\n almost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook his\n head.\n\n\n\n\n   Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of their\n harpoon gun. They had traveled no more than five hundred meters, and\n the gully was as deep as ever, when Tate, looking up, saw a deeper\n blackness blot out part of the black sky directly overhead. He shouted,\n \"Look out!\" and grabbed for the nearest steering lever.\n\n\n\n\n   The car wheeled around in a half circle and ran into the wall of the\n gully. Syme was saying, \"What\u2014?\" when there was a thunderous crash\n that shook the sturdy walls of the car, as a huge boulder smashed into\n the ground immediately to their left.\n\n\n\n\n   When the smoky red dust had cleared away, they saw that the left tread\n of the sand car was crushed beyond all recognition.\n\n\n\n\n   Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tate\n said, \"I guess we walk from here on.\" Then he looked up again and\n caught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gully\n toward them.\n\n\n\n\n   \"My God!\" he said. \"What are those?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Syme looked. \"Those,\" he said bitterly, \"are Martians.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like all\n Martian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legs\n they did have. Actually, however, the natives had six legs apiece\u2014or,\n more properly, four legs and two arms. Their lungs were not as large\n as they appeared, being collapsed at the moment. What caused the bulge\n that made their torsos look like sausages was a huge air bladder, with\n a valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into the\n bloodstream.\n\n\n\n\n   Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and the\n lips were not split. They did resemble dogs, in that their thick black\n fur was splotched with irregulate patches of white. These patches of\n white were subject to muscular control and could be spread out fanwise;\n or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, which\n helped to take care of the extremes of Martian temperature. Right now\n they were mostly black.\n\n\n\n\n   The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sand\n car, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears,\n although some had the slim Benson energy guns\u2014strictly forbidden to\n Martians.\n\n\n\n\n   Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but he\n swallowed audibly.\n\n\n\n\n   One Martian, who looked exactly like all the rest, stepped forward and\n motioned unmistakably for the two to come out. He waited a moment and\n then gestured with his energy gun. That gun, Syme knew from experience,\n could burn through a small thickness of steelite if held on the same\n spot long enough.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"Come on,\" Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit,\n and Tate followed him.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What do you think they'll\u2014\" he began, and then stopped himself. \"I\n know. They're unpredictable.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yeah,\" said Syme, and opened the door. The air in the car\n\n\n    whooshed\n\n\n   into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out.\n\n\n\n\n   The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned and\n started off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all bounded\n along under the weak gravity.\n\n\n\n\n   They bounded along for what Syme figured as a good kilometer and a\n half, and they then reached a branch in the gully and turned down\n it, going lower all the time. Under the light of their helmet lamps,\n they could see the walls of the gully\u2014a tunnel, now\u2014getting darker\n and more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about nine\n kilometers down, there was even a suggestion of moisture.\n\n\n\n\n   The tunnel debouched at last into a large cavern. There was a\n phosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn't\n decide how far away the far wall was. He noticed something else, though.\n\n\n\n\n   \"There's air here,\" he said to Tate. \"I can see dust motes in it.\" He\n switched his helmet microphone from radio over to the audio membrane\n on the outside of the helmet. \"\n\n\n    Kalis methra\n\n\n   ,\" he began haltingly,\n \"\n\n\n    seltin guna getal.\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, there is air here,\" said the Martian leader, startlingly. \"Not\n enough for your use, however, so do not open your helmets.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Syme swore amazedly.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial,\" Tate said. Syme\n ignored him.\n\n\n\n\n   \"We had our reasons for not doing so,\" the Martian said.\n\n\n\n\n   \"But how\u2014?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless on\n its surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is to\n ignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own for\n several thousand years.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy face\n was expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. \"Yes, you're\n right,\" he said. \"The language you and your fellows struggled to learn\n is a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Tate looked interested. \"But why this\u2014this gigantic masquerade?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You had nothing to give us,\" the Martian said simply.\n\n\n\n\n   Tate frowned, then flushed. \"You mean you avoided revealing yourselves\n because you\u2014had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Tate thought again. \"But\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No,\" the Martian interrupted him, \"revealing the extent of our\n civilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yours\n is an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether you\n thought you were taking it from equals or not.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Never mind that,\" Syme broke in impatiently. \"What do you want with\n us?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The Martian looked at him appraisingly. \"You already suspect.\n Unfortunately, you must die.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yet\n he could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keep\n the Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martian\n must have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,\n holding himself in check with an effort.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Will you tell us why?\" Tate asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conception\n of justice. I will tell you and your\u2014friend\u2014anything you wish to\n know.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side of\n the cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only the\n leader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance away\n from them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not to\n think about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was like\n trying not to think of the word \"hippopotamus.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparently\n unconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. \"First why\u2014\" he\n began.\n\n\n\n\n   \"There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar,\" the Martian said, \"among them a\n very simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transform\n Mars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I think I see,\" Tate said thoughtfully. \"That's been the ultimate aim\n all along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, then\n we'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.\n You couldn't have that, of course.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and looked\n at them with a queer intentness. \"Well\u2014how about the Martians\u2014the\n Kal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to that\n one.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not a\n separate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not our\n ancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to make\n itself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselves\n into cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies to\n the new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problem\n was an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, for\n we progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remained\n its slaves. They died of a plague\u2014and other causes.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You see,\" he finished gently, \"our deception has caused a natural\n confusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And yet,\" Tate mused, \"you are being destroyed by contact with\n an\u2014inferior\u2014culture.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We hope to win yet,\" the Martian said.\n\n\n\n\n   Tate stood up, his face very white. \"Tell me one thing,\" he begged.\n \"Will our two races ever live together in amity?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The Martian lowered his head. \"That is for unborn generations.\" He\n looked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. \"You are a brave man,\"\n he said. \"I am sorry.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down the\n sights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage in\n him exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, before\n he knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into the\n Martian.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishingly\n strong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn't\n tear it out of the Martian's fingers. And all the time he could almost\n feel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard the\n swift pad of his followers coming across the cavern.\n\n\n\n\n   He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Every\n muscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged with\n power. He roared his fury. And the gun twisted out of the Martian's\n iron grip!\n\n\n\n\n   He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed the\n weapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature dropped\n his lance and fell without a sound.\n\n\n\n\n   The next instant a ray blinked at him, and he rolled out of the way\n barely in time. The searing ray cut a swath over the leader's body and\n swerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder of\n the weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor.\n\n\n\n\n   Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like the\n trapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithely\n to let it whistle over his head. Another, lower this time. He flipped\n his body into the air and landed upright, his gun still blazing. His\n right leg burned fiercely from a ray-graze, but he ignored it. And\n all the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths,\n seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes,\n dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top of\n his powerful lungs.\n\n\n\n\n   At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed down\n the rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then dropped\n the weapon from blistered fingers.\n\n\n\n\n   He was gasping for breath, and realized that he was losing air from\n the seared-open right leg of his suit. He reached for the emergency\n kit at his side, drawing in great, gasping breaths, and fumbled out\n a tube of sealing liquid. He spread the stuff on liberally, smearing\n it impartially over flesh and fabric. It felt like liquid hell on the\n burned, bleeding leg, but he kept on until the quick-drying fluid\n formed an airtight patch.\n\n\n\n\n   Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behind\n him, his hands empty at his sides. \"I'm sorry,\" Tate said miserably. \"I\n could have grabbed a spear or something, but\u2014I just couldn't, not even\n to save my own life. I\u2014I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. He\n turned and strode out of the cavern, carrying his right leg stiffly,\n but with his feral, tigerish head held high.\n\n\n\n\n   He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followed\n him with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found something\n that shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, and\n didn't know what to do about it.\n\n\n\n\n   Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do the\n same, and then picked up two spare tanks and the precious black\n suitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped around\n to the back of the car and inspected the damage. The cable reel, which\n might have drawn them out of the gully, was hopelessly smashed. That\n was that.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nIf Syme weren't initially helped by Harold, what would've probably happened to him?\n\n (A) Syme would've been protected by the building's safety net.\n (B) Syme would've gotten help from someone else.\n (C) Syme would've fallen to his death.\n (D) Syme would've caught himself with his two backup harpoons.\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "C", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 28603, "query_start_index": 28605, "query_end_index": 28938, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "63473_1VIHQ8TY_4", "pid": "63473_1VIHQ8TY_4_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nDUST UNTO DUST\n\n\n\n\n   By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY\n\n\n\n\n   It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister\n\n\n   city of metal that glittered malignantly before the\n\n\n   cautious advance of three awed space-scouters.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention one\n usually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected has\n occurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silence\n at the city a quarter-mile away.\n\n\n\n\n   He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into the\n twilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and the\n barren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before they\n landed, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction.\n\n\n\n\n   He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant.\n\n\n\n\n   Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,\n unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. \"Shall we, gentlemen?\" and with\n a graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through the\n stillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilight\n sky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And the\n city. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to build\n a city\u2014even a city like this one\u2014in such surroundings.\n\n\n\n\n   The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waiting\n geometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,\n and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration while\n this planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe return\n in their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expedition\n had, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a return\n flight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the only\n city on the planet\u2014the planet without any life at all, save tiny\n mosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction from\n the city a man moved, he would always be going north.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Hey, Martin!\" Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.\n \"Wind,\" Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the black\n pile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. \"That's all we need, isn't it?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dust\n cavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,\n adjusting his radio. \"Worried?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney's bony face was without expression. \"Gives me the creeps, kind\n of. I wonder what they were like?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass murmured, \"Let us hope they aren't immortal.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at the\n sand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shining\n metal band.\n\n\n\n\n   Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.\n \"It's here, too.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin stood up. \"Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tell\n them we're going in.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney nodded.\n\n\n\n\n   After a time, Wass said, \"Here, too. How far do you think it goes?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin shrugged. \"Clear around the city? I'd like to know what it\n is\u2014was\u2014for.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Defense,\" Rodney, several yards behind, suggested.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Could be,\" Martin said. \"Let's go in.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,\n their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. They\n passed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They moved\n cautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a square\n surrounded by the tallest buildings in the city.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. \"Not\u2014not very big. Is it?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass looked at him shrewdly. \"Neither were the\u2014well, shall we call\n them, people? Have you noticed how low everything is?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering\u2014\"Maybe they crawled.\"\n\n\n\n\n   A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, moved\n slowly across Martin's mind. \"All right!\" he rapped out\u2014and the image\n faded.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sorry,\" Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.\n Then\u2014\"I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no light\n at all?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I imagine they had illumination of some sort,\" Martin answered, dryly.\n \"If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,\n we're very likely to find out.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney said quickly, \"I mean outside.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination.\" Martin\n looked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and past\n that out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboat\n lay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,\n from here, a little dim, a little hazy.\n\n\n\n\n   He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and that\n explained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city was\n something familiar, yet twisted and distorted.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well,\" Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, \"now that we're here....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Pictures,\" Martin decided. \"We have twelve hours. We'll start here.\n What's the matter, Wass?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The blond man grinned ruefully. \"I left the camera in the lifeboat.\"\n There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively\u2014\"It's almost as if the city\n didn't want to be photographed.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin ignored the remark. \"Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewhere\n along this street.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metal\n street, at right angles to their path of entrance.\n\n\n\n\n   Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It was\n almost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the point\n being, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark and\n subtle, things no man could ever comprehend.\n\n\n\n\n   Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,\n sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, the\n heavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished before\n the thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and he\n decided to grin at himself, at his own imagination.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped up\n Martin's spine. \"What's the matter?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. \"I saw\u2014I thought I\n saw\u2014something\u2014moving\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Anger rose in Martin. \"You didn't,\" he said flatly, gripping the\n other's shoulder cruelly. \"You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,\n man!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney stared. \"The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowing\n from the other direction.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. \"That\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Martin!\" Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.\n \"Martin, I can't get out!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney mumbled something, and Martin told him to shut up.\n\n\n\n\n   Wass said, more quietly, \"Remember that metal band? It's all clear now,\n and glittering, as far as I can see. I can't get across it; it's like a\n glass wall.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We're trapped, we're trapped, they are\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Shut up, Rodney! Wass, I'm only two sections from the edge. I'll check\n here.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin clapped a hand on Rodney's shoulder again, starting him moving,\n toward the city's edge, past the black, silent buildings.\n\n\n\n\n   The glittering band was here, too, like a halo around a silhouette.\n\n\n\n\n   \"No go,\" Martin said to Wass. He bit at his lower lip. \"I think it must\n be all around us.\" He was silent for a time, exploring the consequences\n of this. Then\u2014\"We'll meet you in the middle of the city, where we\n separated.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walking with Rodney, Martin heard Wass' voice, flat and metallic\n through the radio receiver against his ear. \"What do you suppose caused\n this?\"\n\n\n\n\n   He shook his head angrily, saying, \"Judging by reports of the rest of\n the planet, it must have been horribly radioactive at one time. All of\n it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Man-made radiation, you mean.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin grinned faintly. Wass, too, had an active imagination. \"Well,\n alien-made, anyhow. Perhaps they had a war.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass' voice sounded startled. \"Anti-radiation screen?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney interrupted, \"There hasn't been enough radiation around here for\n hundreds of thousands of years to activate such a screen.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass said coldly, \"He's right, Martin.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin crossed an intersection, Rodney slightly behind him. \"You're\n both wrong,\" he said. \"We landed here today.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney stopped in the middle of the metal street and stared down at\n Martin. \"The wind\u2014?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why not?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That would explain why it stopped so suddenly, then.\" Rodney stood\n straighter. When he walked again, his steps were firmer.\n\n\n\n\n   They reached the center of the city, ahead of the small, slight Wass,\n and stood watching him labor along the metal toward them.\n\n\n\n\n   Wass' face, Martin saw, was sober. \"I tried to call the ship. No luck.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The shield?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass nodded. \"What else?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't know\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"If we went to the roof of the tallest building,\" Rodney offered, \"we\n might\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin shook his head. \"No. To be effective, the shield would have to\n cover the city.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass stared down at the metal street, as if he could look through it.\n \"I wonder where it gets its power?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Down below, probably. If there is a down below.\" Martin hesitated. \"We\n may have to....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What?\" Rodney prompted.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin shrugged. \"Let's look.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He led the way through a shoulder-high arch in one of the tall\n buildings surrounding the square. The corridor inside was dim and\n plain, and he switched on his flashlight, the other two immediately\n following his example. The walls and the rounded ceiling of the\n corridor were of the same dull metal as the buildings' facades, and\n the streets. There were a multitude of doors and arches set into\n either side of the corridor.\n\n\n\n\n   It was rather like ... entering a gigantic metal beehive.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin chose an arch, with beyond it a metal ramp, which tilted\n downward, gleaming in the pale circle of his torch.\n\n\n\n\n   A call from Rodney halted him. \"Back here,\" the tall man repeated. \"It\n looks like a switchboard.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The three advanced to the end of the central corridor, pausing before a\n great arch, outlined in the too-careful geometrical figures Martin had\n come to associate with the city builders. The three torches, shining\n through the arch, picked out a bank of buttons, handles ... and a thick\n rope of cables which ran upward to vanish unexpectedly in the metal\n roof.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Is this it,\" Wass murmured, \"or an auxiliary?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin shrugged. \"The whole city's no more than a machine, apparently.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Another assumption,\" Wass said. \"We have done nothing but make\n assumptions ever since we got here.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What would you suggest, instead?\" Martin asked calmly.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney furtively, extended one hand toward a switch.\n\n\n\n\n   \"No!\" Martin said, sharply. That was one assumption they dared not make.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney turned. \"But\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No. Wass, how much time have we?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The ship leaves in eleven hours.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Eleven hours,\" Rodney repeated. \"Eleven hours!\" He reached out for the\n switch again. Martin swore, stepped forward, pulled him back roughly.\n\n\n\n\n   He directed his flashlight at Rodney's thin, pale face. \"What do you\n think you're doing?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We have to find out what all this stuff's for!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Going at it blindly, we'd probably execute ourselves.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We've got to\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No!\" Then, more quietly\u2014\"We still have eleven hours to find a way\n out.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ten hours and forty-five minutes,\" Wass disagreed softly. \"Minus the\n time it takes us to get to the lifeboat, fly to the ship, land, stow\n it, get ourselves aboard, and get the big ship away from the planet.\n And Captain Morgan can't wait for us, Martin.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You too, Wass?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Up to the point of accuracy, yes.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin said, \"Not necessarily. You go the way the wind does, always\n thinking of your own tender hide, of course.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney cursed. \"And every second we stand here doing nothing gives us\n that much less time to find a way out. Martin\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Make one move toward that switchboard and I'll stop you where you\n stand!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. \"We all\n have guns, Martin.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm holding mine.\" Martin waited.\n\n\n\n\n   After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,\n \"He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well....\" Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. \"Let's get out\n of here, then!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down the\n metal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called a\n halt. \"If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there must\n be at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney said, \"To search every building next to the dome clean around\n the city would take years.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin nodded. \"But there must be central roads beneath this main level\n leading to them. Up here there are too many roads.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass laughed rudely.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Have you a better idea?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, \"That\n leads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible for\n the dome, does it project down into the ground as well?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You mean\n\n\n    dig\n\n\n   out?\" Martin asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sure. Why not?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have no\n equipment.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That shouldn't be hard to come by.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney said, \"They may have had their digging equipment built right in\n to themselves.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Anyway,\" Martin decided, \"we can take a look down below.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"In the pitch dark,\" Wass added.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.\n The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feet\n perhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,\n gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of the\n darkness before the men.\n\n\n\n\n   At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.\n Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone down\n on them.\n\n\n\n\n   Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly in\n a circle. \"No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that up\n there?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't know. I have no idea.\" Martin gestured toward the ramp with\n his light. \"Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar to\n you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. \"Here?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No, no,\" Martin answered impatiently, \"not just here. I mean the whole\n city.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes,\" Wass said dryly, \"it does. I'm sure this is where all my\n nightmares stay when they're not on shift.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, he\n thought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed him\n silently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made more\n so by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in the\n three lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,\n past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past another\n something which could have been anything at all.\n\n\n\n\n   The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall.\n\n\n\n\n   The edge of the city\u2014the city which was a dome of force above and a\n bowl of metal below.\n\n\n\n\n   After a long time, Wass sighed. \"Well, skipper...?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We go back, I guess,\" Martin said.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man was\n holding his gun. \"To the switchboard, Martin?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Unless someone has a better idea,\" Martin conceded. He waited. But\n Rodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then\u2014\"I can't think of\n anything else.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back past\n the same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, all\n looking different now in the new angles of illumination.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,\n matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jaunty\n triumph in the rear.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and he\n sighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked at\n surface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, and\n then when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again for\n now. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.\n But\u2014The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'd\n ever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, and\n Martin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who at\n some point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by a\n sort of racial insanity.\n\n\n\n\n   No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.\n Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,\n a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alien\n metal, which was making him theorize so wildly.\n\n\n\n\n   Then Wass touched his elbow. \"Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass.\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right,\" Rodney said belligerently into his radio. \"What's holding\n up the procession?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin was silent.\n\n\n\n\n   Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. It\n was in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing before\n a bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far as\n the combined light of their torches would reach.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Seeds!\" Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips.\n\n\n\n\n   Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest section\n of the bank.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If they\n wouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? \"Don't, Wass!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. \"Why\n not?\"\n\n\n\n\n   They were like children.... \"We don't know, released, what they'll do.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Skipper,\" Wass said carefully, \"if we don't get out of this place by\n the deadline we may be eating these.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin raised his arm tensely. \"Opening a seed bank doesn't help us\n find a way out of here.\" He started up the ramp. \"Besides, we've no\n water.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding the\n gun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. \"For\n a plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.\n Maybe\u2014\" he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing with\n super-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits \"\u2014only the\n little moisture in the atmosphere.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,\n Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing was\n loud and rather uneven in the radio receivers.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin made a final effort. \"Rodney, it's still almost nine hours to\n take off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney jerked his head negatively. \"No. Now, I know you, Martin.\n Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves without\n us and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrate\n ourselves and God only knows what else and\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered away\n silently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches.\n\n\n\n\n   The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds of\n Rodney's sobs.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sorry,\" Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. \"Wass?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The slight, blond man stood unmoving. \"I'm with you, Martin, but, as\n a last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to die\n gradually\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. \"I agree. As a last\n resort. We still have a little time.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,\n now that he was up again. \"Martin, I\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin turned his back. \"Skip it, Rodney,\" he said gently.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Water,\" Wass said thoughtfully. \"There must be reservoirs under this\n city somewhere.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney said, \"How does water help us get out?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, not\n looking back. \"It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we can\n leave the same way.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Down the ramp again.\n\n\n\n\n   \"There's another ramp,\" Wass murmured.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney looked down it. \"I wonder how many there are, all told.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,\n picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on the\n present level. \"We'll find out,\" he said, \"how many there are.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Eleven levels later Rodney asked, \"How much time have we now?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Seven hours,\" Wass said quietly, \"until take-off.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"One more level,\" Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. \"I ...\n think it's the last.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool of\n artificial light on the bottom level of the alien city.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed about\n the floor. \"Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there are\n cemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Rodney! Stop it!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney swallowed audibly. \"This place scares me....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"This is different,\" Wass said. \"Built-in traps\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"They had a war,\" Martin said.\n\n\n\n\n   Wass agreed. \"And the survivors retired here. Why?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin said, \"They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already built\n before the war as a retreat.\" He turned impatiently. \"How should I\n know?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass turned, too, persistent. \"But the planet was through with them.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"In a minute,\" Martin said, too irritably, \"we'll have a sentient\n planet.\" From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. \"Knock\n it off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadow\n shapes, looking carefully about them.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney paused. \"We might not recognize one.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin urged him on. \"You know what a man-hole cover looks like.\" He\n added dryly, \"Use your imagination.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,\n uncertain.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes.\n\n\n\n\n   Wass said, \"All this had a purpose, once....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We'll disperse and search carefully,\" Martin said.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I wonder what the pattern was.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for later\n expeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then\u2014\"Martin! Martin! I think\n I've found something!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behind\n him.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Here,\" Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. \"Here. See?\n Right here.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or more\n from the floor.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, they had hands.\" With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel of\n the same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk.\n\n\n\n\n   From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be grasped\n and turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily\u2014almost too\n easily\u2014rotating the disk as it turned.\n\n\n\n\n   Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealed\n hinge.\n\n\n\n\n   The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around the\n six-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing that\n drifted and eddied directly beneath them.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.\n \"Martin! It's all alive! It's moving!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward the\n opening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down.\n\n\n\n\n   He was shaking.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   After a time he said, \"Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Remember\n the wind? Air currents are moving it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.\n Then\u2014\"It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,\n otherwise. He said merely, \"At first I wasn't sure myself.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gun\n loosely, and his hand shook. \"Then prove it. Open it again.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodney\n and he, too, had drawn his gun.\n\n\n\n\n   The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,\n outlined in the light of two torches.\n\n\n\n\n   For a little while he was alone.\n\n\n\n\n   Then\u2014causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney\u2014a\n tenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling about\n Martin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,\n obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strange\n objects.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmering\n spirals.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He said\n nothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, and\n now, himself.\n\n\n\n\n   \"How deep,\" Wass said, from his safe distance.\n\n\n\n\n   \"We'll have to lower a flashlight,\" Martin answered.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with a\n torch swinging wildly on the end of it.\n\n\n\n\n   The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gently\n rolling mounds of fine, white stuff.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lip\n of the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. \"You'd rather monkey with the\n switches and blow yourself to smithereens?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at him\n disgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering into\n the infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottom\n of the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. He\n stamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standing\n jump. He sank no farther than his knees.\n\n\n\n\n   He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearest\n edge of the city. \"I think we'll be all right,\" he called out, \"as long\n as we avoid the drifts.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney.\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right, Wass,\" Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope and\n sank into the dust.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Not me,\" the answer came back quickly. \"You two fools go your way,\n I'll go mine.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Wass!\"\n\n\n\n\n   There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening.\n\n\n\n\n   The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddied\n and swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits were\n hard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Are we going straight?\" Rodney asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Of course,\" Martin growled.\n\n\n\n\n   There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.\n The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriously\n plunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, times\n without number.\n\n\n\n\n   Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. \"The ship leaves in two hours,\n Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in his\n throat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,\n his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed.\n\n\n\n\n   A grate.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney stared. \"Wass!\" he shouted. \"We've found a way out!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. \"I'm at the switchboard now,\n Martin. I\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate.\n\n\n\n\n   The grate groaned upward and stopped.\n\n\n\n\n   Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then he\n began to scream.\n\n\n\n\n   Martin switched off his radio, sick.\n\n\n\n\n   He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.\n \"Well?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I've been trying to get you,\" Rodney said, frantically. \"Why didn't\n you answer?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We couldn't do anything for him.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney's face was white and drawn. \"But he did this for us.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"So he did,\" Martin said, very quietly.\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney said nothing.\n\n\n\n\n   Then Martin said, \"Did you listen until the end?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rodney nodded, jerkily. \"He pulled three more switches. I couldn't\n understand it all. But\u2014Martin, dying alone like that in a place like\n this\u2014!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted up\n toward the surface. \"Come on, Rodney. Last lap.\"\n\n\n\n\n   An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from the\n edge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of force\n shimmering, almost invisible, about it.\n\n\n\n\n   Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.\n Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew members\n standing by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to run\n toward them.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe,\" someone said. It\n was the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhy does Wass end up being sent back to the lifeboat?\n\n (A) He cannot be trusted, and the others make him leave.\n (B) He must make contact with the mother ship because one of the others was injured.\n (C) He forgot the camera and has to go back to get it.\n (D) His attitude is bringing the rest of them down, so they make him leave.\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "C", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 30201, "query_start_index": 30203, "query_end_index": 30565, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "51650_B3KKWWD1_7", "pid": "51650_B3KKWWD1_7_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nINNOCENT AT LARGE\n\n\n\n\n   By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON\n\n\n\n\n   Illustrated by WOOD\n\n\n\n\n   A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course\n\n\n    he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared\n\n\n    to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.\n She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp of\n translucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise\u2014or\n had it been the chairman of the board?\u2014back several thousand dollars.\n Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checked\n with a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe loosely\n on top and tight around the hips.\n\n\n\n\n   After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important.\n\n\n\n\n   She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. \"Hello-o, there,\"\n she said automatically. \"So sorry to keep you waiting. I was just\n taking a bath and\u2014Oh. It's you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. \"Holy Success,\" he whispered\n in awe. \"You sure the wires can carry that much voltage?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, hurry up with whatever it is,\" snapped Peri. \"I got a date\n tonight.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'll say you do! With a Martian!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. \"You must\n have heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,\n that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you can\n just blank right out again. I saw him first!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Doran's thin sharp face grinned. \"You break that date, Peri. Put it off\n or something. I got this Martian for you, see?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-time\n marijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,\n even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,\n see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on official\n business, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked me\n what the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is the\n solar nexus of it, Peri, kid.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. \"He has got a\n hundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audit\n his accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,\n legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has about\n as much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen to\n have experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will be\n like taking candy from a baby.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches and\n cream left overnight on Pluto. \"Badger?\" she asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-between\n angle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have other\n plans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for this\n one night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of a\n million is three hundred thirty-three\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Is five hundred thousand flat,\" said Peri. \"Too bad I just got an\n awful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The gravity was not as hard to take as Peter Matheny had expected.\n Three generations on Mars might lengthen the legs and expand the chest\n a trifle, but the genes had come from Earth and the organism readjusts.\n What set him gasping was the air. It weighed like a ton of wool and had\n apparently sopped up half the Atlantic Ocean. Ears trained to listen\n through the Martian atmosphere shuddered from the racket conducted by\n Earth's. The passport official seemed to bellow at him.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Pardon me for asking this. The United Protectorates welcome all\n visitors to Earth and I assure you, sir, an ordinary five-year visa\n provokes no questions. But since you came on an official courier boat\n of your planet, Mr. Matheny, regulations force me to ask your business.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well\u2014recruiting.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The official patted his comfortable stomach, iridescent in neolon, and\n chuckled patronizingly. \"I am afraid, sir, you won't find many people\n who wish to leave. They wouldn't be able to see the Teamsters Hour on\n Mars, would they?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, we don't expect immigration,\" said Matheny shyly. He was a fairly\n young man, but small, with a dark-thatched, snub-nosed, gray-eyed\n head that seemed too large for his slender body. \"We learned long ago\n that no one is interested any more in giving up even second-class\n citizenship on Earth to live in the Republic. But we only wanted to\n hire\u2014\u2014uh, I mean engage\u2014an, an advisor. We're not businessmen. We\n know our export trade hasn't a chance among all your corporations\n unless we get some\u2014a five-year contract...?\"\n\n\n\n\n   He heard his words trailing off idiotically, and swore at himself.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, good luck.\" The official's tone was skeptical. He stamped the\n passport and handed it back. \"There, now, you are free to travel\n anywhere in the Protectorates. But I would advise you to leave the\n capital and get into the sticks\u2014um, I mean the provinces. I am sure\n there must be tolerably competent sales executives in Russia or\n Congolese Belgium or such regions. Frankly, sir, I do not believe you\n can attract anyone out of Newer York.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Thanks,\" said Matheny, \"but, you see, I\u2014we need\u2014that is.... Oh,\n well. Thanks. Good-by.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He backed out of the office.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men in\n pajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swept\n him against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared a\n hundred feet down at the river of automobiles.\n\n\n    Phobos!\n\n\n   he thought\n wildly.\n\n\n    If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal fin\n before I hit the pavement!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could see\n neither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest of\n multi-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across more\n acreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but\u2014he\n used to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke a\n pipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when the\n temperature wasn't too far below zero.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Why did they tap me for this job?\n\n\n   he asked himself in a surge of\n homesickness.\n\n\n    What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for?\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor of\n sociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advised\n his government before now\u2014in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been his\n idea\u2014but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess and\n his mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and an\n occasional trip to Swindletown\u2014\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    My God\n\n\n   , thought Matheny,\n\n\n    here I am, one solitary outlander in the\n greatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'm\n supposed to find my planet a con man!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt and\n black culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was forty\n years out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,\n but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to him\n whenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth had\n gone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you could\n name on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time before\n Mars had such machines. If ever.\n\n\n\n\n   The city roared at him.\n\n\n\n\n   He fumbled after his pipe.\n\n\n    Of course\n\n\n   , he told himself,\n\n\n    that's why\n the Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.\n Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld?\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the Martian\n Republic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from the\n rambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the article\n was a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,\n without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friend\n who was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found a\n few spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challenge\n to work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. But\n more, he would have been among people he understood.\n\n\n\n\n   The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed to\n exist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, plodding\n his syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayer\n against, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weight\n on them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out any\n individual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on one\n that was distinguished by relative austerity.\n\n\n\n\n   THE CHURCH OF CHOICE\n\n\n\n\n    Enter, Play, Pray\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feet\n of altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in a\n marble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ah, brother, welcome,\" said a red-haired usherette in demure black\n leotards. \"The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. The\n restaurant is right up those stairs.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I\u2014I'm not hungry,\" stammered Matheny. \"I just wanted to sit in\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"To your left, sir.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from an\n animated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The series\n of rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Get your chips right here, sir,\" said the girl in the booth.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Hm?\" said Matheny.\n\n\n\n\n   She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped a\n fifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped the\n martini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.\n He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learning\n something new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honest\n or too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.\n\n\n\n\n   He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of the\n congregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first few\n passes he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.\n But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was a\n customary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushed\n chips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simple\n courtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get the\n feel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I say!\" he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around the\n green table. \"I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You did all right, brother,\" said a middle-aged lady with an obviously\n surgical bodice.\n\n\n\n\n   \"But\u2014I mean\u2014when do we start actually\n\n\n    playing\n\n\n   ? What happened to the\n cocked dice?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. \"Sir!\n This is a church!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh\u2014I see\u2014excuse me, I, I, I\u2014\" Matheny backed out of the crowd,\n shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You forgot your chips, pal,\" said a voice.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is\u2014\" Matheny cursed\n his knotting tongue.\n\n\n    Damn it, just because they're so much more\n sophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced and\n sleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell\n cloak and curly-toed slippers.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You're from Mars, aren't you?\" he asked in the friendliest tone\n Matheny had yet heard.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I\u2014\" He stuck out his\n hand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. \"Damn! Oh, excuse me, I\n forgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just want\n to g-g-get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Matheny sighed. \"A drink is what I need the very most.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed what\n remained of his winnings.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't want to\u2014I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never met\n a Martian. I am very interested.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"There aren't many of us on Earth,\" agreed Matheny. \"Just a small\n embassy staff and an occasional like me.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old mother\n planet and so on.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We can't afford it,\" said Matheny. \"What with gravitation and\n distance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them for\n pleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage.\" As they entered the\n shaft, he added wistfully: \"You Earth people have that kind of money,\n at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a few\n tourists to us?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I always wanted to,\" said Doran. \"I would like to see the what they\n call City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given my\n girl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she was\n just gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,\n made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she\n\n\n    appreciated\n\n\n   me for it!\" He winked and nudged.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh,\" said Matheny.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He felt a certain guilt. Doran was too pleasant a little man to\n deserve\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   \"Of course,\" Matheny said ritually, \"I agree with all the archeologists\n it's a crime to sell such scientifically priceless artifacts, but what\n can we do? We must live, and the tourist trade is almost nonexistent.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Trouble with it is, I hear Mars is not so comfortable,\" said Doran. \"I\n mean, do not get me wrong, I don't want to insult you or anything, but\n people come back saying you have given the planet just barely enough\n air to keep a man alive. And there are no cities, just little towns and\n villages and ranches out in the bush. I mean you are being pioneers and\n making a new nation and all that, but people paying half a megabuck for\n their ticket expect some comfort and, uh, you know.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I do know,\" said Matheny. \"But we're poor\u2014a handful of people trying\n to make a world of dust and sand and scrub thorn into fields and woods\n and seas. We can't do it without substantial help from Earth, equipment\n and supplies\u2014which can only be paid for in Earth dollars\u2014and we can't\n export enough to Earth to earn those dollars.\"\n\n\n\n\n   By that time, they were entering the Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar &\n Grill, on the 73rd Level. Matheny's jaw clanked down.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Whassa matter?\" asked Doran. \"Ain't you ever seen a ecdysiastic\n technician before?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Uh, yes, but\u2014well, not in a 3-D image under ten magnifications.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Matheny followed Doran past a sign announcing that this show was for\n purely artistic purposes, into a booth. There a soundproof curtain\n reduced the noise level enough so they could talk in normal voices.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What'll you have?\" asked Doran. \"It's on me.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, I couldn't let you. I mean\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Nonsense. Welcome to Earth! Care for a thyle and vermouth?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Matheny shuddered. \"Good Lord, no!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Huh? But they make thyle right on Mars, don't they?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes. And it all goes to Earth and sells at 2000 dollars a fifth. But\n you don't think we'd\n\n\n    drink\n\n\n   it, do you? I mean\u2014well, I imagine it\n doesn't absolutely\n\n\n    ruin\n\n\n   vermouth. But we don't see those Earthside\n commercials about how sophisticated people like it so much.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, I'll be a socialist creeper!\" Doran's face split in a grin. \"You\n know, all my life I've hated the stuff and never dared admit it!\" He\n raised a hand. \"Don't worry, I won't blabbo. But I am wondering, if you\n control the thyle industry and sell all those relics at fancy prices,\n why do you call yourselves poor?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Because we are,\" said Matheny. \"By the time the shipping costs have\n been paid on a bottle, and the Earth wholesaler and jobber and sales\n engineer and so on, down to the retailer, have taken their percentage,\n and the advertising agency has been paid, and about fifty separate\n Earth taxes\u2014there's very little profit going back to the distillery\n on Mars. The same principle is what's strangling us on everything. Old\n Martian artifacts aren't really rare, for instance, but freight charges\n and the middlemen here put them out of the mass market.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Have you not got some other business?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, we do sell a lot of color slides, postcards, baggage labels and\n so on to people who like to act cosmopolitan, and I understand our\n travel posters are quite popular as wall decoration. But all that has\n to be printed on Earth, and the printer and distributor keep most of\n the money. We've sold some books and show tapes, of course, but only\n one has been really successful\u2014\n\n\n    I Was a Slave Girl on Mars\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n   \"Our most prominent novelist was co-opted to ghostwrite that one.\n Again, though, local income taxes took most of the money; authors\n never have been protected the way a businessman is. We do make a high\n percentage of profit on those little certificates you see around\u2014you\n know, the title deeds to one square inch of Mars\u2014but expressed\n absolutely, in dollars, it doesn't amount to much when we start\n shopping for bulldozers and thermonuclear power plants.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"How about postage stamps?\" inquired Doran. \"Philately is a big\n business, I have heard.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"It was our mainstay,\" admitted Matheny, \"but it's been overworked.\n Martian stamps are a drug on the market. What we'd like to operate is a\n sweepstakes, but the anti-gambling laws on Earth forbid that.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Doran whistled. \"I got to give your people credit for enterprise,\n anyway!\" He fingered his mustache. \"Uh, pardon me, but have you tried\n to, well, attract capital from Earth?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Of course,\" said Matheny bitterly. \"We offer the most liberal\n concessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transport\n firm or\u2014or anybody\u2014who wanted to come and actually invest a few\n dollars in Mars\u2014why, we'd probably give him the President's daughter\n as security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.\n But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got more\n of. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few political\n malcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill of\n liberties to the incorporated state\u2014what could General Nucleonics\n hope to get from Mars?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I see. Well, what are you having to drink?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Beer,\" said Matheny without hesitation.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Huh? Look, pal, this is on me.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetary\n freight charges tacked on,\" said Matheny. \"Heineken's!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins.\n\n\n\n\n   \"This is a real interesting talk, Pete,\" he said. \"You are being very\n frank with me. I like a man that is frank.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Matheny shrugged. \"I haven't told you anything that isn't known to\n every economist.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, for\n instance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of our\n need; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at a\n whiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of the\n Martian.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ahhh!\" said Matheny. \"Bless you, my friend.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A pleasure.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But now you must let me buy you one.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That is not necessary. After all,\" said Doran with great tact, \"with\n the situation as you have been describing\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, we're not\n\n\n    that\n\n\n   poor! My expense allowance assumes I will\n entertain quite a bit.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. \"You're here on business,\n then?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a business\n manager for the Martian export trade.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your fault\n there are so many rackets\u2014uh, taxes\u2014and middlemen and agencies and et\n cetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajama\n top. \"Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians are\n babes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on the\n scale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buy\n and sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't afford\n three seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What we\n need, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's an\n Earthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, and\n how to dodge the tax bite and\u2014and\u2014well, you see how it goes, that\n sort of, uh, thing.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the second\n bottle of beer.\n\n\n\n\n   \"But where do I start?\" he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smote\n him anew. \"I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even get\n to see\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"It might be arranged,\" said Doran in a thoughtful tone. \"It just\n might. How much could you pay this fellow?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That's\n Earth years, mind you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete,\" said Doran, \"but while that is not\n bad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in Newer\n York. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quit\n where he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Mars\n permanently.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe,\" said Matheny. \"That\n is, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expenses\n and, well ... let me buy you a drink!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Doran's black eyes frogged at him. \"You might at that,\" said the\n Earthman very softly. \"Yes, you might at that.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. A\n hell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lance\n business consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrange\n some contacts....\n\n\n\n\n   \"No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetary\n friendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you have\n got to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What is\n akvavit? Well, I will just take and show you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, and\n he laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for a\n big-city taste like his.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What I really want,\" said Matheny, \"what I really want\u2014I mean what\n Mars really needs, get me?\u2014is a confidence man.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A what?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con game\n for us and make us some real money.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Con man? Oh. A slipstring.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A con by any other name,\" said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Doran squinted through cigarette smoke. \"You are interesting me\n strangely, my friend. Say on.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No.\" Matheny realized his head was a bit smoky. The walls of the booth\n seemed odd, somehow. They were just leatheroid walls, but they had an\n odd quality.\n\n\n\n\n   \"No, sorry, Gus,\" he said. \"I spoke too much.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Okay. Forget it. I do not like a man that pries. But look, let's bomb\n out of here, how about it? Go have a little fun.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"By all means.\" Matheny disposed of his last beer. \"I could use some\n gaiety.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You have come to the right town then. But let us get you a hotel room\n first and some more up-to-date clothes.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Allez\n\n\n   ,\" said Matheny. \"If I don't mean\n\n\n    allons\n\n\n   , or maybe\n\n\n    alors\n\n\n   .\"\n\n\n\n\n   The drop down to cab-ramp level and the short ride afterward sobered\n him; the room rate at the Jupiter-Astoria sobered him still more.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Oh, well\n\n\n   , he thought,\n\n\n    if I succeed in this job, no one at home will\n quibble.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   And the chamber to which he and Doran were shown was spectacular\n enough, with a pneumo direct to the bar and a full-wall transparency to\n show the vertical incandescence of the towers.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Whoof!\" Matheny sat down. The chair slithered sensuously about his\n contours. He jumped. \"What the dusty hell\u2014Oh.\" He tried to grin, but\n his face burned. \"I see.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That is a sexy type of furniture, all right,\" agreed Doran. He lowered\n himself into another chair, cocked his feet on the 3-D and waved a\n cigarette. \"Which speaking of, what say we get some girls? It is not\n too late to catch them at home. A date here will usually start around\n 2100 hours earliest.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You know. Dames. Like a certain blonde warhead with twin radar and\n swivel mounting, and she just loves exotics. Such as you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Me?\" Matheny heard his voice climb to a schoolboy squeak. \"Me?\n Exotic? Why, I'm just a little college professor. I g-g-g, that is\u2014\"\n His tongue got stuck on his palate. He pulled it loose and moistened\n uncertain lips.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You are from Mars. Okay? So you fought bushcats barehanded in an\n abandoned canal.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What's a bushcat? And we don't have canals. The evaporation rate\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Look, Pete,\" said Doran patiently. \"She don't have to know that, does\n she?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well\u2014well, no. I guess not No.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Let's order you some clothes on the pneumo,\" said Doran. \"I recommend\n you buy from Schwartzherz. Everybody knows he is expensive.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   While Matheny jittered about, shaving and showering and struggling with\n his new raiment, Doran kept him supplied with akvavit and beer.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You said one thing, Pete,\" Doran remarked. \"About needing a\n slipstring. A con man, you would call it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Forget that. Please. I spoke out of turn.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, you see, maybe a man like that is just what Mars does need. And\n maybe I have got a few contacts.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What?\" Matheny gaped out of the bathroom.\n\n\n\n\n   Doran cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette, not looking at him.\n \"I am not that man,\" he said frankly. \"But in my line I get a lot of\n contacts, and not all of them go topside. See what I mean? Like if,\n say, you wanted somebody terminated and could pay for it, I could not\n do it. I would not want to know anything about it. But I could tell you\n a phone number.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He shrugged and gave the Martian a sidelong glance. \"Sure, you may not\n be interested. But if you are, well, Pete, I was not born yesterday. I\n got tolerance. Like the book says, if you want to get ahead, you have\n got to think positively.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Matheny hesitated. If only he hadn't taken that last shot! It made him\n want to say yes, immediately, without reservations. And therefore maybe\n he became overcautious.\n\n\n\n\n   They had instructed him on Mars to take chances if he must.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I could tell you a thing or two that might give you a better idea,\" he\n said slowly. \"But it would have to be under security.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Okay by me. Room service can send us up an oath box right now.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What? But\u2014but\u2014\" Matheny hung onto himself and tried to believe that\n he had landed on Earth less than six hours ago.\n\n\n\n\n   In the end, he did call room service and the machine was trundled in.\n Doran swallowed the pill and donned the conditioner helmet without an\n instant's hesitation.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I shall never reveal to any person unauthorized by yourself whatever\n you may tell me under security, now or at any other time,\" he\n recited. Then, cheerfully: \"And that formula, Pete, happens to be the\n honest-to-zebra truth.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I know.\" Matheny stared, embarrassed, at the carpet. \"I'm sorry\n to\u2014to\u2014I mean of course I trust you, but\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Forget it. I take a hundred security oaths a year, in my line of work.\n Maybe I can help you. I like you, Pete, damn if I don't. And, sure,\n I might stand to get an agent's cut, if I arrange\u2014Go ahead, boy, go\n ahead.\" Doran crossed his legs and leaned back.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, it's simple enough,\" said Matheny. \"It's only that we already are\n operating con games.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"On Mars, you mean?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes. There never were any Old Martians. We erected the ruins fifty\n years ago for the Billingsworth Expedition to find. We've been\n manufacturing relics ever since.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Huh?\n\n\n   Well, why, but\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"In this case, it helps to be at the far end of an interplanetary\n haul,\" said Matheny. \"Not many Terrestrial archeologists get to Mars\n and they depend on our people to\u2014Well, anyhow\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I will be clopped! Good for you!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Doran blew up in laughter. \"That is one thing I would never spill, even\n without security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl,\" said Matheny\n apologetically. \"She was another official project.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Who?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, a\n mathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collected\n Earth coins.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, that. Sure, I remember\u2014Hey! You didn't!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buck\n piece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.\"\n Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind his\n back. \"There were no lies involved. She really does have a fatal\n disease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Uh!\" exclaimed Doran.\n\n\n\n\n   \"And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.\n 'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What was\n the secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerful\n semantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is available\n to a select few\u2014' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but it\n would have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, who\n had heard everything already.\n\n\n\n\n   Doran whistled.\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's about all, so far,\" confessed Matheny. \"Perhaps a con is our\n only hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martian\n bucket shop, handling Martian securities, but\u2014well, I don't know.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I think\u2014\" Doran removed the helmet and stood up.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes?\" Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I may be able to find the man you want,\" said Doran. \"I just may. It\n will take a few days and might get a little expensive.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You mean.... Mr. Doran\u2014Gus\u2014you could actually\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finish\n dressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl I\n know. We deserve a celebration!\"\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhat effect did Earth's anti-gambling laws have on Mars?\n\n (A) Gambling was not allowed on Mars\n (B) Martians were not able to run a sweepstakes for Earthlings\n (C) Earthlings were not allowed to gamble while on Mars\n (D) Martians were not allowed to gamble while on Earth\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "B", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 31240, "query_start_index": 31242, "query_end_index": 31545, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "51274_8Q2YNHG5_6", "pid": "51274_8Q2YNHG5_6_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nAMBITION\n\n\n\n\n   By WILLIAM L. BADE\n\n\n\n\n   Illustrated by L. WOROMAY\n\n\n\n\n   To the men of the future, the scientific\n\n\n   goals of today were as incomprehensible\n\n\n   as the ancient quest for the Holy Grail!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   There was a thump. Maitland stirred, came half awake, and opened his\n eyes. The room was dark except where a broad shaft of moonlight from\n the open window fell on the foot of his bed. Outside, the residential\n section of the Reservation slept silently under the pale illumination\n of the full Moon. He guessed sleepily that it was about three o'clock.\n\n\n\n\n   What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had come\n from within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into a\n chair, or\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitland\n started to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted his\n brain....\n\n\n\n\n   This time, he awoke more normally. He opened his eyes, looked through\n the window at a section of azure sky, listened to the singing of birds\n somewhere outside. A beautiful day. In the middle of the process of\n stretching his rested muscles, arms extended back, legs tensed, he\n froze, looking up\u2014for the first time really seeing the ceiling. He\n turned his head, then rolled off the bed, wide awake.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    This wasn't his room!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The lawn outside wasn't part of the Reservation! Where the labs and\n the shops should have been, there was deep prairie grass, then a green\n ocean pushed into waves by the breeze stretching to the horizon. This\n wasn't the California desert! Down the hill, where the liquid oxygen\n plant ought to have been, a river wound across the scene, almost hidden\n beneath its leafy roof of huge ancient trees.\n\n\n\n\n   Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.\n His breathing quickened.\n\n\n    Now\n\n\n   he remembered what had happened during\n the night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, and\n then\u2014what? Blackout....\n\n\n\n\n   Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose?\n\n\n\n\n   He thought he knew the answer to the last of those questions. As\n a member of the original atomic reaction-motor team, he possessed\n information that other military powers would very much like to obtain.\n It was absolutely incredible that anyone had managed to abduct him from\n the heavily guarded confines of the Reservation, yet someone had done\n it. How?\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He pivoted to inspect the room. Even before his eyes could take in\n the details, he had the impression that there was something wrong\n about it. To begin with, the style was unfamiliar. There were no\n straight lines or sharp corners anywhere. The walls were paneled in\n featureless blue plastic and the doors were smooth surfaces of metal,\n half ellipses, without knobs. The flowing lines of the chair and table,\n built apparently from an aluminum alloy, somehow gave the impression\n of arrested motion. Even after allowances were made for the outlandish\n design, something about the room still was not right.\n\n\n\n\n   His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearer\n one. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of this\n one, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. He\n pressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in at\n the disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door.\n\n\n\n\n   There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means of\n causing it to open.\n\n\n\n\n   Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window\u2014and\n realized what it was that had made the room seem so queer.\n\n\n\n\n   It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars....\n\n\n\n\n   Striding across the room, he lunged forward to peer out and violently\n banged his forehead. He staggered back, grimacing with pain, then\n reached forward cautious fingers and discovered a hard sheet of stuff\n so transparent that he had not even suspected its presence. Not glass!\n Glass was never this clear or strong. A plastic, no doubt, but one he\n hadn't heard of. Security sometimes had disadvantages.\n\n\n\n\n   He looked out at the peaceful vista of river and prairie. The character\n of the sunlight seemed to indicate that it was afternoon. He became\n aware that he was hungry.\n\n\n\n\n   Where the devil could this place be? And\u2014muscles tightened about his\n empty stomach\u2014what was in store for him here?\n\n\n\n\n   He stood trembling, acutely conscious that he was afraid and helpless,\n until a flicker of motion at the bottom of the hill near the river drew\n his attention. Pressing his nose against the window, he strained his\n eyes to see what it was.\n\n\n\n\n   A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently they\n had been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around his\n neck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair.\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; he\n didn't know of any other country where public bathing at this time\n of year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't look\n Scandinavian....\n\n\n\n\n   As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntans\n and showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trained\n for years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,\n presumably into the building.\n\n\n\n\n   He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into the\n wall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks and\n sandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stood\n up and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas he\n made an unimpressive figure.\n\n\n\n\n   The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticed\n were the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.\n The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp from\n swimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.\n\n\n\n\n   This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure of\n himself.\n\n\n\n\n   Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the head\n of a thinker, the body of a trained athlete\u2014an unusual combination.\n\n\n\n\n   Impassively, the man said, \"My name is Swarts. You want to know where\n you are. I am not going to tell you.\" He had an accent, European, but\n otherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouth\n to protest, but Swarts went on, \"However, you're free to do all the\n guessing you want.\" Still there was no suggestion of a smile.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll have\n three meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed to\n leave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed in\n any way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea that\n we want your childish secrets about rocket motors.\" Maitland's heart\n jumped. \"My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. I\n want to give you some psychological tests....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Are you crazy?\" Maitland asked quietly. \"Do you realize that at this\n moment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'll\n admit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here\u2014but it\n seems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to give\n your tests to.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. \"They won't find you,\" he said. \"Now,\n come with me.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   After that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rather\n commonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, and\n a bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A couple\n of them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normal\n complement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ran\n across the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in the\n center of the room.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Lie down,\" Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,\n \"Understand one thing\u2014the more you cooperate, the easier things will\n be for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my results\n against your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't make\n me.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What's the idea?\" Maitland asked. \"What is all this?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade an\n answer, but to find the proper words. \"You can think of it as a lie\n detector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests I\n give you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensed\n muscles. \"Make me.\"\n\n\n\n\n   If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. \"That was the first test,\"\n he said. \"Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot if\n you'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland shook his head stubbornly.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I see,\" Swarts said. \"You want to find out what you're up against.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to the\n solar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.\n He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was on\n the cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps across\n his chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening a\n clamp that held his head immovable.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Presently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples and\n to other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging to\n the skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hung\n from the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly around\n his left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black box\n clamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joined\n the others.\n\n\n\n\n   So\u2014Maitland thought\u2014Swarts could record changes in his skin\n potential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses of\n the body to stimuli.\n\n\n\n\n   The question was, what were the stimuli to be?\n\n\n\n\n   \"Your name,\" said Swarts, \"is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-four\n years old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularly\n as applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going to\n question you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town is\n Madison, Wisconsin....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You seem to know everything about me,\" Maitland said defiantly,\n looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. \"Why this recital?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I do not know everything about you\u2014yet. And I'm testing the\n equipment, calibrating it to your reactions.\" He went on, \"Your\n favorite recreations are chess and reading what you term science\n fiction. Maitland,\n\n\n    how would you like to go to the Moon\n\n\n   ?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, and\n he tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. \"What do\n you mean?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Swarts was chuckling. \"I really hit a semantic push-button there,\n didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wants\n to go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out\n\n\n    why\n\n\n   .\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slid\n aside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other for\n several seconds.\n\n\n\n\n   She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin that\n glowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids of\n blonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleeveless\n blouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to her\n body, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of what\n seemed to be white wool.\n\n\n\n\n   She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something like\n expectancy. Maitland sighed and said, \"Hello,\" then glanced down\n self-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloak\n billowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closed\n door for a minute after she was gone.\n\n\n\n\n   Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shredded\n carrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from his\n stomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunset\n and to think.\n\n\n\n\n   There were three questions for which he required answers before he\n could formulate any plan or policy.\n\n\n\n\n   Where was he?\n\n\n\n\n   Who was Swarts?\n\n\n\n\n   What was the purpose of the \"tests\" he was being given?\n\n\n\n\n   It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate scheme\n for getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to the\n contrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have the\n appearance of a military establishment, and so far there had been\n nothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected from\n foreign intelligence officers.\n\n\n\n\n   It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked at\n the Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried to\n think of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out there\n was unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would be\n cultivated, not allowed to go to grass.\n\n\n\n\n   This might be somewhere in Africa....\n\n\n\n\n   He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-hued\n glow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to get\n hold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.\n After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,\n a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,\n Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense of\n peace and an undefinable longing.\n\n\n\n\n   Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through the\n constellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again he\n had watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,\n its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward the\n horizon, and loved it equally in its\n\n\n    alter ego\n\n\n   of morning star. Venus\n was an old friend. An old friend....\n\n\n\n\n   Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, and\n diffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fists\n clenched, forgetting to breathe.\n\n\n\n\n   Last night Venus hadn't been there.\n\n\n\n\n   Venus was a morning star just now....\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Just now!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He realized the truth in that moment.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Later, when that jewel of a planet had set and the stars were out,\n he lay on the bed, still warm with excitement and relief. He didn't\n have to worry any more about military secrets, or who Swarts was.\n Those questions were irrelevant now. And now he could accept the\n psychological tests at their face value; most likely, they were what\n they purported to be.\n\n\n\n\n   Only one question of importance remained:\n\n\n\n\n   What year was this?\n\n\n\n\n   He grimaced in the darkness, an involuntary muscular expression of\n jubilation and excitement. The\n\n\n    future\n\n\n   ! Here was the opportunity for\n the greatest adventure imaginable to 20th Century man.\n\n\n\n\n   Somewhere, out there under the stars, there must be grand glittering\n cities and busy spaceports, roaring gateways to the planets.\n Somewhere, out there in the night, there must be men who had walked\n beside the Martian canals and pierced the shining cloud mantle of\n Venus\u2014somewhere, perhaps, men who had visited the distant luring stars\n and returned. Surely, a civilization that had developed time travel\n could reach the stars!\n\n\n\n\n   And\n\n\n    he\n\n\n   had a chance to become a part of all that! He could spend\n his life among the planets, a citizen of deep space, a voyager of the\n challenging spaceways between the solar worlds.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm adaptable,\" he told himself gleefully. \"I can learn fast. There'll\n be a job for me out there....\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    If\u2014\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Suddenly sobered, he rolled over and put his feet on the floor, sat\n in the darkness thinking. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have to find a\n way of breaking down Swarts' reticence. He would have to make the man\n realize that secrecy wasn't necessary in this case. And if Swarts still\n wouldn't talk, he would have to find a way of forcing the issue. The\n fellow had said that he didn't need cooperation to get his results,\n but\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   After a while Maitland smiled to himself and went back to bed.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. He\n rolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal the\n evening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smell\n of bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, except\n that she had discarded the white cloak.\n\n\n\n\n   As he swung his legs to the floor, she started toward the door,\n carrying the tray with the dirty dishes from yesterday. He stopped her\n with the word, \"Miss!\"\n\n\n\n\n   She turned, and he thought there was something eager in her face.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Miss, do you speak my language?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes,\" hesitantly. She lingered too long on the hiss of the last\n consonant.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Miss,\" he asked, watching her face intently, \"what year is this?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Startlingly, she laughed, a mellow peal of mirth that had nothing\n forced about it. She turned toward the door again and said over her\n shoulder, \"You will have to ask Swarts about that. I cannot tell you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Wait! You mean you don't know?\"\n\n\n\n\n   She shook her head. \"I cannot tell you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right; we'll let it go at that.\"\n\n\n\n\n   She grinned at him again as the door slid shut.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Swarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his planned\n offensive.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What year is this?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Swarts' steely eyes locked with his. \"You know what the date is,\" he\n stated.\n\n\n\n\n   \"No, I don't. Not since yesterday.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Come on,\" Swarts said patiently, \"let's get going. We have a lot to\n get through this morning.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I\n\n\n    know\n\n\n   this isn't 1950. It's probably not even the 20th Century.\n Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it's an\n evening star.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Never mind that. Come.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to the\n laboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attach\n the instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts started\n saying a list of words\u2014doubtlessly some sort of semantic reaction\n test\u2014Maitland began the job of integrating \"csc\n   3\n   x dx\" in his head.\n It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequent\n tracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swarts\n had stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other man\n standing over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What year is this?\" Maitland asked in a conversational tone.\n\n\n\n\n   \"We'll try another series of tests.\"\n\n\n\n\n   It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. He\n lowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacks\n of a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses at\n the ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer's\n eyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes.\n\n\n\n\n   \"These will keep you from holding your eyes shut,\" he said. \"You can\n blink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids down\n against the tension.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   And then the show began.\n\n\n\n\n   He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there were\n footsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,\n and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with a\n twelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, \"Now I've got you, you\n wife-stealer!\" He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.\n There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokeless\n powder\u2014then blackness.\n\n\n\n\n   With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried to\n slow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test\u2014what was the\n countermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around them\n declared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.\n\n\n\n\n   Now he was looking at a girl. She....\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.\n\n\n\n\n   He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one day\n after school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who had\n all the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but no\n more. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness of\n Swarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about this\n new world.\n\n\n\n\n   Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightened\n against the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on his\n forehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....\n\n\n\n\n   The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.\n There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot and\n swollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.\n\n\n\n\n   The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from his\n eyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore at\n him for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head was\n starting to ache from the effort of blinking.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What year is this?\" he asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right,\" Swarts said. \"A.D. 2634.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland's smile became a grin.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies,\" Swarts said\n a while later. \"Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.\n If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.\"'\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ching?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projector\n to his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.\n\n\n\n\n   That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sit\n and watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimes\n whistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jittering\n one leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same theme\n over and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberant\n mounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's Ninth\n Symphony.\n\n\n\n\n   He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himself\n aboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at Syrtis\n Major; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.\n In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge bright\n globe against the constellations....\n\n\n\n\n   Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual tray\n of food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin and\n revealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I think you are wonderful,\" she laughed. \"You get everything you\n want, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a little\n of what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20th\n Century. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me.\" She\n laughed again, hands on her rounded hips. \"I have never seen him so\n irritated as he was this noon.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.\n Eagerly he asked, \"Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?\n Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks a\n lot better.\"\n\n\n\n\n   She shrugged. \"Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age of\n Technology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,\n I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look more\n exciting....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"How do you mean\u2014\" Maitland wrinkled his brow\u2014\"adapt to modern\n culture? Don't tell me\n\n\n    you're\n\n\n   from another time!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the head\n of a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are much\n behind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the old\n tongue.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend of\n Oriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, \"Maybe\n I shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't look\n altogether like the Norwegians of my time.\"\n\n\n\n\n   His fear that she would be offended proved to be completely\n unjustified. She merely laughed and said, \"There has been much\n history since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun by\n Pan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' European\n or Asiatic.\" She giggled. \"Swarts' ancestors from your time must be\n cursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, but\n one of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name is\n Lassisi Swarts.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland wrinkled his brow. \"Afrikander?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The South Africans.\" Something strange came into her eyes. It might\n have been awe, or even hatred; he could not tell. \"The Pan-Orientals\n eventually conquered all the world, except for North America\u2014the\n last remnant of the American World Empire\u2014and southern Africa. The\n Afrikanders had been partly isolated for several centuries then, and\n they had developed technology while the rest of the world lost it. They\n had a tradition of white supremacy, and in addition they were terrified\n of being encircled.\" She sighed. \"They ruled the next world empire and\n it was founded on the slaughter of one and a half billion human beings.\n That went into the history books as the War of Annihilation.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"So many? How?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"They were clever with machines, the Afrikanders. They made armies\n of them. Armies of invincible killing-machines, produced in robot\n factories from robot-mined ores.... Very clever.\" She gave a little\n shudder.\n\n\n\n\n   \"And yet they founded modern civilization,\" she added. \"The grandsons\n of the technicians who built the Machine Army set up our robot\n production system, and today no human being has to dirty his hands\n raising food or manufacturing things. It could never have been done,\n either, before the population was\u2014reduced to three hundred million.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Then the Afrikanders are still on top? Still the masters?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   She shook her head. \"There are no more Afrikanders.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Rebellion?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No. Intermarriage. Racial blending. There was a psychology of guilt\n behind it. So huge a crime eventually required a proportionate\n expiation. Afrikaans is still the world language, but there is only one\n race now. No more masters or slaves.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They were both silent for a moment, and then she sighed. \"Let us not\n talk about them any more.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Robot factories and farms,\" Maitland mused. \"What else? What means of\n transportation? Do you have interstellar flight yet?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Inter-what?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Have men visited the stars?\"\n\n\n\n\n   She shook her head, bewildered.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I always thought that would be a tough problem to crack,\" he agreed.\n \"But tell me about what men are doing in the Solar System. How is life\n on Mars and Venus, and how long does it take to get to those places?\"\n\n\n\n\n   He waited, expectantly silent, but she only looked puzzled. \"I don't\n understand. Mars? What are Mars?\"\n\n\n\n\n   After several seconds, Maitland swallowed. Something seemed to be the\n matter with his throat, making it difficult for him to speak. \"Surely\n you have space travel?\"\n\n\n\n\n   She frowned and shook her head. \"What does that mean\u2014space travel?\"\n\n\n\n\n   He was gripping the edge of the bed now, glaring at her. \"A\n civilization that could discover time travel and build robot factories\n wouldn't find it hard to send a ship to Mars!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A\n\n\n    ship\n\n\n   ? Oh, you mean something like a\n\n\n    vliegvlotter\n\n\n   . Why, no, I\n don't suppose it would be hard. But why would anyone want to do a\n thing like that?\"\n\n\n\n\n   He was on his feet towering over her, fists clenched. She raised her\n arms as if to shield her face if he should hit her. \"Let's get this\n perfectly clear,\" he said, more harshly than he realized. \"So far as\n you know, no one has ever visited the planets, and no one wants to. Is\n that right?\"\n\n\n\n\n   She nodded apprehensively. \"I have never heard of it being done.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He sank down on the bed and put his face in his hands. After a while he\n looked up and said bitterly, \"You're looking at a man who would give\n his life to get to Mars. I thought I would in my time. I was positive I\n would when I knew I was in your time. And now I know I never will.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The cot creaked beside him and he felt a soft arm about his shoulders\n and fingers delicately stroking his brow. Presently he opened his eyes\n and looked at her. \"I just don't understand,\" he said. \"It seemed\n obvious to me that whenever men were able to reach the planets, they'd\n do it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Her pitying eyes were on his face. He hitched himself around so that he\n was facing her. \"I've got to understand. I've got to know\n\n\n    why\n\n\n   . What\n happened? Why don't men want the planets any more?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Honestly,\" she said, \"I did not know they ever had.\" She hesitated.\n \"Maybe you are asking the wrong question.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He furrowed his brow, bewildered now by her.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I mean,\" she explained, \"maybe you should ask why people in the 20th\n Century\n\n\n    did\n\n\n   want to go to worlds men are not suited to inhabit.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland felt his face become hot. \"Men can go anywhere, if they want\n to bad enough.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But\n\n\n    why\n\n\n   ?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Despite his sudden irrational anger toward her, Maitland tried to stick\n to logic. \"Living space, for one thing. The only permanent solution to\n the population problem....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We have no population problem. A hundred years ago, we realized that\n the key to social stability is a limited population. Our economic\n system was built to take care of three hundred million people, and we\n have held the number at that.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Birth control,\" Maitland scoffed. \"How do you make it work\u2014secret\n police?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No. Education. Each of us has the right to two children, and we\n cherish that right so much that we make every effort to see that those\n two are the best children we could possibly produce....\"\n\n\n\n\n   She broke off, looking a little self-conscious. \"You understand, what\n I have been saying applies to\n\n\n    most\n\n\n   of the world. In some places like\n Aresund, things are different. Backward. I still do not feel that I\n belong here, although the people of the town have accepted me as one of\n them.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Even,\" he said, \"granting that you have solved the population problem,\n there's still the adventure of the thing. Surely, somewhere, there must\n be men who still feel that.... Ingrid, doesn't it fire something in\n your blood, the idea of going to Mars\u2014just to go there and see what's\n there and walk under a new sky and a smaller Sun? Aren't you interested\n in finding out what the canals are? Or what's under the clouds of\n Venus? Wouldn't you like to see the rings of Saturn from, a distance\n of only two hundred thousand miles?\" His hands were trembling as he\n stopped.\n\n\n\n\n   She shrugged her shapely shoulders. \"Go into the past\u2014yes! But go out\n there? I still cannot see why.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Has the spirit of adventure\n\n\n    evaporated\n\n\n   from the human race, or\n\n\n    what\n\n\n   ?\"\n\n\n\n\n   She smiled. \"In a room downstairs there is the head of a lion. Swarts\n killed the beast when he was a young man. He used a spear. And time\n traveling is the greatest adventure there is. At least, that is the\n way I feel. Listen, Bob.\" She laid a hand on his arm. \"You grew up in\n the Age of Technology. Everybody was terribly excited about what could\n be done with machines\u2014machines to blow up a city all at once, or fly\n around the world, or take a man to Mars. We have had our fill of\u2014what\n is the word?\u2014gadgets. Our machines serve us, and so long as they\n function right, we are satisfied to forget about them.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Because this is the Age of\n\n\n    Man\n\n\n   . We are terribly interested in what\n can be done with people. Our scientists, like Swarts, are studying\n human rather than nuclear reactions. We are much more fascinated by the\n life and death of cultures than by the expansion or contraction of the\n Universe. With us, it is the people that are important, not gadgets.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland stared at her, his face blank. His mind had just manufactured\n a discouraging analogy. His present position was like that of an\n earnest 12th Century crusader, deposited by some freak of nature into\n the year 1950, trying to find a way of reanimating the anti-Mohammedan\n movement. What chance would he have? The unfortunate knight would argue\n in vain that the atomic bomb offered a means of finally destroying the\n infidel....\n\n\n\n\n   Maitland looked up at the girl, who was regarding him silently with\n troubled eyes. \"I think I'd like to be alone for a while,\" he said.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhat made Maitland realize he was in the future?\n\n (A) A planet\n (B) The terrain\n (C) The people\n (D) The sun\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "A", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 33123, "query_start_index": 33125, "query_end_index": 33265, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "20077_ZF5G55FD_1", "pid": "20077_ZF5G55FD_1_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nGrand Finale\nMike Leigh's\nTopsy-Turvy\nbroadly recounts the creation of Gilbert\nand Sullivan's comic opera The Mikado at London's Savoy Theatre in 1885.\nPerhaps \"broadly\" is putting too fine a point on it. The first hour, in which\nArthur Sullivan (Allan Corduner) attempts to sever his ties with W.S. Gilbert\n(Jim Broadbent) and the owner of the Savoy, Richard D'Oyly Carte (Ron Cook), is\na mess: The order of scenes feels arbitrary, and characters pop up and vanish\nwith bewildering frequency. You might be tempted to vanish, too. (Friends of\nmine did.) Be patient. Leigh's movies, born of actors' improvisations and\nloosely shaped, always take a while to find their rhythm--and, frequently,\ntheir point. This one finds everything. By the end of its two hours and 40\nminutes, Topsy-Turvy has evolved into something extraordinary: a\nmonument to process--to the minutiae of making art. And to something more: the\nfundamental sadness of people who labor to make beautiful things--who soar--and\nthen come down to a not-so-beautiful earth.\nIt would be charitable\nto attribute the shapelessness of the early scenes to the characters' own lack\nof focus, but it would also be inane. As Elvis Mitchell pointed out in\nSlate\n's \",\" Leigh's opening shot features an usher who moves\nalong a row of the Savoy Theatre lifting and peering under every seat. That's\nevery seat. You can almost hear Leigh cackling: \"How's this for a fast\nstart?--you bourgeois slaves to narrative.\" Inevitably, something does happen:\nPrincess Ida , one of Gilbert and Sullivan's duds, has its premiere, and\nGilbert fumes over a review that calls him the monarch of \"topsy-turvydom\"--of\nformulaic plots involving magical elixirs and coins. A heat wave has hit\nLondon, theater attendance is down, and Sullivan is itching to go off and\nbecome the English Mendelssohn--to write operas and symphonies instead of comic\n\"souffl\u00e9s.\" Leigh evidently loves the bloodless formality of the scenes between\nGilbert and Sullivan, men of opposite tastes and temperaments who only overlap\nin their work. He must also love that those scenes are narrative dead ends:\n\"How's this for conflict?--you bourgeois slaves to melodrama.\"\nThe wake-up call comes an hour into the movie. Gilbert\nattends a popular exposition of Japanese culture at Knightsbridge and watches\nKabuki routines and women in kimonos pouring green tea (\"spinach water\"). When\na Japanese sword he has purchased falls off his wall, he hefts it; mimes a\nfight while issuing strangled, samurailike cries; then has a brainstorm. We\nhear the horns of The Mikado overture, then Leigh cuts to the fully\nrealized opening scene on stage at the Savoy: \"We are gentlemen of Japan \u2026\"\nJust that chorus is enough to reanimate the audience--to make people sit up and\ngrin. And Leigh's technique of leaping back and forth between the finished\nMikado and painstaking scenes of rehearsal has magic in it: You're\nwatching straw, then gold, then straw, then gold. And you see the\nconnection.\nA central section of the\ndrama is missing. What exactly fired Sullivan up about doing The Mikado ?\nWhat was different about this collaboration? No answer.\nTopsy-Turvy turns into something other than the Gilbert and Sullivan\nstory: a portrait of life in the theater. A group portrait. D'Oyly Carte\nbecomes a quiet third protagonist, a humane businessman. He softly negotiates a\nsalary increase with the company's lead comic (Martin Savage), a neurasthenic\njunkie. He gently seeks the assurance of a tipsy ing\u00e9nue (the tremulous Shirley\nHenderson) that her \"little weakness\" will not re-emerge. In the dressing room,\nperformers gossip and complain, drink and shoot themselves up with drugs.\nLeigh's ensemble casts strive to be \"microcosms\" of society, so issues of class\nare ever present. You see it in Sullivan's banter with the working-class\nmusicians in the pit and in Gilbert's with the uppity actors (the movie's\nposturing middle class), whom he drills on pronunciation and poise. The chorus\nis presented as some sort of collective folk conscience when it lobbies Gilbert\nto restore the rashly cut solo (\"A more humane Mikado never did in Japan\nexist\") of the sad, fat fellow (Timothy Spall) in the title role.\nWho would have predicted that Leigh would make Gilbert and\nSullivan into Mike Leigh characters? Gilbert could be a stand-in for Leigh\nhimself--a haughty, ill-humored man with an obsession for tiny details and a\nglowering dedication to process. Gilbert haggles with his actors over small\nthings that shouldn't resonate but which somehow add up. Leigh's small things\nadd up, too. The joke of The Mikado is that its Japanese lords are\nthinly disguised English bureaucrats; the joke of Topsy-Turvy is that\nthe opera's English performers seem culturally incapable of playing Japanese.\nThey rehearse in long coats and top hats, and some of the women (and men!)\nexpress horror at appearing on stage without corsets. Behind the satire,\nhowever, is a reverence for Gilbert and Sullivan: The tempos are slower than\nmodern audiences are used to, and the staging has been stripped of high-camp\naccretions. I saw a D'Oyly Carte production of The Mikado in the late\n'70s: It was played fast and to the groundlings and made me never want to see a\nG&S opera again. Now I can't wait for the next production.\nOnly a lunatic would\ncall Topsy-Turvy , with its lame first hour and host of loose ends, a\nmasterpiece, but by the finale I was ready to have myself committed. The finale\nitself must have done it. Leigh's endings are often wondrous, and this one is\nup there with the rooftop scene in High Hopes (1988). The Mikado\nis a triumph--it would be the Savoy's biggest hit--but there's no\ntransformation in the lives of its makers. Gilbert can't bring himself to reach\nout to his brokenhearted wife (Lesley Manville), and Sullivan has a melancholy\ninkling that he has reached his artistic peak. The ing\u00e9nue, Leonora, is\ndrinking again, toasting herself in the mirror and praising the loveliness of\nNature--a Nature that will, of course, destroy her. The final image is of Art:\nLeonora on stage singing Yum-Yum's sublime \"The sun whose rays are all ablaze\n\u2026\" As Leigh's camera pulls back over the orchestra and the audience, this movie\nfeels like one of the saddest and loveliest tributes to the lives of artists\never made. Topsy-Turvy leaves you upside down and breathless.\nLike Mike Leigh, Errol Morris rarely begins a project with\na clear idea of what he wants it to be. Sometimes he doesn't end a project with\na clear idea of what he wants it to be, either. His newest documentary,\nMr. Death : The Rise and Fall of Fred D. Leuchter,\nJr.\n, kicks up all sorts of messy emotions that his coolly ironic\ntechnique can't begin to handle.\nThe director is in his\nweird element only in the first half-hour, in which he sits his subject down\nand gets out of his way. Leuchter, who looks a little like the archetypal movie\ndweeb Charles Martin Smith and has a heavy exurbs-of-Boston accent, explains\nhow he became involved in redesigning problematic electric chairs. \"Excess\ncurrent cooks the tissue,\" he says, barely suppressing a smirk at his own\nexpertise. \"There've been occasions where a great amount of current has been\napplied, and the meat actually will come off the executee's bone like the meat\ncoming off a cooked chicken.\" Leuchter set about making capital punishment more\n\"humane.\" He moves on to talking about his redesigns for lethal-injection\nsystems, gas chambers, and even a gallows, while underneath, Caleb Sampson\nprovides macabre funhouse music and wistful calliope waltzes. Morris' distance\nfrom his subject implies condescension--Leuchter looks like something in a jar.\nBut that's OK, because the man is an interesting specimen. Is he a monster or a\nhumanist committed to eliminating the \"deplawrable tawchaw\" of capital\npunishment? It could go either way.\nM r. Death gets into deeper waters when it recounts\nthe trial of Ernst Zundel in Canada for proclaiming that the Holocaust never\nhappened. Zundel hired Leuchter to go to Auschwitz and examine the \"alleged\"\ngas chambers: Footage (taken by Zundel's cameraman) shows the little man\nchiseling at walls, vandalizing what even he admits are international shrines.\nLeuchter smuggled specimens of rock and concrete back to the United States,\nwhere chemical analysis revealed no cyanide gas. Furthermore, Leuchter can't\nfigure out how the gas would even have been administered without killing the\nNazis themselves--proof, he argues, that mass extermination at Auschwitz never\ntook place. The subsequent \"Leuchter Report\" became the backbone of Zundel's\ndefense (he lost anyway) and of the burgeoning revisionist movement led by\nDavid Irving. But if Leuchter became a hero to neo-Nazis, he also became a\ntarget of Jewish groups and a pariah even in the execution business. When\nMorris hooks up with him for the last time, he's in hiding from creditors.\nIs Leuchter a raving\nanti-Semite or a pathetic pawn who thrived on having--for the first time in his\nlife--a bit of celebrity? The film suggests the latter. It certainly produces\nno evidence of malice. Plenty of monstrous insensitivity and hubris, though.\nMorris uses the Dutch historian Robert Jan van Pelt as a counternarrator: He\ncalls Leuchter \"a fffool \" who didn't have a clue what to look for in a\nplace that had changed enormously in 50 years. \"If he had spent time in the\narchives,\" says van Pelt, \"he would have found evidence about ventilation\nsystems, ways to introduce Zyclon B into these buildings--but of course I don't\nthink he knows German so it wouldn't have helped very much.\" The most\ndevastating rebuttal is from the chemist in charge of the Auschwitz analysis,\nwho explains that the gas wouldn't have penetrated more than 10 microns into\nthe wall (a human hair is 100 microns thick), so by crushing the samples\n(standard procedure), he had effectively diluted the cyanide 100,000 times.\nAgainst all this, Morris shows footage of Leuchter chiseling at Auschwitz and\neven adds some of his own, along with slow-motion shots of hammers bashing\nrocks, walls, floors, etc. It's an obscenity.\nAfter my rage at Leuchter had subsided, I began to get\nangry at Morris for aestheticizing that violation--turning it into an ironic\nart object. The director's beautiful detachment suggests a kind of cowardice.\nHis technique is based on standing back--maintaining a fixed distance--while\nhis subjects hang themselves, and for a while that works stunningly. But at a\ncertain point, isn't it only human to want to engage this man? You don't need\nto play Mike Wallace and demolish Leuchter on camera. You could just ask him\nwhat he makes of, say, van Pelt's assertion that the answer to the riddle of\nthe gas chambers was all over the archives, or what he thought of the chemist's\ndeclaration that the test performed for cyanide was the wrong test. Morris can\nbe heard asking one question only: \"Have you ever thought you might be wrong or\nthat you made a mistake?\"--sufficiently broad that Leuchter can casually affirm\nhis own inanity.\nMy concern here isn't so much for Leuchter or even\nthe Holocaust revisionists, who'll just think he was sandbagged. The problem is\nthat when a documentary filmmaker seems too scared or cool or arty to violate\nhis own immaculate aesthetic, he ends up weakening his case. He also provides\nno emotional release, which isn't a small matter when the subject is Holocaust\ndenial. Morris was close enough to Leuchter to have gotten something more, to\nhave gone a little deeper in search of a poison that does penetrate\nsurfaces.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nHow is the beginning of Topsy-Turvy described?\n\n (A) exciting and fast paced \n (B) boring and slow\n (C) dramatic and interesting \n (D) sad and depressing\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "B", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 11754, "query_start_index": 11756, "query_end_index": 11940, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "22579_RQ3GB4A1_3", "pid": "22579_RQ3GB4A1_3_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nBread\n\n\n   Overhead\n\n\n\n\n   By FRITZ LEIBER\n\n\n\n\n   The Staff of Life suddenly and\n\n\n   disconcertingly sprouted wings\n\n\n   \u2014and mankind had to eat crow!\n\n\n\n\n   Illustrated by WOOD\n\n\n\n\n   AS a blisteringly hot but\n guaranteed weather-controlled\n future summer day\n dawned on the Mississippi Valley,\n the walking mills of Puffy Products\n (\"Spike to Loaf in One\n Operation!\") began to tread delicately\n on their centipede legs\n across the wheat fields of Kansas.\n\n\n\n\n   The walking mills resembled fat\n metal serpents, rather larger than\n those Chinese paper dragons animated\n by files of men in procession.\n Sensory robot devices in\n their noses informed them that\n the waiting wheat had reached ripe\n perfection.\n\n\n\n\n   As they advanced, their heads\n swung lazily from side to side, very\n much like snakes, gobbling the yellow\n grain. In their throats, it was\n threshed, the chaff bundled and\n burped aside for pickup by the\n crawl trucks of a chemical corporation,\n the kernels quick-dried\n and blown along into the mighty\n chests of the machines. There the\n tireless mills ground the kernels\n to flour, which was instantly sifted,\n the bran being packaged and\n dropped like the chaff for pickup.\n A cluster of tanks which gave\n the metal serpents a decidedly\n humpbacked appearance added\n water, shortening, salt and other\n ingredients, some named and some\n not. The dough was at the same\n time infused with gas from a tank\n conspicuously labeled \"Carbon\n Dioxide\" (\"No Yeast Creatures\n in Your Bread!\").\n\n\n\n\n   Thus instantly risen, the dough\n was clipped into loaves and shot\n into radionic ovens forming the\n midsections of the metal serpents.\n There the bread was baked in a\n matter of seconds, a fierce heat-front\n browning the crusts, and the\n piping-hot loaves sealed in transparent\n plastic bearing the proud\n Puffyloaf emblem (two cherubs\n circling a floating loaf) and ejected\n onto the delivery platform at each\n serpent's rear end, where a cluster\n of pickup machines, like hungry\n piglets, snatched at the loaves\n with hygienic claws.\n\n\n\n\n   A few loaves would be hurried\n off for the day's consumption,\n the majority stored for winter in\n strategically located mammoth\n deep freezes.\n\n\n\n\n   But now, behold a wonder! As\n loaves began to appear on the\n delivery platform of the first walking\n mill to get into action, they\n did not linger on the conveyor\n belt, but rose gently into the air\n and slowly traveled off down-wind\n across the hot rippling fields.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   THE robot claws of the pickup\n machines clutched in vain, and,\n not noticing the difference, proceeded\n carefully to stack emptiness,\n tier by tier. One errant loaf,\n rising more sluggishly than its fellows,\n was snagged by a thrusting\n claw. The machine paused, clumsily\n wiped off the injured loaf, set\n it aside\u2014where it bobbed on one\n corner, unable to take off again\u2014and\n went back to the work of\n storing nothingness.\n\n\n\n\n   A flock of crows rose from the\n trees of a nearby shelterbelt as the\n flight of loaves approached. The\n crows swooped to investigate and\n then suddenly scattered, screeching\n in panic.\n\n\n\n\n   The helicopter of a hangoverish\n Sunday traveler bound for Wichita\n shied very similarly from the\n brown fliers and did not return for\n a second look.\n\n\n\n\n   A black-haired housewife spied\n them over her back fence, crossed\n herself and grabbed her walkie-talkie\n from the laundry basket.\n Seconds later, the yawning correspondent\n of a regional newspaper\n was jotting down the lead of a humorous\n news story which, recalling\n the old flying-saucer scares, stated\n that now apparently bread was to\n be included in the mad aerial tea\n party.\n\n\n\n\n   The congregation of an open-walled\n country church, standing\n up to recite the most familiar of\n Christian prayers, had just reached\n the petition for daily sustenance,\n when a sub-flight of the loaves,\n either forced down by a vagrant\n wind or lacking the natural buoyancy\n of the rest, came coasting silently\n as the sunbeams between the\n graceful pillars at the altar end of\n the building.\n\n\n\n\n   Meanwhile, the main flight, now\n augmented by other bread flocks\n from scores and hundreds of walking\n mills that had started work a\n little later, mounted slowly and\n majestically into the cirrus-flecked\n upper air, where a steady\n wind was blowing strongly toward\n the east.\n\n\n\n\n   About one thousand miles farther\n on in that direction, where a cluster\n of stratosphere-tickling towers\n marked the location of the metropolis\n of NewNew York, a tender\n scene was being enacted in the\n pressurized penthouse managerial\n suite of Puffy Products. Megera\n Winterly, Secretary in Chief to the\n Managerial Board and referred to\n by her underlings as the Blonde\n Icicle, was dealing with the advances\n of Roger (\"Racehorse\")\n Snedden, Assistant Secretary to the\n Board and often indistinguishable\n from any passing office boy.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why don't you jump out the\n window, Roger, remembering to\n shut the airlock after you?\" the\n Golden Glacier said in tones not\n unkind. \"When are your high-strung,\n thoroughbred nerves going\n to accept the fact that I would\n never consider marriage with a\n business inferior? You have about\n as much chance as a starving\n Ukrainian kulak now that Moscow's\n clapped on the interdict.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   ROGER'S voice was calm, although\n his eyes were feverishly\n bright, as he replied, \"A lot\n of things are going to be different\n around here, Meg, as soon as the\n Board is forced to admit that only\n my quick thinking made it possible\n to bring the name of Puffyloaf in\n front of the whole world.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Puffyloaf could do with a little\n of that,\" the business girl observed\n judiciously. \"The way sales have\n been plummeting, it won't be long\n before the Government deeds our\n desks to the managers of Fairy\n Bread and asks us to take the Big\n Jump. But just where does your\n quick thinking come into this, Mr.\n Snedden? You can't be referring to\n the helium\u2014that was Rose Thinker's\n brainwave.\"\n\n\n\n\n   She studied him suspiciously.\n \"You've birthed another promotional\n bumble, Roger. I can see it\n in your eyes. I only hope it's not\n as big a one as when you put the\n Martian ambassador on 3D and he\n thanked you profusely for the gross\n of Puffyloaves, assuring you that\n he'd never slept on a softer mattress\n in all his life on two planets.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Listen to me, Meg. Today\u2014yes,\n today!\u2014you're going to see\n the Board eating out of my hand.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Hah! I guarantee you won't\n have any fingers left. You're bold\n enough now, but when Mr. Gryce\n and those two big machines come\n through that door\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Now wait a minute, Meg\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Hush! They're coming now!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Roger leaped three feet in the\n air, but managed to land without a\n sound and edged toward his stool.\n Through the dilating iris of the\n door strode Phineas T. Gryce,\n flanked by Rose Thinker and Tin\n Philosopher.\n\n\n\n\n   The man approached the conference\n table in the center of the room\n with measured pace and gravely\n expressionless face. The rose-tinted\n machine on his left did a couple\n of impulsive pirouettes on the way\n and twittered a greeting to Meg\n and Roger. The other machine quietly\n took the third of the high seats\n and lifted a claw at Meg, who now\n occupied a stool twice the height of\n Roger's.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Miss Winterly, please\u2014our\n theme.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The Blonde Icicle's face thawed\n into a little-girl smile as she chanted\n bubblingly:\n\n\n  \"\n\n\n   Made up of tiny wheaten motes\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   And reinforced with sturdy oats,\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   It rises through the air and floats\u2014\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The bread on which all Terra dotes!\n\n\n  \"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"THANK YOU, Miss Winterly,\"\n said Tin Philosopher.\n \"Though a purely figurative statement,\n that bit about rising through\n the air always gets me\u2014here.\" He\n rapped his midsection, which gave\n off a high musical\n\n\n    clang\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ladies\u2014\" he inclined his photocells\n toward Rose Thinker and Meg\u2014\"and\n gentlemen. This is a historic\n occasion in Old Puffy's long history,\n the inauguration of the helium-filled\n loaf ('So Light It Almost Floats\n Away!') in which that inert and\n heaven-aspiring gas replaces old-fashioned\n carbon dioxide. Later,\n there will be kudos for Rose\n Thinker, whose bright relays genius-sparked\n the idea, and also for Roger\n Snedden, who took care of the\n details.\n\n\n\n\n   \"By the by, Racehorse, that was\n a brilliant piece of work getting the\n helium out of the government\u2014they've\n been pretty stuffy lately\n about their monopoly. But first I\n want to throw wide the casement in\n your minds that opens on the Long\n View of Things.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Rose Thinker spun twice on her\n chair and opened her photocells\n wide. Tin Philosopher coughed to\n limber up the diaphragm of his\n speaker and continued:\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ever since the first cave wife\n boasted to her next-den neighbor\n about the superior paleness and fluffiness\n of her tortillas, mankind has\n sought lighter, whiter bread. Indeed,\n thinkers wiser than myself have\n equated the whole upward course of\n culture with this poignant quest.\n Yeast was a wonderful discovery\u2014for\n its primitive day. Sifting the\n bran and wheat germ from the flour\n was an even more important advance.\n Early bleaching and preserving\n chemicals played their humble\n parts.\n\n\n\n\n   \"For a while, barbarous faddists\u2014blind\n to the deeply spiritual nature\n of bread, which is recognized\n by all great religions\u2014held back\n our march toward perfection with\n their hair-splitting insistence on the\n vitamin content of the wheat germ,\n but their case collapsed when tasteless\n colorless substitutes were\n triumphantly synthesized and introduced\n into the loaf, which for flawless\n purity, unequaled airiness and\n sheer intangible goodness was rapidly\n becoming mankind's supreme\n gustatory experience.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I wonder what the stuff tastes\n like,\" Rose Thinker said out of a\n clear sky.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I wonder what taste tastes like,\"\n Tin Philosopher echoed dreamily.\n Recovering himself, he continued:\n\n\n\n\n   \"Then, early in the twenty-first\n century, came the epochal researches\n of Everett Whitehead,\n Puffyloaf chemist, culminating in\n his paper 'The Structural Bubble\n in Cereal Masses' and making possible\n the baking of airtight bread\n twenty times stronger (for its\n weight) than steel and of a\n lightness that would have been\n incredible even to the advanced\n chemist-bakers of the twentieth\n century\u2014a lightness so great that,\n besides forming the backbone of\n our own promotion, it has forever\n since been capitalized on by our\n conscienceless competitors of Fairy\n Bread with their enduring slogan:\n 'It Makes Ghost Toast'.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's a beaut, all right, that\n ecto-dough blurb,\" Rose Thinker\n admitted, bugging her photocells\n sadly. \"Wait a sec. How about?\u2014\n\n\n  \"\n\n\n   There'll be bread\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Overhead\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   When you're dead\u2014\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   It is said.\n\n\n  \"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   PHINEAS T. GRYCE wrinkled\n his nostrils at the pink machine\n as if he smelled her insulation\n smoldering. He said mildly, \"A\n somewhat unhappy jingle, Rose,\n referring as it does to the end of\n the customer as consumer. Moreover,\n we shouldn't overplay the\n figurative 'rises through the air'\n angle. What inspired you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   She shrugged. \"I don't know\u2014oh,\n yes, I do. I was remembering\n one of the workers' songs we machines\n used to chant during the Big\n Strike\u2014\n\n\n  \"\n\n\n   Work and pray,\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Live on hay.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   You'll get pie\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   In the sky\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   When you die\u2014\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   It's a lie!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't know why we chanted\n it,\" she added. \"We didn't want pie\u2014or\n hay, for that matter. And\n machines don't pray, except Tibetan\n prayer wheels.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Phineas T. Gryce shook his head.\n \"Labor relations are another topic\n we should stay far away from.\n However, dear Rose, I'm glad you\n keep trying to outjingle those dirty\n crooks at Fairy Bread.\" He scowled,\n turning back his attention to Tin\n Philosopher. \"I get whopping mad,\n Old Machine, whenever I hear that\n other slogan of theirs, the discriminatory\n one\u2014'Untouched by Robot\n Claws.' Just because they employ a\n few filthy androids in their factories!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Tin Philosopher lifted one of his\n own sets of bright talons. \"Thanks,\n P.T. But to continue my historical\n resume, the next great advance in\n the baking art was the substitution\n of purified carbon dioxide, recovered\n from coal smoke, for the gas\n generated by yeast organisms indwelling\n in the dough and later\n killed by the heat of baking, their\n corpses remaining\n\n\n    in situ\n\n\n   . But even\n purified carbon dioxide is itself a\n rather repugnant gas, a product of\n metabolism whether fast or slow,\n and forever associated with those\n life processes which are obnoxious\n to the fastidious.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Here the machine shuddered\n with delicate clinkings. \"Therefore,\n we of Puffyloaf are taking today\n what may be the ultimate step\n toward purity: we are aerating our\n loaves with the noble gas helium,\n an element which remains virginal\n in the face of all chemical temptations\n and whose slim molecules are\n eleven times lighter than obese\n carbon dioxide\u2014yes, noble uncontaminable\n helium, which, if it be a\n kind of ash, is yet the ash only of\n radioactive burning, accomplished\n or initiated entirely on the Sun, a\n safe 93 million miles from this\n planet. Let's have a cheer for the\n helium loaf!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   WITHOUT changing expression,\n Phineas T. Gryce rapped\n the table thrice in solemn applause,\n while the others bowed their heads.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Thanks, T.P.,\" P.T. then said.\n \"And now for the Moment of\n Truth. Miss Winterly, how is the\n helium loaf selling?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The business girl clapped on a\n pair of earphones and whispered\n into a lapel mike. Her gaze grew\n abstracted as she mentally translated\n flurries of brief squawks into\n coherent messages. Suddenly a single\n vertical furrow creased her\n matchlessly smooth brow.\n\n\n\n\n   \"It isn't, Mr. Gryce!\" she gasped\n in horror. \"Fairy Bread is outselling\n Puffyloaves by an infinity factor.\n So far this morning,\n\n\n    there has\n not been one single delivery of\n Puffyloaves to any sales spot\n\n\n   ! Complaints\n about non-delivery are pouring\n in from both walking stores and\n sessile shops.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Mr. Snedden!\" Gryce barked.\n \"What bug in the new helium\n process might account for this\n delay?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Roger was on his feet, looking\n bewildered. \"I can't imagine, sir,\n unless\u2014just possibly\u2014there's\n been some unforeseeable difficulty\n involving the new metal-foil wrappers.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Metal-foil wrappers? Were\n\n\n    you\n\n\n   responsible for those?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, sir. Last-minute recalculations\n showed that the extra lightness\n of the new loaf might be great\n enough to cause drift during stackage.\n Drafts in stores might topple\n sales pyramids. Metal-foil wrappers,\n by their added weight, took\n care of the difficulty.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And you ordered them without\n consulting the Board?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, sir. There was hardly time\n and\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why, you fool! I noticed that\n order for metal-foil wrappers, assumed\n it was some sub-secretary's\n mistake, and canceled it last night!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Roger Snedden turned pale.\n \"You canceled it?\" he quavered.\n \"And told them to go back to the\n lighter plastic wrappers?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Of course! Just what is behind\n all this, Mr. Snedden?\n\n\n    What\n\n\n   recalculations\n were you trusting, when\n our physicists had demonstrated\n months ago that the helium loaf\n was safely stackable in light airs\n and gentle breezes\u2014winds up to\n Beaufort's scale 3.\n\n\n    Why\n\n\n   should a\n change from heavier to lighter\n wrappers result in complete non-delivery?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   ROGER Snedden's paleness became\n tinged with an interesting\n green. He cleared his throat\n and made strange gulping noises.\n Tin Philosopher's photocells focused\n on him calmly, Rose\n Thinker's with unfeigned excitement.\n P.T. Gryce's frown grew\n blacker by the moment, while\n Megera Winterly's Venus-mask\n showed an odd dawning of dismay\n and awe. She was getting new\n squawks in her earphones.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Er ... ah ... er....\" Roger\n said in winning tones. \"Well, you\n see, the fact is that I....\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Hold it,\" Meg interrupted\n crisply. \"Triple-urgent from Public\n Relations, Safety Division. Tulsa-Topeka\n aero-express makes emergency\n landing after being buffeted\n in encounter with vast flight of\n objects first described as brown\n birds, although no failures reported\n in airway's electronic anti-bird\n fences. After grounding safely near\n Emporia\u2014no fatalities\u2014pilot's\n windshield found thinly plastered\n with soft white-and-brown material.\n Emblems on plastic wrappers embedded\n in material identify it incontrovertibly\n as an undetermined\n number of Puffyloaves cruising at\n three thousand feet!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Eyes and photocells turned inquisitorially\n upon Roger Snedden.\n He went from green to Puffyloaf\n white and blurted: \"All right, I did\n it, but it was the only way out!\n Yesterday morning, due to the\n Ukrainian crisis, the government\n stopped sales and deliveries of all\n strategic stockpiled materials, including\n helium gas. Puffy's new\n program of advertising and promotion,\n based on the lighter loaf, was\n already rolling. There was only one\n thing to do, there being only one\n other gas comparable in lightness\n to helium. I diverted the necessary\n quantity of hydrogen gas from the\n Hydrogenated Oils Section of our\n Magna-Margarine Division and\n substituted it for the helium.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You substituted ... hydrogen ... for\n the ... helium?\" Phineas\n T. Gryce faltered in low mechanical\n tones, taking four steps backward.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Hydrogen is twice as light as\n helium,\" Tin Philosopher remarked\n judiciously.\n\n\n\n\n   \"And many times cheaper\u2014did\n you know that?\" Roger countered\n feebly. \"Yes, I substituted hydrogen.\n The metal-foil wrapping would\n have added just enough weight to\n counteract the greater buoyancy of\n the hydrogen loaf. But\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"So, when this morning's loaves\n began to arrive on the delivery\n platforms of the walking mills....\"\n Tin Philosopher left the remark\n unfinished.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Exactly,\" Roger agreed dismally.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Let me ask you, Mr. Snedden,\"\n Gryce interjected, still in low tones,\n \"if you expected people to jump to\n the kitchen ceiling for their Puffybread\n after taking off the metal\n wrapper, or reach for the sky if\n they happened to unwrap the stuff\n outdoors?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Mr. Gryce,\" Roger said reproachfully,\n \"you have often assured\n me that what people do with\n Puffybread after they buy it is no\n concern of ours.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I seem to recall,\" Rose Thinker\n chirped somewhat unkindly, \"that\n dictum was created to answer inquiries\n after Roger put the famous\n sculptures-in-miniature artist on 3D\n and he testified that he always\n molded his first attempts from\n Puffybread, one jumbo loaf squeezing\n down to approximately the size\n of a peanut.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   HER photocells dimmed and\n brightened. \"Oh, boy\u2014hydrogen!\n The loaf's unwrapped. After\n a while, in spite of the crust-seal, a\n little oxygen diffuses in. An explosive\n mixture. Housewife in curlers\n and kimono pops a couple slices in\n the toaster. Boom!\"\n\n\n\n\n   The three human beings in the\n room winced.\n\n\n\n\n   Tin Philosopher kicked her under\n the table, while observing, \"So\n you see, Roger, that the non-delivery\n of the hydrogen loaf carries\n some consolations. And I must confess\n that one aspect of the affair\n gives me great satisfaction, not as a\n Board Member but as a private\n machine. You have at last made a\n reality of the 'rises through the air'\n part of Puffybread's theme. They\n can't ever take that away from you.\n By now, half the inhabitants of the\n Great Plains must have observed\n our flying loaves rising high.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Phineas T. Gryce shot a frightened\n look at the west windows and\n found his full voice.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Stop the mills!\" he roared at\n Meg Winterly, who nodded and\n whispered urgently into her mike.\n\n\n\n\n   \"A sensible suggestion,\" Tin\n Philosopher said. \"But it comes a\n trifle late in the day. If the mills\n are still walking and grinding, approximately\n seven billion Puffyloaves\n are at this moment cruising\n eastward over Middle America.\n Remember that a six-month supply\n for deep-freeze is involved and that\n the current consumption of bread,\n due to its matchless airiness, is\n eight and one-half loaves per person\n per day.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Phineas T. Gryce carefully inserted\n both hands into his scanty\n hair, feeling for a good grip. He\n leaned menacingly toward Roger\n who, chin resting on the table, regarded\n him apathetically.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Hold it!\" Meg called sharply.\n \"Flock of multiple-urgents coming\n in. News Liaison: information bureaus\n swamped with flying-bread\n inquiries. Aero-expresslines: Clear\n our airways or face law suit. U. S.\n Army: Why do loaves flame when\n hit by incendiary bullets? U. S.\n Customs: If bread intended for\n export, get export license or face\n prosecution. Russian Consulate in\n Chicago: Advise on destination of\n bread-lift. And some Kansas church\n is accusing us of a hoax inciting to\n blasphemy, of faking miracles\u2014I\n don't know\n\n\n    why\n\n\n   .\"\n\n\n\n\n   The business girl tore off her\n headphones. \"Roger Snedden,\" she\n cried with a hysteria that would\n have dumfounded her underlings,\n \"you've brought the name of Puffyloaf\n in front of the whole world, all\n right! Now do something about the\n situation!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Roger nodded obediently. But\n his pallor increased a shade, the\n pupils of his eyes disappeared under\n the upper lids, and his head\n burrowed beneath his forearms.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, boy,\" Rose Thinker called\n gayly to Tin Philosopher, \"this\n looks like the start of a real crisis\n session! Did you remember to\n bring spare batteries?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   MEANWHILE, the monstrous\n flight of Puffyloaves, filling\n midwestern skies as no small fliers\n had since the days of the passenger\n pigeon, soared steadily onward.\n\n\n\n\n   Private fliers approached the\n brown and glistening bread-front in\n curiosity and dipped back in awe.\n Aero-expresslines organized sightseeing\n flights along the flanks.\n Planes of the government forestry\n and agricultural services and 'copters\n bearing the Puffyloaf emblem\n hovered on the fringes, watching\n developments and waiting for orders.\n A squadron of supersonic\n fighters hung menacingly above.\n\n\n\n\n   The behavior of birds varied\n considerably. Most fled or gave the\n loaves a wide berth, but some\n bolder species, discovering the minimal\n nutritive nature of the translucent\n brown objects, attacked\n them furiously with beaks and\n claws. Hydrogen diffusing slowly\n through the crusts had now distended\n most of the sealed plastic\n wrappers into little balloons, which\n ruptured, when pierced, with disconcerting\n\n\n    pops\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n   Below, neck-craning citizens\n crowded streets and back yards,\n cranks and cultists had a field day,\n while local and national governments\n raged indiscriminately at\n Puffyloaf and at each other.\n\n\n\n\n   Rumors that a fusion weapon\n would be exploded in the midst of\n the flying bread drew angry protests\n from conservationists and a flood\n of telefax pamphlets titled \"H-Loaf\n or H-bomb?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Stockholm sent a mystifying\n note of praise to the United Nations\n Food Organization.\n\n\n\n\n   Delhi issued nervous denials of a\n millet blight that no one had heard\n of until that moment and reaffirmed\n India's ability to feed her\n population with no outside help\n except the usual.\n\n\n\n\n   Radio Moscow asserted that the\n Kremlin would brook no interference\n in its treatment of the Ukrainians,\n jokingly referred to the flying\n bread as a farce perpetrated by\n mad internationalists inhabiting\n Cloud Cuckoo Land, added contradictory\n references to airborne\n bread booby-trapped by Capitalist\n gangsters, and then fell moodily\n silent on the whole topic.\n\n\n\n\n   Radio Venus reported to its\n winged audience that Earth's\n inhabitants were establishing food\n depots in the upper air, preparatory\n to taking up permanent aerial\n residence \"such as we have always\n enjoyed on Venus.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   NEWNEW YORK made feverish\n preparations for the passage\n of the flying bread. Tickets\n for sightseeing space in skyscrapers\n were sold at high prices; cold meats\n and potted spreads were hawked to\n viewers with the assurance that\n they would be able to snag the\n bread out of the air and enjoy a\n historic sandwich.\n\n\n\n\n   Phineas T. Gryce, escaping from\n his own managerial suite, raged\n about the city, demanding general\n cooperation in the stretching of\n great nets between the skyscrapers\n to trap the errant loaves. He was\n captured by Tin Philosopher, escaped\n again, and was found posted\n with oxygen mask and submachine gun\n on the topmost spire of Puffyloaf\n Tower, apparently determined\n to shoot down the loaves as they\n appeared and before they involved\n his company in more trouble with\n Customs and the State Department.\n\n\n\n\n   Recaptured by Tin Philosopher,\n who suffered only minor bullet\n holes, he was given a series of mild\n electroshocks and returned to the\n conference table, calm and clear-headed\n as ever.\n\n\n\n\n   But the bread flight, swinging\n away from a hurricane moving up\n the Atlantic coast, crossed a\n clouded-in Boston by night and\n disappeared into a high Atlantic\n overcast, also thereby evading a\n local storm generated by the\n Weather Department in a last-minute\n effort to bring down or at\n least disperse the H-loaves.\n\n\n\n\n   Warnings and counterwarnings\n by Communist and Capitalist governments\n seriously interfered with\n military trailing of the flight during\n this period and it was actually\n lost in touch with for several days.\n\n\n\n\n   At scattered points, seagulls were\n observed fighting over individual\n loaves floating down from the gray\n roof\u2014that was all.\n\n\n\n\n   A mood of spirituality strongly\n tinged with humor seized the people\n of the world. Ministers sermonized\n about the bread, variously\n interpreting it as a call to charity,\n a warning against gluttony, a parable\n of the evanescence of all\n earthly things, and a divine joke.\n Husbands and wives, facing each\n other across their walls of breakfast\n toast, burst into laughter. The\n mere sight of a loaf of bread anywhere\n was enough to evoke guffaws.\n An obscure sect, having as\n part of its creed the injunction\n \"Don't take yourself so damn seriously,\"\n won new adherents.\n\n\n\n\n   The bread flight, rising above an\n Atlantic storm widely reported to\n have destroyed it, passed unobserved\n across a foggy England and\n rose out of the overcast only over\n Mittel-europa. The loaves had at\n last reached their maximum altitude.\n\n\n\n\n   The Sun's rays beat through the\n rarified air on the distended plastic\n wrappers, increasing still further\n the pressure of the confined hydrogen.\n They burst by the millions\n and tens of millions. A high-flying\n Bulgarian evangelist, who had happened\n to mistake the up-lever for\n the east-lever in the cockpit of his\n flier and who was the sole witness\n of the event, afterward described it\n as \"the foaming of a sea of diamonds,\n the crackle of God's\n knuckles.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   BY THE millions and tens of\n millions, the loaves coasted\n down into the starving Ukraine.\n Shaken by a week of humor that\n threatened to invade even its own\n grim precincts, the Kremlin made\n a sudden about-face. A new policy\n was instituted of communal ownership\n of the produce of communal\n farms, and teams of hunger-fighters\n and caravans of trucks loaded with\n pumpernickel were dispatched into\n the Ukraine.\n\n\n\n\n   World distribution was given to\n a series of photographs showing\n peasants queueing up to trade scavenged\n Puffyloaves for traditional\n black bread, recently aerated itself\n but still extra solid by comparison,\n the rate of exchange demanded by\n the Moscow teams being twenty\n Puffyloaves to one of pumpernickel.\n\n\n\n\n   Another series of photographs,\n picturing chubby workers' children\n being blown to bits by booby-trapped\n bread, was quietly destroyed.\n\n\n\n\n   Congratulatory notes were exchanged\n by various national governments\n and world organizations,\n including the Brotherhood of Free\n Business Machines. The great\n bread flight was over, though for\n several weeks afterward scattered\n falls of loaves occurred, giving rise\n to a new folklore of manna among\n lonely Arabian tribesmen, and in\n one well-authenticated instance in\n Tibet, sustaining life in a party of\n mountaineers cut off by a snow\n slide.\n\n\n\n\n   Back in NewNew York, the\n managerial board of Puffy Products\n slumped in utter collapse\n around the conference table, the\n long crisis session at last ended.\n Empty coffee cartons were scattered\n around the chairs of the three\n humans, dead batteries around\n those of the two machines. For a\n while, there was no movement\n whatsoever. Then Roger Snedden\n reached out wearily for the earphones\n where Megera Winterly\n had hurled them down, adjusted\n them to his head, pushed a button\n and listened apathetically.\n\n\n\n\n   After a bit, his gaze brightened.\n He pushed more buttons and listened\n more eagerly. Soon he was\n sitting tensely upright on his stool,\n eyes bright and lower face all\n a-smile, muttering terse comments\n and questions into the lapel mike\n torn from Meg's fair neck.\n\n\n\n\n   The others, reviving, watched\n him, at first dully, then with quickening\n interest, especially when he\n jerked off the earphones with a\n happy shout and sprang to his feet.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"LISTEN to this!\" he cried in\n a ringing voice. \"As a result\n of the worldwide publicity, Puffyloaves\n are outselling Fairy Bread\n three to one\u2014and that's just the\n old carbon-dioxide stock from our\n freezers! It's almost exhausted, but\n the government, now that the\n Ukrainian crisis is over, has taken\n the ban off helium and will also\n sell us stockpiled wheat if we need\n it. We can have our walking mills\n burrowing into the wheat caves in\n a matter of hours!\n\n\n\n\n   \"But that isn't all! The far\n greater demand everywhere is for\n Puffyloaves that will actually float.\n Public Relations, Child Liaison\n Division, reports that the kiddies\n are making their mothers' lives\n miserable about it. If only we can\n figure out some way to make\n hydrogen non-explosive or the\n helium loaf float just a little\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm sure we can take care of\n that quite handily,\" Tin Philosopher\n interrupted briskly. \"Puffyloaf\n has kept it a corporation secret\u2014even\n you've never been told\n about it\u2014but just before he went\n crazy, Everett Whitehead discovered\n a way to make bread using\n only half as much flour as we do in\n the present loaf. Using this secret\n technique, which we've been saving\n for just such an emergency, it will\n be possible to bake a helium loaf as\n buoyant in every respect as the\n hydrogen loaf.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Good!\" Roger cried. \"We'll\n tether 'em on strings and sell 'em\n like balloons. No mother-child\n shopping team will leave the store\n without a cluster. Buying bread\n balloons will be the big event of\n the day for kiddies. It'll make the\n carry-home shopping load lighter\n too! I'll issue orders at once\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   HE broke off, looking at Phineas\n T. Gryce, said with quiet\n assurance, \"Excuse me, sir, if I\n seem to be taking too much upon\n myself.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Not at all, son; go straight\n ahead,\" the great manager said approvingly.\n \"You're\"\u2014he laughed\n in anticipation of getting off a\n memorable remark\u2014\"rising to the\n challenging situation like a genuine\n Puffyloaf.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Megera Winterly looked from\n the older man to the younger.\n Then in a single leap she was upon\n Roger, her arms wrapped tightly\n around him.\n\n\n\n\n   \"My sweet little ever-victorious,\n self-propelled monkey wrench!\" she\n crooned in his ear. Roger looked\n fatuously over her soft shoulder at\n Tin Philosopher who, as if moved\n by some similar feeling, reached\n over and touched claws with Rose\n Thinker.\n\n\n\n\n   This, however, was what he telegraphed\n silently to his fellow machine\n across the circuit so completed:\n\n\n\n\n   \"Good-o, Rosie! That makes another\n victory for robot-engineered\n world unity, though you almost\n gave us away at the start with that\n 'bread overhead' jingle. We've\n struck another blow against the\n next world war, in which\u2014as we\n know only too well!\u2014we machines\n would suffer the most. Now if we\n can only arrange, say, a fur-famine\n in Alaska and a migration of long-haired\n Siberian lemmings across\n Behring Straits ... we'd have to\n swing the Japanese Current up\n there so it'd be warm enough for\n the little fellows.... Anyhow,\n Rosie, with a spot of help from the\n Brotherhood, those humans will\n paint themselves into the peace\n corner yet.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Meanwhile, he and Rose Thinker\n quietly watched the Blonde Icicle\n melt.\n\n\n\n\n   \u2014FRITZ LEIBER\n\n\n\n\n   Transcriber's Note:\n\n\n\n\n  This etext was produced from\n\n\n   Galaxy\n\n\n  February 1958. Extensive\n research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on\n this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors\n have been corrected without note.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhat changes Meg's mind about a relationship with Roger?\n\n (A) His jingle writing ability\n (B) His handling of the crisis at hand\n (C) His thoroughbred nerves\n (D) His deal with the Martian ambassador\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "B", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 32948, "query_start_index": 32950, "query_end_index": 33181, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "22867_TJ9SPIHC_9", "pid": "22867_TJ9SPIHC_9_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nTranscriber's Note:\n\n\n\n\n  This etext was produced from\n\n\n   The Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\n\n\n  published in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\n\n\n   Meeting\n\n\n   of the\n\n\n   Board\n\n\n\n\n   It\n   was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervously\n through the crowds toward the Exit Strip, Walter Towne\n turned the dismal prospect over and over in his mind. The\n potential gloominess of this particular day had descended upon\n him the instant the morning buzzer had gone off, making it\n even more tempting than usual just to roll over and forget\n about it all. Twenty minutes later, the water-douse came to\n drag him, drenched and gurgling, back to the cruel cold world.\n He had wolfed down his morning Koffee-Kup with one eye\n on the clock and one eye on his growing sense of impending\n crisis. And now, to make things just a trifle worse, he was\n going to be late again.\n\n\n\n\n   He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip toward\n the plant entrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be\n so upset? He\n\n\n    was\n\n\n   Vice President-in-Charge-of-Production of\n the Robling Titanium Corporation. What could they do to\n him, really? He had rehearsed\n\n\n    his\n\n\n   part many times, squaring\n his thin shoulders, looking the union boss straight in the eye\n and saying, \"Now, see here, Torkleson\u2014\" But he knew, when\n the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. And\n this was the morning that the showdown would come.\n\n\n\n\n   Oh, not because of the\n\n\n    lateness\n\n\n   . Of course Bailey, the shop\n steward, would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But\n this seemed hardly worthy of concern this morning. The reports\n waiting on his desk were what worried him. The sales\n reports. The promotion-draw reports. The royalty reports. The\n anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head wearily.\n The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even infuriating,\n but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter.\n\n\n\n\n   He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves,\n and tried vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept\n scooting his tie up under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he\n started up the Robling corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps\n he would be fortunate. Maybe the reports would be late.\n Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to synapse this\n morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as he\n was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way\n to work. He walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing\n in at the groups of men, arguing politics and checking the\n stock market reports before they changed from their neat gray\n business suits to their welding dungarees. Running up the\n stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the door\n to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be\n sick\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming\n with frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows\n of cubbyholes. In the middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow\n checkered tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His\n feet were planted on his desk top, but he hadn't started on his\n morning Western yet. He was busy glaring, first at the clock,\n then at Walter.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Late again, I see,\" the shop steward growled.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter gulped. \"Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir.\n You know those crowded strips\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"So it's\n\n\n    just\n\n\n   four minutes now, eh?\" Bailey's feet came down\n with a crash. \"After last month's fine production record, you\n think four minutes doesn't matter, eh? Think just because\n you're a vice president it's all right to mosey in here whenever\n you feel like it.\" He glowered. \"Well, this is three times this\n month you've been late, Towne. That's a demerit for each\n time, and you know what that means.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You wouldn't count four minutes as a whole demerit!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey grinned. \"Wouldn't I, now! You just add up your\n pay envelope on Friday. Ten cents an hour off for each\n demerit.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter sighed and shuffled back to his desk. Oh, well. It\n could have been worse. They might have fired him like poor\n Cartwright last month. He'd just\n\n\n    have\n\n\n   to listen to that morning\n buzzer.\n\n\n\n\n   The reports were on his desk. He picked them up warily.\n Maybe they wouldn't be so bad. He'd had more freedom this\n last month than before, maybe there'd been a policy change.\n Maybe Torkleson was gaining confidence in him. Maybe\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   The reports were worse than he had ever dreamed.\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Towne!\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter jumped a foot. Bailey was putting down the visiphone\n receiver. His grin spread unpleasantly from ear to ear.\n \"What have you been doing lately? Sabotaging the production\n line?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What's the trouble now?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey jerked a thumb significantly at the ceiling. \"The\n boss wants to see you. And you'd better have the right answers,\n too. The boss seems to have a lot of questions.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson\n had already seen the reports. He started for the door, his\n knees shaking.\n\n\n\n\n   It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably.\n Time was when things had been very different. It had\n\n\n    meant\n\n\n   something to be vice president of a huge industrial firm like\n Robling Titanium. A man could have had a fine house of\n his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the Country Club;\n maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter could almost remember those days with Robling,\n before the switchover, before that black day when the exchange\n of ten little shares of stock had thrown the Robling\n Titanium Corporation into the hands of strange and unnatural\n owners.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged\n in gold:\n\n\n\n\n   TITANIUM WORKERS\n\n\n   OF AMERICA\n\n\n   Amalgamated Locals\n\n\n   Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary\n\n\n\n\n   The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter\n with pity. \"Mr. Torkleson will see you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome\n office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia\u2014the floor-to-ceiling\n windows looking out across the long buildings of the\n Robling plant, the pine paneling, the broad expanse of desk\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over\n here.\" The man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred\n well-dressed pounds and glared at Walter from under flagrant\n eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body quivered as he slammed\n a sheaf of papers down on the desk. \"Just what do you think\n you're doing with this company, Towne?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter swallowed. \"I'm production manager of the corporation.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And just what does the production manager\n\n\n    do\n\n\n   all day?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter reddened. \"He organizes the work of the plant, establishes\n production lines, works with Promotion and Sales,\n integrates Research and Development, operates the planning\n machines.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And you think you do a pretty good job of it, eh? Even\n asked for a raise last year!\" Torkleson's voice was dangerous.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter spread his hands. \"I do my best. I've been doing it\n for thirty years. I should know what I'm doing.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Then how do you explain these reports?\n\n\n   \" Torkleson threw\n the heap of papers into Walter's arms, and paced up and down\n behind the desk. \"\n\n\n    Look\n\n\n   at them! Sales at rock bottom. Receipts\n impossible. Big orders canceled. The worst reports in\n seven years, and you say you know your job!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I've been doing everything I could,\" Walter snapped. \"Of\n course the reports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We\n haven't met a production schedule in over two years. No plant\n can keep up production the way the men are working.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. \"So\n it's the\n\n\n    men\n\n\n   now, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with\n the men.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Nothing's wrong with the men\u2014if they'd only work. But\n they come in when they please, and leave when they please,\n and spend half their time changing and the other half on\n Koffee-Kup. No company could survive this. But that's only\n half of it\u2014\" Walter searched through the reports frantically.\n \"This International Jet Transport account\u2014they dropped us\n because we haven't had a new engine in six years. Why? Because\n Research and Development hasn't had any money for\n six years. What can two starved engineers and a second rate\n chemist drag out of an attic laboratory for competition in the\n titanium market?\" Walter took a deep breath. \"I've warned\n you time and again. Robling had built up accounts over the\n years with fine products and new models. But since the switchover\n seven years ago, you and your board have forced me to\n play the cheap products for the quick profit in order to give\n your men their dividends. Now the bottom's dropped out. We\n couldn't turn a quick profit on the big, important accounts, so\n we had to cancel them. If you had let me manage the company\n the way it should have been run\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson had been slowly turning purple. Now he slammed\n his fist down on the desk. \"We should just turn the company\n back to Management again, eh? Just let you have a free hand\n to rob us blind again. Well, it won't work, Towne. Not while\n I'm secretary of this union. We fought long and hard for control\n of this corporation, just the way all the other unions did.\n I know. I was through it all.\" He sat back smugly, his cheeks\n quivering with emotion. \"You might say that I was a national\n leader in the movement. But I did it only for the men. The\n men want their dividends. They own the stock, stock is supposed\n to pay dividends.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But they're cutting their own throats,\" Walter wailed.\n \"You can't build a company and make it grow the way I've\n been forced to run it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Details!\" Torkleson snorted. \"I don't care\n\n\n    how\n\n\n   the dividends\n come in. That's your job. My job is to report a dividend\n every six months to the men who own the stock, the men working\n on the production lines.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter nodded bitterly. \"And every year the dividend has\n to be higher than the last, or you and your fat friends are\n likely to be thrown out of your jobs\u2014right? No more steaks\n every night. No more private gold-plated Buicks for you boys.\n No more twenty-room mansions in Westchester. No more big\n game hunting in the Rockies. No, you don't have to know\n anything but how to whip a board meeting into a frenzy so\n they'll vote you into office again each year.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson's eyes glittered. His voice was very soft. \"I've always\n liked you, Walter. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear\n you.\" He paused, then continued. \"But here on my desk is a\n small bit of white paper. Unless you have my signature on\n that paper on the first of next month, you are out of a job,\n on grounds of incompetence. And I will personally see that\n you go on every White list in the country.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter felt the fight go out of him like a dying wind. He\n knew what the White list meant. No job, anywhere, ever, in\n management. No chance, ever, to join a union. No more\n house, no more weekly pay envelope. He spread his hands\n weakly. \"What do you want?\" he asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four\n hours. A plan that will guarantee me a five per cent increase\n in dividends in the next six months. And you'd better move\n fast, because I'm not fooling.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Back in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly\n at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or\n later. They all knew it\u2014Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton\n of Sales, the whole managerial staff.\n\n\n\n\n   It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had\n fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkleson had installed\n the moose heads in Walter's old office, and moved him down\n to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued,\n and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched the company\n deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and\n threatened his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it.\n\n\n\n\n   He stared at the machines, clicking busily against the wall.\n An idea began to form in his head. Helpless?\n\n\n\n\n   Not quite. Not if the others could see it, go along with it.\n It was a repugnant idea. But there was one thing they could\n do that even Torkleson and his fat-jowled crew would understand.\n\n\n\n\n   They could go on strike.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"It's ridiculous,\" the lawyer spluttered, staring at the circle\n of men in the room. \"How can I give you an opinion on the\n legality of the thing? There isn't any legal precedent that I\n know of.\" He mopped his bald head with a large white handkerchief.\n \"There just hasn't\n\n\n    been\n\n\n   a case of a company's management\n striking against its own labor. It\u2014it isn't done. Oh,\n there have been lockouts, but this isn't the same thing at all.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter nodded. \"Well, we couldn't very well lock the men\n out, they own the plant. We were thinking more of a lock-\n\n\n    in\n\n\n   sort of thing.\" He turned to Paul Hendricks and the others.\n \"We know how the machines operate. They don't. We also\n know that the data we keep in the machines is essential to\n running the business; the machines figure production quotas,\n organize blueprints, prepare distribution lists, test promotion\n schemes. It would take an office full of managerial experts to\n handle even a single phase of the work without the machines.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The man at the window hissed, and Pendleton quickly\n snapped out the lights. They sat in darkness, hardly daring to\n breathe. Then: \"Okay. Just the man next door coming home.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Pendleton sighed. \"You're sure you didn't let them suspect\n anything, Walter? They wouldn't be watching the house?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't think so. And you all came alone, at different\n times.\" He nodded to the window guard, and turned back to\n the lawyer. \"So we can't be sure of the legal end. You'd have\n to be on your toes.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I still don't see how we could work it,\" Hendricks objected.\n His heavy face was wrinkled with worry. \"Torkleson is no\n fool, and he has a lot of power in the National Association of\n Union Stockholders. All he'd need to do is ask for managers,\n and a dozen companies would throw them to him on loan.\n They'd be able to figure out the machine system and take over\n without losing a day.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Not quite.\" Walter was grinning. \"That's why I spoke of\n a lock-in. Before we leave, we throw the machines into feedback,\n every one of them. Lock them into reverberating circuits\n with a code sequence key. Then all they'll do is buzz and sputter\n until the feedback is broken with the key. And the key is\n our secret. It'll tie the Robling office into granny knots, and\n scabs won't be able to get any more data out of the machines\n than Torkleson could. With a lawyer to handle injunctions,\n we've got them strapped.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"For what?\" asked the lawyer.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter turned on him sharply. \"For new contracts. Contracts\n to let us manage the company the way it should be managed.\n If they won't do it, they won't get another Titanium\n product off their production lines for the rest of the year, and\n their dividends will\n\n\n    really\n\n\n   take a nosedive.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That means you'll have to beat Torkleson,\" said Bates.\n \"He'll never go along.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Then he'll be left behind.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. \"I'm with\n you, Walter. I've taken all of Torkleson that I want to. And\n I'm sick of the junk we've been trying to sell people.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. \"All\n right. Tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle.\n When we go off for lunch, we throw the machines into lock-step.\n Then we just don't come back. But the big thing is to\n keep it quiet until the noon whistle.\" He turned to the lawyer.\n \"Are you with us, Jeff?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Jeff Bates shook his head sadly. \"I'm with you. I don't know\n why, you haven't got a leg to stand on. But if you want to\n commit suicide, that's all right with me.\" He picked up his\n briefcase, and started for the door. \"I'll have your contract\n demands by tomorrow,\" he grinned. \"See you at the lynching.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They got down to the details of planning.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The news hit the afternoon telecasts the following day.\n Headlines screamed:\n\n\n\n\n   MANAGEMENT SABOTAGES ROBLING MACHINES\n\n\n   OFFICE STRIKERS THREATEN LABOR ECONOMY\n\n\n   ROBLING LOCK-IN CREATES PANDEMONIUM\n\n\n\n\n   There was a long, indignant statement from Daniel P.\n Torkleson, condemning Towne and his followers for \"flagrant\n violation of management contracts and illegal fouling of managerial\n processes.\" Ben Starkey, President of the Board of\n American Steel, expressed \"shock and regret\"; the Amalgamated\n Buttonhole Makers held a mass meeting in protest, demanding\n that \"the instigators of this unprecedented crime be\n permanently barred from positions in American Industry.\"\n\n\n\n\n   In Washington, the nation's economists were more cautious\n in their views. Yes, it\n\n\n    was\n\n\n   an unprecedented action. Yes, there\n would undoubtedly be repercussions\u2014many industries were\n having managerial troubles; but as for long term effects, it was\n difficult to say just at present.\n\n\n\n\n   On the Robling production lines the workmen blinked at\n each other, and at their machines, and wondered vaguely what\n it was all about.\n\n\n\n\n   Yet in all the upheaval, there was very little expression of\n surprise. Step by step, through the years, economists had been\n watching with wary eyes the growing movement toward union,\n control of industry. Even as far back as the '40's and '50's\n unions, finding themselves oppressed with the administration\n of growing sums of money\u2014pension funds, welfare funds,\n medical insurance funds, accruing union dues\u2014had begun investing\n in corporate stock. It was no news to them that money\n could make money. And what stock more logical to buy than\n stock in their own companies?\n\n\n\n\n   At first it had been a quiet movement. One by one the\n smaller firms had tottered, bled drier and drier by increasing\n production costs, increasing labor demands, and an ever-dwindling\n margin of profit. One by one they had seen their\n stocks tottering as they faced bankruptcy, only to be gobbled\n up by the one ready buyer with plenty of funds to buy with.\n At first, changes had been small and insignificant: boards of\n directors shifted; the men were paid higher wages and worked\n shorter hours; there were tighter management policies; and\n a little less money was spent on extras like Research and\n Development.\n\n\n\n\n   At first\u2014until that fateful night when Daniel P. Torkleson\n of TWA and Jake Squill of Amalgamated Buttonhole Makers\n spent a long evening with beer and cigars in a hotel room, and\n floated the loan that threw steel to the unions. Oil had followed\n with hardly a fight, and as the unions began to feel their oats,\n the changes grew more radical.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The\n gradual undercutting of the managerial salaries, the tightening\n up of inter-union collusion to establish the infamous White\n list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shift from hourly wage to\n annual salary for the factory workers, and the change to the\n other pole for the managerial staff. And then, with creeping\n malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more\n and higher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward\n the inevitable crisis.\n\n\n\n\n   Until Shop Steward Bailey suddenly found himself in charge\n of a dozen sputtering machines and an empty office.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson was waiting to see the shop steward when he\n came in next morning. The union boss's office was crowded\n with TV cameras, newsmen, and puzzled workmen. The floor\n was littered with piles of ominous-looking paper. Torkleson\n was shouting into a telephone, and three lawyers were shouting\n into Torkleson's ear. He spotted Bailey and waved him through\n the crowd into an inner office room. \"Well? Did they get them\n fixed?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey spread his hands nervously. \"The electronics boys\n have been at it since yesterday afternoon. Practically had the\n machines apart on the floor.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I know that, stupid,\" Torkleson roared. \"I ordered them\n there. Did they get the machines\n\n\n    fixed\n\n\n   ?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Uh\u2014well, no, as a matter of fact\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well,\n\n\n    what's holding them up\n\n\n   ?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey's face was a study in misery. \"The machines just go\n in circles. The circuits are locked. They just reverberate.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Then call American Electronics. Have them send down an\n expert crew.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey shook his head. \"They won't come.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"They\n\n\n    what\n\n\n   ?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"They said thanks, but no thanks. They don't want their\n fingers in this pie at all.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Wait until I get O'Gilvy on the phone.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"It won't do any good, sir. They've got their own management\n troubles. They're scared silly of a sympathy strike.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The door burst open, and a lawyer stuck his head in. \"What\n about those injunctions, Dan?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Get them moving,\" Torkleson howled. \"They'll start those\n machines again, or I'll have them in jail so fast\u2014\" He turned\n back to Bailey. \"What about the production lines?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The shop steward's face lighted. \"They slipped up, there.\n There was one program that hadn't been coded into the machines\n yet. Just a minor item, but it's a starter. We found it in\n Towne's desk, blueprints all ready, promotion all planned.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Good, good,\" Torkleson breathed. \"I have a directors'\n meeting right now, have to get the workers quieted down a\n bit. You put the program through, and give those electronics\n men three more hours to unsnarl this knot, or we throw them\n out of the union.\" He started for the door. \"What were the\n blueprints for?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Trash cans,\" said Bailey. \"Pure titanium-steel trash cans.\"\n\n\n\n\n   It took Robling Titanium approximately two days to convert\n its entire production line to titanium-steel trash cans. With the\n total resources of the giant plant behind the effort, production\n was phenomenal. In two more days the available markets were\n glutted. Within two weeks, at a conservative estimate, there\n would be a titanium-steel trash can for every man, woman,\n child, and hound dog on the North American continent. The\n jet engines, structural steels, tubing, and other pre-strike products\n piled up in the freight yards, their routing slips and order\n requisitions tied up in the reverberating machines.\n\n\n\n\n   But the machines continued to buzz and sputter.\n\n\n\n\n   The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and\n Hendricks and all the others had been picketing the plant,\n until angry crowds of workers had driven them off with shotguns.\n Then they came back in an old, weatherbeaten 'copter\n which hovered over the plant entrance carrying a banner with\n a plaintive message:\n   robling titanium unfair to management\n   .\n Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter\n remained.\n\n\n\n\n   The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering\n Towne to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal\n machinery began tying itself in knots, and the strikers still\n struck. By the fifth day there was a more serious note.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge\n this one.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"When?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Tomorrow morning. And before a labor-rigged judge, too.\"\n The little lawyer paced his office nervously. \"I don't like it.\n Torkleson's getting desperate. The workers are putting pressure\n on him.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter grinned. \"Then Pendleton is doing a good job of\n selling.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But you haven't got\n\n\n    time\n\n\n   ,\" the lawyer wailed. \"They'll have\n you in jail if you don't start the machines again. They may\n have you in jail if you\n\n\n    do\n\n\n   start them, too, but that's another\n bridge. Right now they want those machines going again.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We'll see,\" said Walter. \"What time tomorrow?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ten o'clock.\" Bates looked up. \"And don't try to skip.\n You be there, because\n\n\n    I\n\n\n   don't know what to tell them.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter was there a half hour early. Torkleson's legal staff\n glowered from across the room. The judge glowered from\n the bench. Walter closed his eyes with a little smile as the\n charges were read: \"\u2014breach of contract, malicious mischief,\n sabotage of the company's machines, conspiring to destroy the\n livelihood of ten thousand workers. Your Honor, we are preparing\n briefs to prove further that these men have formed a\n conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation.\n We appeal to the spirit of orderly justice\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter yawned as the words went on.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against\n the previous injunctions, and will release the machines that\n were sabotaged, we will be happy to formally withdraw these\n charges.\"\n\n\n\n\n   There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His\n Honor turned to Jeff Bates. \"Are you counsel for the defendant?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, sir.\" Bates mopped his bald scalp. \"The defendant\n pleads guilty to all counts.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a\n crash. The judge stared. \"Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you\n leave me no alternative\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\u2014but to send me to jail,\" said Walter Towne. \"Go ahead.\n Send me to jail. In fact, I\n\n\n    insist\n\n\n   upon going to jail.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference.\n A recess was pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then:\n \"Your Honor, the plaintiff desires to withdraw all charges at\n this time.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Objection,\" Bates exclaimed. \"We've already pleaded.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\u2014feel sure that a settlement can be effected out of court\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   The case was thrown out on its ear.\n\n\n\n\n   And still the machines sputtered.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Back at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanently\n gutted, and that the plant could never go back into\n production. Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high\n in uniondom had perpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying\n Management into the strike for the sole purpose of cutting current\n dividends and selling stock to themselves cheaply. The\n rumors grew easier and easier to believe. The workers came\n to the plants in business suits, it was true, and lounged in the\n finest of lounges, and read the\n\n\n    Wall Street Journal\n\n\n   , and felt like\n stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not the\n highest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance\n fees, and sundry other little items which had formerly been\n paid by well-to-do managements, and very little was left but\n the semi-annual dividend checks. And now the dividends were\n tottering.\n\n\n\n\n   Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the\n plant floor, in the lounge and locker rooms. Workers began\n joking about the trash cans; then the humor grew more and\n more remote. Finally, late in the afternoon of the eighth day,\n Bailey was once again in Torkleson's office.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well? Speak up! What's the beef this time?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sir\u2014the men\u2014I mean, there's been some nasty talk.\n They're tired of making trash cans. No challenge in it. Anyway,\n the stock room is full, and the freight yard is full, and\n the last run of orders we sent out came back because nobody\n wants any more trash cans.\" Bailey shook his head. \"The men\n won't swallow it any more. There's\u2014well, there's been talk\n about having a board meeting.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson's ruddy cheeks paled. \"Board meeting, huh?\"\n He licked his heavy lips. \"Now look, Bailey, we've always\n worked well together. I consider you a good friend of mine.\n You've got to get things under control. Tell the men we're\n making progress. Tell them Management is beginning to\n weaken from its original stand. Tell them we expect to have\n the strike broken in another few hours. Tell them anything.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling\n hand he lifted the visiphone receiver. \"Get me Walter Towne,\"\n he said.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm not an unreasonable man,\" Torkleson was saying\n miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and\n forth in front of the spokesmen for the striking managers.\n \"Perhaps we were a little demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic\n with our ownership, and all that. But I'm sure we\n can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly\n within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company\n houses.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter Towne stifled a yawn. \"Perhaps you didn't understand\n us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the board of\n directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing\n we're interested in right now.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the\n contract your lawyer presented.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I know, but you rejected that contract. So we tore it up.\n Anyway, we've changed our minds.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. \"Gentlemen,\n be reasonable! I can guarantee you your jobs, even give\n you a free hand with the management. So the dividends won't be\n so large\u2014the men will have to get used to that. That's it, we'll\n put it through at the next executive conference, give you\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The board meeting,\" Walter said gently. \"That'll be enough\n for us.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The union boss swore and slammed his fist on the desk.\n \"Walk out in front of those men after what you've done? You're\n fools! Well, I've given you your chance. You'll get your board\n meeting. But you'd better come armed. Because I know how\n to handle this kind of board meeting, and if I have anything\n to say about it, this one will end with a massacre.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The meeting was held in a huge auditorium in the Robling\n administration building. Since every member of the union\n owned stock in the company, every member had the right to\n vote for members of the board of directors. But in the early\n days of the switchover, the idea of a board of directors smacked\n too strongly of the old system of corporate organization to suit\n the men. The solution had been simple, if a trifle ungainly.\n Everyone who owned stock in Robling Titanium was automatically\n a member of the board of directors, with Torkleson\n as chairman of the board. The stockholders numbered over\n ten thousand.\n\n\n\n\n   They were all present. They were packed in from the wall\n to the stage, and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed\n into the corridors. They jammed the lobby. Ten thousand men\n rose with a howl of anger when Walter Towne walked out on\n the stage. But they quieted down again as Dan Torkleson\n started to speak.\n\n\n\n\n   It was a masterful display of rabble-rousing. Torkleson\n paced the stage, his fat body shaking with agitation, pointing\n a chubby finger again and again at Walter Towne. He pranced\n and he ranted. He paused at just the right times for thunderous\n peals of applause.\n\n\n\n\n   \"This morning in my office we offered to compromise with\n these jackals,\" he cried, \"and they rejected compromise. Even\n at the cost of lowering dividends, of taking food from the\n mouths of your wives and children, we made our generous\n offers. They were rejected with scorn. These thieves have one\n desire in mind, my friends, to starve you all, and to destroy\n your company and your jobs. To every appeal they heartlessly\n refused to divulge the key to the lock-in. And now this man\u2014the\n ringleader who keeps the key word buried in secrecy\u2014has\n the temerity to ask an audience with you. You're angry men;\n you want to know the man to blame for our hardship.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He pointed to Towne with a flourish. \"I give you your man.\n Do what you want with him.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men\n rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed\n past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered\n up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists.\n\n\n\n\n   Then somebody appeared with a rope.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly\n the roar of the men was drowned in another sound\u2014a soul-rending,\n teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze,\n jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly believing their ears. In the\n instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter\n grabbed the microphone. \"You want the code word to start\n the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!\"\n\n\n\n\n   The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson\n burst to his feet. \"It's a trick!\" he howled. \"Wait 'til you\n hear their price.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We have no price, and no demands,\" said Walter Towne.\n \"We will\n\n\n    give\n\n\n   you the code word, and we ask nothing in return\n but that you listen for sixty seconds.\" He glanced back at\n Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. \"You men here are an\n electing body\u2014right? You own this great plant and company,\n top to bottom\u2014right?\n\n\n    You should all be rich\n\n\n   , because Robling\n could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich.\n Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how\n\n\n    you\n\n\n   can be rich.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly,\n Walter Towne was talking their language.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You think that since you own the company, times have\n changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you\n were? Of course not. Because you haven't learned yet that\n oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't\n learned moderation. And you never will, until you throw out\n the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last\n ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer\n and richer since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too\n can be rich.\" He paused for a deep breath. \"You want the code\n word to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man\n sitting there. \"The code word is TORKLESON!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Much later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies\n off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly.\n \"Pity about Dan Torkleson. Gruesome affair.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter nodded as he struggled down with a moose head.\n \"Yes, a pity, but you know the boys when they get upset.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I suppose so.\" The lawyer stopped to rest, panting. \"Anyway,\n with the newly elected board of directors, things will be\n different for everybody. You took a long gamble.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear.\n It just took a little timing.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Still, I didn't think they'd elect you secretary of the union.\n It just doesn't figure.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter Towne chuckled. \"Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's\n been a little screwy since the switchover. And in a\n screwy world like this\u2014\" He shrugged, and tossed down the\n moose head. \"\n\n\n    Anything\n\n\n   figures.\"\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhy was Walter being served criminal charges at the trial?\n\n (A) For selling company secrets\n (B) For disabling the company's production abilities\n (C) For leaving the company without notice\n (D) For committing securities fraud\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "B", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 35008, "query_start_index": 35010, "query_end_index": 35268, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "22875_L821878U_6", "pid": "22875_L821878U_6_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nTranscriber's Note:\n\n\n\n\n  This etext was produced from\n\n\n   The Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\n\n\n  published in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\n\n\n   Circus\n\n\n\n\n   \"Just\n   suppose,\" said Morgan, \"that I\n\n\n    did\n\n\n   believe you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the restaurant\n table. \"Where would we go from here?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring\n down at his plate. Not a strange-looking man, Morgan thought.\n Rather ordinary, in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long,\n fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't quite seem to fit,\n but all in all, a perfectly ordinary looking man.\n\n\n\n\n   Maybe\n\n\n    too\n\n\n   ordinary, Morgan thought.\n\n\n\n\n   Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a\n hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. \"Where\n do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out, and I get\n nowhere. But you've\n\n\n    got\n\n\n   to believe me, Morgan. I'm lost,\n I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to\n end.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'll tell you where it's going to end,\" said Morgan. \"It's\n going to end in a hospital. A mental hospital. They'll lock you\n up and they'll lose the key somewhere.\" He poured himself\n another cup of coffee and sipped it, scalding hot. \"And that,\"\n he added, \"will be that.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The place was dark and almost empty. Overhead, a rotary\n fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand\n through his dark hair. \"There must be some other way,\" he\n said. \"There has to be.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right, let's start from the beginning again,\" Morgan\n said. \"Maybe we can pin something down a little better. You\n say your name is Parks\u2014right?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The man nodded. \"Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps\n any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right. And you got into town on Friday\u2014right?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Parks nodded.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened\n first?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The man thought for a minute. \"As I said, first there was\n a fall. About twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was\n shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going\n to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway\n and tried to flag down a ride.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that\n you noticed?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Strange!\n\n\n   \" Parks' eyes widened. \"I\u2014I was speechless. At\n first I hadn't noticed too much\u2014I was concerned with the fall,\n and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much\n else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars\n coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was\n crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the\n city, and I knew I wasn't crazy.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Morgan's mouth took a grim line. \"You understood the\n language?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, yes. I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked\n all the way into New York\u2014nothing very important, but we\n understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Morgan nodded. \"I know, I noticed. What did you do when\n you got to New York?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, obviously, I needed money. I had gold coin. There\n had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd\n taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the\n man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S.\n Treasury or something. When he saw that I was serious, he\n sent me to a money lender, a hock shop, I think he called it.\n So I found a place\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Let me see the coins.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were\n perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a\n thin blunt edge. There was no design on them, and no printing.\n Morgan looked up at the man sharply. \"What did you get for\n these?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Parks shrugged. \"Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the\n small one, five for the larger.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You should have gone to a bank.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that\n with everything else so similar, principles of business would\n also be similar.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. \"Well, then\n what?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale,\n Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup\n to his lips. Fright? Maybe. Hard to tell. The man put down\n the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.\n \"First, I went to the mayor's office,\" he said. \"I kept trying to\n think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed\n a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was, and then I went\n there.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But you didn't get to see him.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference,\n and that I would have to have an appointment. She let\n me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And you told him?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was\n the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours, until\n another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor\n wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first.\" He drew in\n a deep breath. \"So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly\n ushered back into the street again.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"They didn't believe you,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Not for a minute. They laughed in my face.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Morgan nodded. \"I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what\n did you do next?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there,\n only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They\n muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions, and\n when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was\u2014what\n did they call it?\u2014a wise guy! Told me to get out and not come\n back with any more wild stories.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I see,\" said Morgan.\n\n\n\n\n   Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the\n plate away. \"By then I didn't know quite what to do. I'd been\n prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening.\n I tried to rationalize it, and then I quit trying. It wasn't\n that I attracted attention, or anything like that, quite the contrary.\n Nobody even looked at me, unless I said something to\n them. I began to look for things that were\n\n\n    different\n\n\n   , things that\n I could show them, and say, see, this proves that I'm telling\n the truth, look at it\u2014\" He looked up helplessly.\n\n\n\n\n   \"And what did you find?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your\n calendars, for instance. Naturally, I couldn't understand your\n frame of reference. And the coinage, you stamp your coins; we\n don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco.\"\n The man gave a short laugh. \"And your house dogs!\n We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles.\n But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely\n nothing.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Except yourself,\" Morgan said.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ah, yes. I thought that over carefully. I looked for differences,\n obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that, just\n looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture,\n fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still\n couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Morgan's eyebrows lifted. \"Good,\" he said.\n\n\n\n\n   Parks shrugged tiredly. \"Not really. He examined me. He\n practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying\n anything about who I was or where I came from; just said\n I wanted a complete physical examination, and let him go\n to it. He was thorough, and when he finished he patted me\n on the back and said, 'Parks, you've got nothing to worry\n about. You're as fine, strapping a specimen of a healthy human\n being as I've ever seen.' And that was that.\" Parks laughed\n bitterly. \"I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict,\n and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic, it\n defied reason, it was infuriating.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Morgan nodded sourly. \"Because you're not a human\n being,\" he said.\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's right. I'm not a human being at all.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"How did you happen to pick this planet, or this sun?\"\n Morgan asked curiously. \"There must have been a million\n others to choose from.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubbled chin\n unhappily. \"I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else.\n Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket\n you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you\n pick your destination, make your calculations, and off you go.\n The warp is blind flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned\n scanner ahead. It probes around more or less hit-or-miss until\n it locates something, somewhere, that looks habitable. When\n it spots a likely looking place, we keep a tight beam on it\n and send through a manned scout.\" He grinned sourly. \"Like\n me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back, and they\n leave the warp anchored for a sort of permanent gateway until\n we can get a transport beam built. But we can't control the\n directional and dimensional scope of the warp. There are an\n infinity of ways it can go, until we have a guide beam transmitting\n from the other side. Then we can just scan a segment of\n space with the warp, and the scanner picks up the beam.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He shook his head wearily. \"We're new at it, Morgan. We've\n only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in\n technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for\n over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much\n good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it\n looked like the answer. But something went wrong, the scanner\n picked up this planet, and I was coming through, and then\n something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. When I tried\n to make contact again, the scanner was gone!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And you found things here the same as back home,\" said\n Morgan.\n\n\n\n\n   \"The same! Your planet and mine are practically twins.\n Similar cities, similar technology, everything. The people are\n the same, with precisely the same anatomy and physiology, the\n same sort of laws, the same institutions, even compatible languages.\n Can't you see the importance of it? This planet is on\n the other side of the universe from mine, with the first intelligent\n life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to\n tell your people that I'm a native of another star system,\n\n\n    they\n won't believe me\n\n\n   !\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why should they?\" asked Morgan. \"You look like a human\n being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one.\n What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    But it's true.\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n\n\n   Morgan shrugged. \"So it's true. I won't argue with you. But\n as I asked before, even if I\n\n\n    did\n\n\n   believe you, what do you\n expect\n\n\n    me\n\n\n   to do about it? Why pick\n\n\n    me\n\n\n   , of all the people you've\n seen?\"\n\n\n\n\n   There was a desperate light in Parks' eyes. \"I was tired, tired\n of being laughed at, tired of having people looking at me as\n though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth.\n You were here, you were alone, so I started talking. And then\n I found out you wrote stories.\" He looked up eagerly. \"I've\n got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family.\n And think what it would mean to both of our worlds\u2014contact\n with another intelligent race! Combine our knowledges,\n our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy!\"\n\n\n\n\n   He leaned forward, his thin face intense. \"I need money and\n I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle,\n know some of the design, some of the power and wiring\n principles. You have engineers here, technologists, physicists.\n They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam.\n But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government\n won't listen to me, they won't appropriate any money.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their\n hands, they have public welfare, and atomic bombs, and\n rockets to the moon to sink their money into.\" Morgan stared\n at the man. \"But what can\n\n\n    I\n\n\n   do?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You can\n\n\n    write\n\n\n   ! That's what you can do. You can tell the\n world about me, you can tell exactly what has happened. I\n know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must\n be the same in yours.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Morgan didn't move. He just stared. \"How many people\n have you talked to?\" he asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And how many believed you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"None.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You mean\n\n\n    nobody\n\n\n   would believe you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Not one soul.\n\n\n   Until I talked to you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   And then Morgan was laughing, laughing bitterly, tears\n rolling down his cheeks. \"And I'm the one man who couldn't\n help you if my life depended on it,\" he gasped.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You believe me?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Morgan nodded sadly. \"I believe you. Yes. I think your\n warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own\n planet, not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Then you\n\n\n    can\n\n\n   help me.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why not?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Because I'd be worse than no help at all.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Jefferson Parks gripped the table, his knuckles white.\n \"Why?\" he cried hoarsely. \"If you believe me, why can't you\n help me?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. \"I write,\n yes,\" he said sadly. \"Ever read stories like this before?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Parks picked up the magazine, glanced at the bright cover.\n \"I barely looked at it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue.\n The readers thought it was very interesting,\" Morgan grinned.\n \"Go ahead, look at it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine,\n stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes\n caught the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the\n magazine down with a trembling hand. \"I see,\" he said, and\n the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously,\n read the lines again.\n\n\n\n\n   The paragraph said:\n\n\n\n\n   \"Just suppose,\" said Martin, \"that I\n\n\n    did\n\n\n   believe you. Just\n for argument.\" He glanced up at the man across the table.\n \"Where do we go from here?\"\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhy can Morgan not help spread Parks' story?\n\n (A) Morgan is considered insane and no one would trust him\n (B) Morgan is retired from writing and refuses to start again\n (C) Morgan authored a story with the exact same premise\n (D) Morgan is not qualified enough to speak on the subject\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "C", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 14502, "query_start_index": 14504, "query_end_index": 14820, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "22967_0XT2L7PI_7", "pid": "22967_0XT2L7PI_7_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nTHE STOKER\n\n\n   AND THE STARS\n\n\n\n\n   BY JOHN A. SENTRY\n\n\n  When\n  you've had your ears pinned\n back in a bowknot, it's sometimes hard\n to remember that an intelligent people\n has no respect for a whipped enemy\n ... but does for a fairly beaten enemy.\n\n\n   Illustrated by van Dongen\n\n\n\n\n   Know\n   him? Yes, I know\n him\u2014\n\n\n    knew\n\n\n   him. That\n was twenty years ago.\n\n\n\n\n   Everybody knows\n him now. Everybody\n who passed him on the street knows\n him. Everybody who went to the same\n schools, or even to different schools\n in different towns, knows him now.\n Ask them. But I knew him. I lived\n three feet away from him for a month\n and a half. I shipped with him and\n called him by his first name.\n\n\n\n\n   What was he like? What was he\n thinking, sitting on the edge of his\n bunk with his jaw in his palm and\n his eyes on the stars? What did he\n think he was after?\n\n\n\n\n   Well ... Well, I think he\u2014 You\n know, I think I never did know him,\n after all. Not well. Not as well as\n some of those people who're writing\n the books about him seem to.\n\n\n\n\n   I couldn't really describe him to\n you. He had a duffelbag in his hand\n and a packed airsuit on his back. The\n skin of his face had been dried out\n by ship's air, burned by ultraviolet\n and broiled by infra red. The pupils\n of his eyes had little cloudy specks in\n them where the cosmic rays had shot\n through them. But his eyes were\n steady and his body was hard. What\n did he look like? He looked like a\n man.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   It was after the war, and we were\n beaten. There used to be a school of\n thought among us that deplored our\n combativeness; before we had ever\n met any people from off Earth, even,\n you could hear people saying we\n were toughest, cruelest life-form in\n the Universe, unfit to mingle with\n the gentler wiser races in the stars,\n and a sure bet to steal their galaxy\n and corrupt it forever. Where\n these people got their information, I\n don't know.\n\n\n\n\n   We were beaten. We moved out\n beyond Centaurus, and Sirius, and\n then we met the Jeks, the Nosurwey,\n the Lud. We tried Terrestrial know-how,\n we tried Production Miracles,\n we tried patriotism, we tried damning\n the torpedoes and full speed\n ahead ... and we were smashed back\n like mayflies in the wind. We died in\n droves, and we retreated from the\n guttering fires of a dozen planets, we\n dug in, we fought through the last\n ditch, and we were dying on Earth\n itself before Baker mutinied, shot\n Cope, and surrendered the remainder\n of the human race to the wiser, gentler\n races in the stars. That way, we\n lived. That way, we were permitted\n to carry on our little concerns, and\n mind our manners. The Jeks and the\n Lud and the Nosurwey returned to\n their own affairs, and we knew they\n would leave us alone so long as we\n didn't bother them.\n\n\n\n\n   We liked it that way. Understand\n me\u2014we didn't accept it, we didn't\n knuckle under with waiting murder\n in our hearts\u2014we\n\n\n    liked\n\n\n   it. We were\n grateful just to be left alone again.\n We were happy we hadn't been\n wiped out like the upstarts the rest\n of the Universe thought us to be.\n When they let us keep our own solar\n system and carry on a trickle of trade\n with the outside, we accepted it for\n the fantastically generous gift it was.\n Too many of our best men were dead\n for us to have any remaining claim\n on these things in our own right. I\n know how it was. I was there, twenty\n years ago. I was a little, pudgy\n man with short breath and a high-pitched\n voice. I was a typical Earthman.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   We were out on a God-forsaken\n landing field on Mars, MacReidie\n and I, loading cargo aboard the\n\n\n    Serenus\n\n\n   . MacReidie was First Officer.\n I was Second. The stranger came\n walking up to us.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Got a job?\" he asked, looking at\n MacReidie.\n\n\n\n\n   Mac looked him over. He saw the\n same things I'd seen. He shook his\n head. \"Not for you. The only thing\n we're short on is stokers.\"\n\n\n\n\n   You wouldn't know. There's no\n such thing as a stoker any more, with\n automatic ships. But the stranger\n knew what Mac meant.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Serenus\n\n\n   had what they called an\n electronic drive. She had to run with\n an evacuated engine room. The leaking\n electricity would have broken any\n stray air down to ozone, which eats\n metal and rots lungs. So the engine\n room had the air pumped out of her,\n and the stokers who tended the dials\n and set the cathode attitudes had to\n wear suits, smelling themselves for\n twelve hours at a time and standing\n a good chance of cooking where they\n sat when the drive arced.\n\n\n    Serenus\n\n\n   was\n an ugly old tub. At that, we were the\n better of the two interstellar freighters\n the human race had left.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You're bound over the border,\n aren't you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   MacReidie nodded. \"That's right.\n But\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'll stoke.\"\n\n\n\n\n   MacReidie looked over toward me\n and frowned. I shrugged my shoulders\n helplessly. I was a little afraid\n of the stranger, too.\n\n\n\n\n   The trouble was the look of him.\n It was the look you saw in the bars\n back on Earth, where the veterans of\n the war sat and stared down into\n their glasses, waiting for night to\n fall so they could go out into the\n alleys and have drunken fights among\n themselves. But he had brought that\n look to Mars, to the landing field,\n and out here there was something\n disquieting about it.\n\n\n\n\n   He'd caught Mac's look and turned\n his head to me. \"I'll stoke,\" he repeated.\n\n\n\n\n   I didn't know what to say. MacReidie\n and I\u2014almost all of the men\n in the Merchant Marine\u2014hadn't\n served in the combat arms. We had\n freighted supplies, and we had seen\n ships dying on the runs\u2014we'd had\n our own brushes with commerce raiders,\n and we'd known enough men\n who joined the combat forces. But\n very few of the men came back, and\n the war this man had fought hadn't\n been the same as ours. He'd commanded\n a fighting ship, somewhere,\n and come to grips with things we\n simply didn't know about. The mark\n was on him, but not on us. I couldn't\n meet his eyes. \"O.K. by me,\" I mumbled\n at last.\n\n\n\n\n   I saw MacReidie's mouth turn\n down at the corners. But he couldn't\n gainsay the man any more than I\n could. MacReidie wasn't a mumbling\n man, so he said angrily: \"O.K.,\n bucko, you'll stoke. Go and sign on.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Thanks.\" The stranger walked\n quietly away. He wrapped a hand\n around the cable on a cargo hook and\n rode into the hold on top of some\n freight. Mac spat on the ground and\n went back to supervising his end of\n the loading. I was busy with mine,\n and it wasn't until we'd gotten the\n\n\n    Serenus\n\n\n   loaded and buttoned up that\n Mac and I even spoke to each other\n again. Then we talked about the trip.\n We didn't talk about the stranger.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Daniels, the Third, had signed him\n on and had moved him into the empty\n bunk above mine. We slept all in\n a bunch on the\n\n\n    Serenus\n\n\n   \u2014officers and\n crew. Even so, we had to sleep in\n shifts, with the ship's designers giving\n ninety per cent of her space to\n cargo, and eight per cent to power\n and control. That left very little for\n the people, who were crammed in\n any way they could be. I said empty\n bunk. What I meant was, empty during\n my sleep shift. That meant he\n and I'd be sharing work shifts\u2014me\n up in the control blister, parked in\n a soft chair, and him down in the\n engine room, broiling in a suit for\n twelve hours.\n\n\n\n\n   But I ate with him, used the head\n with him; you can call that rubbing\n elbows with greatness, if you want to.\n\n\n\n\n   He was a very quiet man. Quiet in\n the way he moved and talked. When\n we were both climbing into our\n bunks, that first night, I introduced\n myself and he introduced himself.\n Then he heaved himself into his\n bunk, rolled over on his side, fixed\n his straps, and fell asleep. He was\n always friendly toward me, but he\n must have been very tired that first\n night. I often wondered what kind\n of a life he'd lived after the war\u2014what\n he'd done that made him different\n from the men who simply\n grew older in the bars. I wonder,\n now, if he really did do anything\n different. In an odd way, I like to\n think that one day, in a bar, on a\n day that seemed like all the rest to\n him when it began, he suddenly looked\n up with some new thought, put\n down his glass, and walked straight\n to the Earth-Mars shuttle field.\n\n\n\n\n   He might have come from any\n town on Earth. Don't believe the historians\n too much. Don't pay too much\n attention to the Chamber of Commerce\n plaques. When a man's name\n becomes public property, strange\n things happen to the facts.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   It was MacReidie who first found\n out what he'd done during the war.\n\n\n\n\n   I've got to explain about MacReidie.\n He takes his opinions fast\n and strong. He's a good man\u2014is, or\n was; I haven't seen him for a long\n while\u2014but he liked things simple.\n\n\n\n\n   MacReidie said the duffelbag broke\n loose and floated into the middle of\n the bunkroom during acceleration.\n He opened it to see whose it was.\n When he found out, he closed it up\n and strapped it back in its place at\n the foot of the stoker's bunk.\n\n\n\n\n   MacReidie was my relief on the\n bridge. When he came up, he didn't\n relieve me right away. He stood next\n to my chair and looked out through\n the ports.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Captain leave any special instructions\n in the Order Book?\" he asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Just the usual. Keep a tight watch\n and proceed cautiously.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That new stoker,\" Mac said.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yeah?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I knew there was something\n wrong with him. He's got an old\n Marine uniform in his duffel.\"\n\n\n\n\n   I didn't say anything. Mac glanced\n over at me. \"Well?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't know.\" I didn't.\n\n\n\n\n   I couldn't say I was surprised. It\n had to be something like that, about\n the stoker. The mark was on him, as\n I've said.\n\n\n\n\n   It was the Marines that did Earth's\n best dying. It had to be. They were\n trained to be the best we had, and\n they believed in their training. They\n were the ones who slashed back the\n deepest when the other side hit us.\n They were the ones who sallied out\n into the doomed spaces between the\n stars and took the war to the other\n side as well as any human force could\n ever hope to. They were always the\n last to leave an abandoned position.\n If Earth had been giving medals to\n members of her forces in the war,\n every man in the Corps would have\n had the Medal of Honor two and\n three times over. Posthumously. I\n don't believe there were ten of them\n left alive when Cope was shot. Cope\n was one of them. They were a kind\n of human being neither MacReidie\n nor I could hope to understand.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You don't know,\" Mac said. \"It's\n there. In his duffel. Damn it, we're\n going out to trade with his sworn\n enemies! Why do you suppose he\n wanted to sign on? Why do you suppose\n he's so eager to go!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You think he's going to try to\n start something?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Think! That's exactly what he's\n going for. One last big alley fight.\n One last brawl. When they cut him\n down\u2014do you suppose they'll stop\n with him? They'll kill us, and then\n they'll go in and stamp Earth flat!\n You know it as well as I do.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't know, Mac,\" I said. \"Go\n easy.\" I could feel the knots in my\n stomach. I didn't want any trouble.\n Not from the stoker, not from Mac.\n None of us wanted trouble\u2014not\n even Mac, but he'd cause it to get\n rid of it, if you follow what I mean\n about his kind of man.\n\n\n\n\n   Mac hit the viewport with his fist.\n \"Easy! Easy\u2014nothing's easy. I hate\n this life,\" he said in a murderous\n voice. \"I don't know why I keep\n signing on. Mars to Centaurus and\n back, back and forth, in an old rust\n tub that's going to blow herself up\n one of these\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Daniels called me on the phone\n from Communications. \"Turn up\n your Intercom volume,\" he said.\n \"The stoker's jamming the circuit.\"\n\n\n\n\n   I kicked the selector switch over,\n and this is what I got:\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    \u2014so there we were at a million\n per, and the air was gettin' thick. The\n Skipper says 'Cheer up, brave boys,\n we'll\u2014'\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n\n\n   He was singing. He had a terrible\n voice, but he could carry a tune, and\n he was hammering it out at the top\n of his lungs.\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Twas the last cruise of the\n\n\n   Venus,\n\n\n    by God you should of seen us! The\n pipes were full of whisky, and just\n to make things risky, the jets\n were ...\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n\n\n   The crew were chuckling into their\n own chest phones. I could hear Daniels\n trying to cut him off. But he\n kept going. I started laughing myself.\n No one's supposed to jam an\n intercom, but it made the crew feel\n good. When the crew feels good, the\n ship runs right, and it had been a\n long time since they'd been happy.\n\n\n\n\n   He went on for another twenty\n minutes. Then his voice thinned out,\n and I heard him cough a little.\n \"Daniels,\" he said, \"get a relief\n down here for me.\n\n\n    Jump to it!\n\n\n   \" He\n said the last part in a Master's voice.\n Daniels didn't ask questions. He sent\n a man on his way down.\n\n\n\n\n   He'd been singing, the stoker had.\n He'd been singing while he worked\n with one arm dead, one sleeve ripped\n open and badly patched because the\n fabric was slippery with blood.\n There'd been a flashover in the drivers.\n By the time his relief got down\n there, he had the insulation back on,\n and the drive was purring along the\n way it should have been. It hadn't\n even missed a beat.\n\n\n\n\n   He went down to sick bay, got the\n arm wrapped, and would have gone\n back on shift if Daniels'd let him.\n\n\n\n\n   Those of us who were going off\n shift found him toying with the\n theremin in the mess compartment.\n He didn't know how to play it, and\n it sounded like a dog howling.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sing, will you!\" somebody yelled.\n He grinned and went back to the\n \"Good Ship\n\n\n    Venus\n\n\n   .\" It wasn't good,\n but it was loud. From that, we went\n to \"Starways, Farways, and Barways,\"\n and \"The Freefall Song.\" Somebody\n started \"I Left Her Behind For You,\"\n and that got us off into sentimental\n things, the way these sessions would\n sometimes wind up when spacemen\n were far from home. But not since\n the war, we all seemed to realize together.\n We stopped, and looked at\n each other, and we all began drifting\n out of the mess compartment.\n\n\n\n\n   And maybe it got to him, too. It\n may explain something. He and I\n were the last to leave. We went to\n the bunkroom, and he stopped in the\n middle of taking off his shirt. He\n stood there, looking out the porthole,\n and forgot I was there. I heard him\n reciting something, softly, under his\n breath, and I stepped a little closer.\n This is what it was:\n\n\n  \"\n\n\n   The rockets rise against the skies,\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Slowly; in sunlight gleaming\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   With silver hue upon the blue.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   And the universe waits, dreaming.\n\n\n\n\n  \"\n\n\n   For men must go where the flame-winds blow,\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The gas clouds softly plaiting;\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Where stars are spun and worlds begun,\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   And men will find them waiting.\n\n\n\n\n  \"\n\n\n   The song that roars where the rocket soars\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Is the song of the stellar flame;\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The dreams of Man and galactic span\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Are equal and much the same.\n\n\n  \"\n\n\n\n\n   What was he thinking of? Make\n your own choice. I think I came close\n to knowing him, at that moment, but\n until human beings turn telepath, no\n man can be sure of another.\n\n\n\n\n   He shook himself like a dog out\n of cold water, and got into his bunk.\n I got into mine, and after a while\n I fell asleep.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   I don't know what MacReidie may\n have told the skipper about the stoker,\n or if he tried to tell him anything.\n The captain was the senior ticket\n holder in the Merchant Service, and\n a good man, in his day. He kept\n mostly to his cabin. And there was\n nothing MacReidie could do on his\n own authority\u2014nothing simple, that\n is. And the stoker had saved the\n ship, and ...\n\n\n\n\n   I think what kept anything from\n happening between MacReidie and\n the stoker, or anyone else and the\n stoker, was that it would have meant\n trouble in the ship. Trouble, confined\n to our little percentage of the ship's\n volume, could seem like something\n much more important than the fate\n of the human race. It may not seem\n that way to you. But as long as no\n one began anything, we could all get\n along. We could have a good trip.\n\n\n\n\n   MacReidie worried, I'm sure. I\n worried, sometimes. But nothing\n happened.\n\n\n\n\n   When we reached Alpha Centaurus,\n and set down at the trading field\n on the second planet, it was the same\n as the other trips we'd made, and the\n same kind of landfall. The Lud factor\n came out of his post after we'd\n waited for a while, and gave us our\n permit to disembark. There was a Jek\n ship at the other end of the field,\n loaded with the cargo we would get\n in exchange for our holdful of\n goods. We had the usual things;\n wine, music tapes, furs, and the like.\n The Jeks had been giving us light\n machinery lately\u2014probably we'd get\n two or three more loads, and then\n they'd begin giving us something\n else.\n\n\n\n\n   But I found that this trip wasn't\n quite the same. I found myself looking\n at the factor's post, and I realized\n for the first time that the Lud hadn't\n built it. It was a leftover from the\n old colonial human government. And\n the city on the horizon\u2014men had\n built it; the touch of our architecture\n was on every building. I wondered\n why it had never occurred to me that\n this was so. It made the landfall different\n from all the others, somehow.\n It gave a new face to the entire\n planet.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Mac and I and some of the other\n crewmen went down on the field to\n handle the unloading. Jeks on self-propelled\n cargo lifts jockeyed among\n us, scooping up the loads as we unhooked\n the slings, bringing cases of\n machinery from their own ship. They\n sat atop their vehicles, lean and\n aloof, dashing in, whirling, shooting\n across the field to their ship and\n back like wild horsemen on the plains\n of Earth, paying us no notice.\n\n\n\n\n   We were almost through when\n Mac suddenly grabbed my arm.\n \"Look!\"\n\n\n\n\n   The stoker was coming down on\n one of the cargo slings. He stood\n upright, his booted feet planted wide,\n one arm curled up over his head and\n around the hoist cable. He was in his\n dusty brown Marine uniform, the\n scarlet collar tabs bright as blood at\n his throat, his major's insignia glittering\n at his shoulders, the battle\n stripes on his sleeves.\n\n\n\n\n   The Jeks stopped their lifts. They\n knew that uniform. They sat up in\n their saddles and watched him come\n down. When the sling touched the\n ground, he jumped off quietly and\n walked toward the nearest Jek. They\n all followed him with their eyes.\n\n\n\n\n   \"We've got to stop him,\" Mac\n said, and both of us started toward\n him. His hands were both in plain\n sight, one holding his duffelbag,\n which was swelled out with the bulk\n of his airsuit. He wasn't carrying a\n weapon of any kind. He was walking\n casually, taking his time.\n\n\n\n\n   Mac and I had almost reached him\n when a Jek with insignia on his\n coveralls suddenly jumped down\n from his lift and came forward to\n meet him. It was an odd thing to\n see\u2014the stoker, and the Jek, who\n did not stand as tall. MacReidie and\n I stepped back.\n\n\n\n\n   The Jek was coal black, his scales\n glittering in the cold sunlight, his\n hatchet-face inscrutable. He stopped\n when the stoker was a few paces\n away. The stoker stopped, too. All\n the Jeks were watching him and paying\n no attention to anything else. The\n field might as well have been empty\n except for those two.\n\n\n\n\n   \"They'll kill him. They'll kill him\n right now,\" MacReidie whispered.\n\n\n\n\n   They ought to have. If I'd been\n a Jek, I would have thought that uniform\n was a death warrant. But the\n Jek spoke to him:\n\n\n\n\n   \"Are you entitled to wear that?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I was at this planet in '39. I was\n closer to your home world the year\n before that,\" the stoker said. \"I was\n captain of a destroyer. If I'd had a\n cruiser's range, I would have reached\n it.\" He looked at the Jek. \"Where\n were you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I was here when you were.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I want to speak to your ship's\n captain.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right. I'll drive you over.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The stoker nodded, and they walked\n over to his vehicle together. They\n drove away, toward the Jek ship.\n\n\n\n\n   \"All right, let's get back to work,\"\n another Jek said to MacReidie and\n myself, and we went back to unloading\n cargo.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The stoker came back to our ship\n that night, without his duffelbag. He\n found me and said:\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm signing off the ship. Going\n with the Jeks.\"\n\n\n\n\n   MacReidie was with me. He said\n loudly: \"What do you mean, you're\n going with the Jeks?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I signed on their ship,\" the stoker\n said. \"Stoking. They've got a micro-nuclear\n drive. It's been a while since\n I worked with one, but I think I'll\n make out all right, even with the\n screwball way they've got it set up.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Huh?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The stoker shrugged. \"Ships are\n ships, and physics is physics, no matter\n where you go. I'll make out.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What kind of a deal did you\n make with them? What do you think\n you're up to?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The stoker shook his head. \"No\n deal. I signed on as a crewman. I'll\n do a crewman's work for a crewman's\n wages. I thought I'd wander around a\n while. It ought to be interesting,\" he\n said.\n\n\n\n\n   \"On a Jek ship.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Anybody's ship. When I get to\n their home world, I'll probably ship\n out with some people from farther\n on. Why not? It's honest work.\"\n\n\n\n\n   MacReidie had no answer to that.\n\n\n\n\n   \"But\u2014\" I said.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What?\" He looked at me as if\n he couldn't understand what might\n be bothering me, but I think perhaps\n he could.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Nothing,\" I said, and that was\n that, except MacReidie was always a\n sourer man from that time up to as\n long as I knew him afterwards. We\n took off in the morning. The stoker\n had already left on the Jek ship, and\n it turned out he'd trained an apprentice\n boy to take his place.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   It was strange how things became\n different for us, little by little after\n that. It was never anything you could\n put your finger on, but the Jeks began\n taking more goods, and giving us\n things we needed when we told them\n we wanted them. After a while,\n\n\n    Serenus\n\n\n   was going a little deeper into\n Jek territory, and when she wore out,\n the two replacements let us trade with\n the Lud, too. Then it was the Nosurwey,\n and other people beyond them,\n and things just got better for us,\n somehow.\n\n\n\n\n   We heard about our stoker, occasionally.\n He shipped with the Lud,\n and the Nosurwey, and some people\n beyond them, getting along, going to\n all kinds of places. Pay no attention\n to the precise red lines you see on the\n star maps; nobody knows exactly\n what path he wandered from people\n to people. Nobody could. He just\n kept signing on with whatever ship\n was going deeper into the galaxy,\n going farther and farther. He messed\n with green shipmates and blue ones.\n One and two and three heads, tails,\n six legs\u2014after all, ships are ships\n and they've all got to have something\n to push them along. If a man knows\n his business, why not? A man can\n live on all kinds of food, if he wants\n to get used to it. And any nontoxic\n atmosphere will do, as long as there's\n enough oxygen in it.\n\n\n\n\n   I don't know what he did, to make\n things so much better for us. I don't\n know if he did anything, but stoke\n their ships and, I suppose, fix them\n when they were in trouble. I wonder\n if he sang dirty songs in that bad\n voice of his, to people who couldn't\n possibly understand what the songs\n were about. All I know is, for some\n reason those people slowly began\n treating us with respect. We changed,\n too, I think\u2014I'm not the same man\n I was ... I think\u2014not altogether\n the same; I'm a captain now, with\n master's papers, and you won't find\n me in my cabin very often ... there's\n a kind of joy in standing on a bridge,\n looking out at the stars you're moving\n toward. I wonder if it mightn't\n have kept my old captain out of that\n place he died in, finally, if he'd tried\n it.\n\n\n\n\n   So, I don't know. The older I get,\n the less I know. The thing people remember\n the stoker for\u2014the thing\n that makes him famous, and, I think,\n annoys him\u2014I'm fairly sure is only\n incidental to what he really did. If he\n did anything. If he meant to. I wish\n I could be sure of the exact answer\n he found in the bottom of that last\n glass at the bar before he worked his\n passage to Mars and the\n\n\n    Serenus\n\n\n   , and\n began it all.\n\n\n\n\n   So, I can't say what he ought to be\n famous for. But I suppose it's enough\n to know for sure that he was the first\n living being ever to travel all the way\n around the galaxy.\n\n\n\n\n   THE END\n\n\n\n\n   Transcriber's Note:\n\n\n\n\n  This etext was produced from\n\n\n   Astounding Science Fiction\n\n\n  February\n 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and\n typographical errors have been corrected without note.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhat is a theme of the story?\n\n (A) Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. \n (B) War changes people. \n (C) The effects of war last through generations. \n (D) Simple actions can mend deep conflict.\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "D", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 24911, "query_start_index": 24913, "query_end_index": 25150, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "22867_IZGAWLCJ_4", "pid": "22867_IZGAWLCJ_4_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nTranscriber's Note:\n\n\n\n\n  This etext was produced from\n\n\n   The Counterfeit Man More Science Fiction\n Stories by Alan E. Nourse\n\n\n  published in 1963. Extensive research did\n not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was\n renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected\n without note.\n\n\n   Meeting\n\n\n   of the\n\n\n   Board\n\n\n\n\n   It\n   was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervously\n through the crowds toward the Exit Strip, Walter Towne\n turned the dismal prospect over and over in his mind. The\n potential gloominess of this particular day had descended upon\n him the instant the morning buzzer had gone off, making it\n even more tempting than usual just to roll over and forget\n about it all. Twenty minutes later, the water-douse came to\n drag him, drenched and gurgling, back to the cruel cold world.\n He had wolfed down his morning Koffee-Kup with one eye\n on the clock and one eye on his growing sense of impending\n crisis. And now, to make things just a trifle worse, he was\n going to be late again.\n\n\n\n\n   He struggled doggedly across the rumbling Exit strip toward\n the plant entrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be\n so upset? He\n\n\n    was\n\n\n   Vice President-in-Charge-of-Production of\n the Robling Titanium Corporation. What could they do to\n him, really? He had rehearsed\n\n\n    his\n\n\n   part many times, squaring\n his thin shoulders, looking the union boss straight in the eye\n and saying, \"Now, see here, Torkleson\u2014\" But he knew, when\n the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. And\n this was the morning that the showdown would come.\n\n\n\n\n   Oh, not because of the\n\n\n    lateness\n\n\n   . Of course Bailey, the shop\n steward, would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But\n this seemed hardly worthy of concern this morning. The reports\n waiting on his desk were what worried him. The sales\n reports. The promotion-draw reports. The royalty reports. The\n anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head wearily.\n The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even infuriating,\n but tolerable. Torkleson was a different matter.\n\n\n\n\n   He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves,\n and tried vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept\n scooting his tie up under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he\n started up the Robling corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps\n he would be fortunate. Maybe the reports would be late.\n Maybe his secretary's two neurones would fail to synapse this\n morning, and she'd lose them altogether. And, as long as he\n was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way\n to work. He walked quickly past the workers' lounge, glancing\n in at the groups of men, arguing politics and checking the\n stock market reports before they changed from their neat gray\n business suits to their welding dungarees. Running up the\n stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the door\n to punch the time clock. 8:04. Damn. If only Bailey could be\n sick\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming\n with frantic activity as Walter glanced down the rows\n of cubbyholes. In the middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black-and-yellow\n checkered tattersall, smoking a large cigar. His\n feet were planted on his desk top, but he hadn't started on his\n morning Western yet. He was busy glaring, first at the clock,\n then at Walter.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Late again, I see,\" the shop steward growled.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter gulped. \"Yes, sir. Just four minutes, this time, sir.\n You know those crowded strips\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"So it's\n\n\n    just\n\n\n   four minutes now, eh?\" Bailey's feet came down\n with a crash. \"After last month's fine production record, you\n think four minutes doesn't matter, eh? Think just because\n you're a vice president it's all right to mosey in here whenever\n you feel like it.\" He glowered. \"Well, this is three times this\n month you've been late, Towne. That's a demerit for each\n time, and you know what that means.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You wouldn't count four minutes as a whole demerit!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey grinned. \"Wouldn't I, now! You just add up your\n pay envelope on Friday. Ten cents an hour off for each\n demerit.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter sighed and shuffled back to his desk. Oh, well. It\n could have been worse. They might have fired him like poor\n Cartwright last month. He'd just\n\n\n    have\n\n\n   to listen to that morning\n buzzer.\n\n\n\n\n   The reports were on his desk. He picked them up warily.\n Maybe they wouldn't be so bad. He'd had more freedom this\n last month than before, maybe there'd been a policy change.\n Maybe Torkleson was gaining confidence in him. Maybe\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   The reports were worse than he had ever dreamed.\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Towne!\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter jumped a foot. Bailey was putting down the visiphone\n receiver. His grin spread unpleasantly from ear to ear.\n \"What have you been doing lately? Sabotaging the production\n line?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What's the trouble now?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey jerked a thumb significantly at the ceiling. \"The\n boss wants to see you. And you'd better have the right answers,\n too. The boss seems to have a lot of questions.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkleson\n had already seen the reports. He started for the door, his\n knees shaking.\n\n\n\n\n   It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably.\n Time was when things had been very different. It had\n\n\n    meant\n\n\n   something to be vice president of a huge industrial firm like\n Robling Titanium. A man could have had a fine house of\n his own, and a 'copter-car, and belong to the Country Club;\n maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter could almost remember those days with Robling,\n before the switchover, before that black day when the exchange\n of ten little shares of stock had thrown the Robling\n Titanium Corporation into the hands of strange and unnatural\n owners.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The door was of heavy stained oak, with bold letters edged\n in gold:\n\n\n\n\n   TITANIUM WORKERS\n\n\n   OF AMERICA\n\n\n   Amalgamated Locals\n\n\n   Daniel P. Torkleson, Secretary\n\n\n\n\n   The secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter\n with pity. \"Mr. Torkleson will see you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter pushed through the door into the long, handsome\n office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia\u2014the floor-to-ceiling\n windows looking out across the long buildings of the\n Robling plant, the pine paneling, the broad expanse of desk\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over\n here.\" The man behind the desk hoisted his three hundred\n well-dressed pounds and glared at Walter from under flagrant\n eyebrows. Torkleson's whole body quivered as he slammed\n a sheaf of papers down on the desk. \"Just what do you think\n you're doing with this company, Towne?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter swallowed. \"I'm production manager of the corporation.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And just what does the production manager\n\n\n    do\n\n\n   all day?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter reddened. \"He organizes the work of the plant, establishes\n production lines, works with Promotion and Sales,\n integrates Research and Development, operates the planning\n machines.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"And you think you do a pretty good job of it, eh? Even\n asked for a raise last year!\" Torkleson's voice was dangerous.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter spread his hands. \"I do my best. I've been doing it\n for thirty years. I should know what I'm doing.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n    Then how do you explain these reports?\n\n\n   \" Torkleson threw\n the heap of papers into Walter's arms, and paced up and down\n behind the desk. \"\n\n\n    Look\n\n\n   at them! Sales at rock bottom. Receipts\n impossible. Big orders canceled. The worst reports in\n seven years, and you say you know your job!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I've been doing everything I could,\" Walter snapped. \"Of\n course the reports are bad, they couldn't help but be. We\n haven't met a production schedule in over two years. No plant\n can keep up production the way the men are working.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. \"So\n it's the\n\n\n    men\n\n\n   now, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with\n the men.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Nothing's wrong with the men\u2014if they'd only work. But\n they come in when they please, and leave when they please,\n and spend half their time changing and the other half on\n Koffee-Kup. No company could survive this. But that's only\n half of it\u2014\" Walter searched through the reports frantically.\n \"This International Jet Transport account\u2014they dropped us\n because we haven't had a new engine in six years. Why? Because\n Research and Development hasn't had any money for\n six years. What can two starved engineers and a second rate\n chemist drag out of an attic laboratory for competition in the\n titanium market?\" Walter took a deep breath. \"I've warned\n you time and again. Robling had built up accounts over the\n years with fine products and new models. But since the switchover\n seven years ago, you and your board have forced me to\n play the cheap products for the quick profit in order to give\n your men their dividends. Now the bottom's dropped out. We\n couldn't turn a quick profit on the big, important accounts, so\n we had to cancel them. If you had let me manage the company\n the way it should have been run\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson had been slowly turning purple. Now he slammed\n his fist down on the desk. \"We should just turn the company\n back to Management again, eh? Just let you have a free hand\n to rob us blind again. Well, it won't work, Towne. Not while\n I'm secretary of this union. We fought long and hard for control\n of this corporation, just the way all the other unions did.\n I know. I was through it all.\" He sat back smugly, his cheeks\n quivering with emotion. \"You might say that I was a national\n leader in the movement. But I did it only for the men. The\n men want their dividends. They own the stock, stock is supposed\n to pay dividends.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But they're cutting their own throats,\" Walter wailed.\n \"You can't build a company and make it grow the way I've\n been forced to run it.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Details!\" Torkleson snorted. \"I don't care\n\n\n    how\n\n\n   the dividends\n come in. That's your job. My job is to report a dividend\n every six months to the men who own the stock, the men working\n on the production lines.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter nodded bitterly. \"And every year the dividend has\n to be higher than the last, or you and your fat friends are\n likely to be thrown out of your jobs\u2014right? No more steaks\n every night. No more private gold-plated Buicks for you boys.\n No more twenty-room mansions in Westchester. No more big\n game hunting in the Rockies. No, you don't have to know\n anything but how to whip a board meeting into a frenzy so\n they'll vote you into office again each year.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson's eyes glittered. His voice was very soft. \"I've always\n liked you, Walter. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear\n you.\" He paused, then continued. \"But here on my desk is a\n small bit of white paper. Unless you have my signature on\n that paper on the first of next month, you are out of a job,\n on grounds of incompetence. And I will personally see that\n you go on every White list in the country.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter felt the fight go out of him like a dying wind. He\n knew what the White list meant. No job, anywhere, ever, in\n management. No chance, ever, to join a union. No more\n house, no more weekly pay envelope. He spread his hands\n weakly. \"What do you want?\" he asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I want a production plan on my desk within twenty-four\n hours. A plan that will guarantee me a five per cent increase\n in dividends in the next six months. And you'd better move\n fast, because I'm not fooling.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Back in his cubbyhole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly\n at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or\n later. They all knew it\u2014Hendricks of Promotion, Pendleton\n of Sales, the whole managerial staff.\n\n\n\n\n   It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had\n fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkleson had installed\n the moose heads in Walter's old office, and moved him down\n to the cubbyhole, under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued,\n and battled, and pleaded, and lost. He had watched the company\n deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him, and\n threatened his job, and he was helpless to do anything about it.\n\n\n\n\n   He stared at the machines, clicking busily against the wall.\n An idea began to form in his head. Helpless?\n\n\n\n\n   Not quite. Not if the others could see it, go along with it.\n It was a repugnant idea. But there was one thing they could\n do that even Torkleson and his fat-jowled crew would understand.\n\n\n\n\n   They could go on strike.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"It's ridiculous,\" the lawyer spluttered, staring at the circle\n of men in the room. \"How can I give you an opinion on the\n legality of the thing? There isn't any legal precedent that I\n know of.\" He mopped his bald head with a large white handkerchief.\n \"There just hasn't\n\n\n    been\n\n\n   a case of a company's management\n striking against its own labor. It\u2014it isn't done. Oh,\n there have been lockouts, but this isn't the same thing at all.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter nodded. \"Well, we couldn't very well lock the men\n out, they own the plant. We were thinking more of a lock-\n\n\n    in\n\n\n   sort of thing.\" He turned to Paul Hendricks and the others.\n \"We know how the machines operate. They don't. We also\n know that the data we keep in the machines is essential to\n running the business; the machines figure production quotas,\n organize blueprints, prepare distribution lists, test promotion\n schemes. It would take an office full of managerial experts to\n handle even a single phase of the work without the machines.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The man at the window hissed, and Pendleton quickly\n snapped out the lights. They sat in darkness, hardly daring to\n breathe. Then: \"Okay. Just the man next door coming home.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Pendleton sighed. \"You're sure you didn't let them suspect\n anything, Walter? They wouldn't be watching the house?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't think so. And you all came alone, at different\n times.\" He nodded to the window guard, and turned back to\n the lawyer. \"So we can't be sure of the legal end. You'd have\n to be on your toes.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I still don't see how we could work it,\" Hendricks objected.\n His heavy face was wrinkled with worry. \"Torkleson is no\n fool, and he has a lot of power in the National Association of\n Union Stockholders. All he'd need to do is ask for managers,\n and a dozen companies would throw them to him on loan.\n They'd be able to figure out the machine system and take over\n without losing a day.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Not quite.\" Walter was grinning. \"That's why I spoke of\n a lock-in. Before we leave, we throw the machines into feedback,\n every one of them. Lock them into reverberating circuits\n with a code sequence key. Then all they'll do is buzz and sputter\n until the feedback is broken with the key. And the key is\n our secret. It'll tie the Robling office into granny knots, and\n scabs won't be able to get any more data out of the machines\n than Torkleson could. With a lawyer to handle injunctions,\n we've got them strapped.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"For what?\" asked the lawyer.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter turned on him sharply. \"For new contracts. Contracts\n to let us manage the company the way it should be managed.\n If they won't do it, they won't get another Titanium\n product off their production lines for the rest of the year, and\n their dividends will\n\n\n    really\n\n\n   take a nosedive.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That means you'll have to beat Torkleson,\" said Bates.\n \"He'll never go along.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Then he'll be left behind.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. \"I'm with\n you, Walter. I've taken all of Torkleson that I want to. And\n I'm sick of the junk we've been trying to sell people.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. \"All\n right. Tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle.\n When we go off for lunch, we throw the machines into lock-step.\n Then we just don't come back. But the big thing is to\n keep it quiet until the noon whistle.\" He turned to the lawyer.\n \"Are you with us, Jeff?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Jeff Bates shook his head sadly. \"I'm with you. I don't know\n why, you haven't got a leg to stand on. But if you want to\n commit suicide, that's all right with me.\" He picked up his\n briefcase, and started for the door. \"I'll have your contract\n demands by tomorrow,\" he grinned. \"See you at the lynching.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They got down to the details of planning.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The news hit the afternoon telecasts the following day.\n Headlines screamed:\n\n\n\n\n   MANAGEMENT SABOTAGES ROBLING MACHINES\n\n\n   OFFICE STRIKERS THREATEN LABOR ECONOMY\n\n\n   ROBLING LOCK-IN CREATES PANDEMONIUM\n\n\n\n\n   There was a long, indignant statement from Daniel P.\n Torkleson, condemning Towne and his followers for \"flagrant\n violation of management contracts and illegal fouling of managerial\n processes.\" Ben Starkey, President of the Board of\n American Steel, expressed \"shock and regret\"; the Amalgamated\n Buttonhole Makers held a mass meeting in protest, demanding\n that \"the instigators of this unprecedented crime be\n permanently barred from positions in American Industry.\"\n\n\n\n\n   In Washington, the nation's economists were more cautious\n in their views. Yes, it\n\n\n    was\n\n\n   an unprecedented action. Yes, there\n would undoubtedly be repercussions\u2014many industries were\n having managerial troubles; but as for long term effects, it was\n difficult to say just at present.\n\n\n\n\n   On the Robling production lines the workmen blinked at\n each other, and at their machines, and wondered vaguely what\n it was all about.\n\n\n\n\n   Yet in all the upheaval, there was very little expression of\n surprise. Step by step, through the years, economists had been\n watching with wary eyes the growing movement toward union,\n control of industry. Even as far back as the '40's and '50's\n unions, finding themselves oppressed with the administration\n of growing sums of money\u2014pension funds, welfare funds,\n medical insurance funds, accruing union dues\u2014had begun investing\n in corporate stock. It was no news to them that money\n could make money. And what stock more logical to buy than\n stock in their own companies?\n\n\n\n\n   At first it had been a quiet movement. One by one the\n smaller firms had tottered, bled drier and drier by increasing\n production costs, increasing labor demands, and an ever-dwindling\n margin of profit. One by one they had seen their\n stocks tottering as they faced bankruptcy, only to be gobbled\n up by the one ready buyer with plenty of funds to buy with.\n At first, changes had been small and insignificant: boards of\n directors shifted; the men were paid higher wages and worked\n shorter hours; there were tighter management policies; and\n a little less money was spent on extras like Research and\n Development.\n\n\n\n\n   At first\u2014until that fateful night when Daniel P. Torkleson\n of TWA and Jake Squill of Amalgamated Buttonhole Makers\n spent a long evening with beer and cigars in a hotel room, and\n floated the loan that threw steel to the unions. Oil had followed\n with hardly a fight, and as the unions began to feel their oats,\n the changes grew more radical.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter Towne remembered those stormy days well. The\n gradual undercutting of the managerial salaries, the tightening\n up of inter-union collusion to establish the infamous White\n list of Recalcitrant Managers. The shift from hourly wage to\n annual salary for the factory workers, and the change to the\n other pole for the managerial staff. And then, with creeping\n malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more\n and higher dividends, year after year, moving steadily toward\n the inevitable crisis.\n\n\n\n\n   Until Shop Steward Bailey suddenly found himself in charge\n of a dozen sputtering machines and an empty office.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson was waiting to see the shop steward when he\n came in next morning. The union boss's office was crowded\n with TV cameras, newsmen, and puzzled workmen. The floor\n was littered with piles of ominous-looking paper. Torkleson\n was shouting into a telephone, and three lawyers were shouting\n into Torkleson's ear. He spotted Bailey and waved him through\n the crowd into an inner office room. \"Well? Did they get them\n fixed?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey spread his hands nervously. \"The electronics boys\n have been at it since yesterday afternoon. Practically had the\n machines apart on the floor.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I know that, stupid,\" Torkleson roared. \"I ordered them\n there. Did they get the machines\n\n\n    fixed\n\n\n   ?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Uh\u2014well, no, as a matter of fact\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well,\n\n\n    what's holding them up\n\n\n   ?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey's face was a study in misery. \"The machines just go\n in circles. The circuits are locked. They just reverberate.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Then call American Electronics. Have them send down an\n expert crew.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Bailey shook his head. \"They won't come.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"They\n\n\n    what\n\n\n   ?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"They said thanks, but no thanks. They don't want their\n fingers in this pie at all.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Wait until I get O'Gilvy on the phone.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"It won't do any good, sir. They've got their own management\n troubles. They're scared silly of a sympathy strike.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The door burst open, and a lawyer stuck his head in. \"What\n about those injunctions, Dan?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Get them moving,\" Torkleson howled. \"They'll start those\n machines again, or I'll have them in jail so fast\u2014\" He turned\n back to Bailey. \"What about the production lines?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The shop steward's face lighted. \"They slipped up, there.\n There was one program that hadn't been coded into the machines\n yet. Just a minor item, but it's a starter. We found it in\n Towne's desk, blueprints all ready, promotion all planned.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Good, good,\" Torkleson breathed. \"I have a directors'\n meeting right now, have to get the workers quieted down a\n bit. You put the program through, and give those electronics\n men three more hours to unsnarl this knot, or we throw them\n out of the union.\" He started for the door. \"What were the\n blueprints for?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Trash cans,\" said Bailey. \"Pure titanium-steel trash cans.\"\n\n\n\n\n   It took Robling Titanium approximately two days to convert\n its entire production line to titanium-steel trash cans. With the\n total resources of the giant plant behind the effort, production\n was phenomenal. In two more days the available markets were\n glutted. Within two weeks, at a conservative estimate, there\n would be a titanium-steel trash can for every man, woman,\n child, and hound dog on the North American continent. The\n jet engines, structural steels, tubing, and other pre-strike products\n piled up in the freight yards, their routing slips and order\n requisitions tied up in the reverberating machines.\n\n\n\n\n   But the machines continued to buzz and sputter.\n\n\n\n\n   The workers grew restive. From the first day, Towne and\n Hendricks and all the others had been picketing the plant,\n until angry crowds of workers had driven them off with shotguns.\n Then they came back in an old, weatherbeaten 'copter\n which hovered over the plant entrance carrying a banner with\n a plaintive message:\n   robling titanium unfair to management\n   .\n Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the 'copter\n remained.\n\n\n\n\n   The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering\n Towne to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal\n machinery began tying itself in knots, and the strikers still\n struck. By the fifth day there was a more serious note.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge\n this one.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"When?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Tomorrow morning. And before a labor-rigged judge, too.\"\n The little lawyer paced his office nervously. \"I don't like it.\n Torkleson's getting desperate. The workers are putting pressure\n on him.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter grinned. \"Then Pendleton is doing a good job of\n selling.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But you haven't got\n\n\n    time\n\n\n   ,\" the lawyer wailed. \"They'll have\n you in jail if you don't start the machines again. They may\n have you in jail if you\n\n\n    do\n\n\n   start them, too, but that's another\n bridge. Right now they want those machines going again.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We'll see,\" said Walter. \"What time tomorrow?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ten o'clock.\" Bates looked up. \"And don't try to skip.\n You be there, because\n\n\n    I\n\n\n   don't know what to tell them.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter was there a half hour early. Torkleson's legal staff\n glowered from across the room. The judge glowered from\n the bench. Walter closed his eyes with a little smile as the\n charges were read: \"\u2014breach of contract, malicious mischief,\n sabotage of the company's machines, conspiring to destroy the\n livelihood of ten thousand workers. Your Honor, we are preparing\n briefs to prove further that these men have formed a\n conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation.\n We appeal to the spirit of orderly justice\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter yawned as the words went on.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Of course, if the defendant will waive his appeals against\n the previous injunctions, and will release the machines that\n were sabotaged, we will be happy to formally withdraw these\n charges.\"\n\n\n\n\n   There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His\n Honor turned to Jeff Bates. \"Are you counsel for the defendant?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Yes, sir.\" Bates mopped his bald scalp. \"The defendant\n pleads guilty to all counts.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a\n crash. The judge stared. \"Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you\n leave me no alternative\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\u2014but to send me to jail,\" said Walter Towne. \"Go ahead.\n Send me to jail. In fact, I\n\n\n    insist\n\n\n   upon going to jail.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference.\n A recess was pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then:\n \"Your Honor, the plaintiff desires to withdraw all charges at\n this time.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Objection,\" Bates exclaimed. \"We've already pleaded.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"\u2014feel sure that a settlement can be effected out of court\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   The case was thrown out on its ear.\n\n\n\n\n   And still the machines sputtered.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Back at the plant rumor had it that the machines were permanently\n gutted, and that the plant could never go back into\n production. Conflicting scuttlebutt suggested that persons high\n in uniondom had perpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying\n Management into the strike for the sole purpose of cutting current\n dividends and selling stock to themselves cheaply. The\n rumors grew easier and easier to believe. The workers came\n to the plants in business suits, it was true, and lounged in the\n finest of lounges, and read the\n\n\n    Wall Street Journal\n\n\n   , and felt like\n stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not the\n highest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance\n fees, and sundry other little items which had formerly been\n paid by well-to-do managements, and very little was left but\n the semi-annual dividend checks. And now the dividends were\n tottering.\n\n\n\n\n   Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the\n plant floor, in the lounge and locker rooms. Workers began\n joking about the trash cans; then the humor grew more and\n more remote. Finally, late in the afternoon of the eighth day,\n Bailey was once again in Torkleson's office.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well? Speak up! What's the beef this time?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sir\u2014the men\u2014I mean, there's been some nasty talk.\n They're tired of making trash cans. No challenge in it. Anyway,\n the stock room is full, and the freight yard is full, and\n the last run of orders we sent out came back because nobody\n wants any more trash cans.\" Bailey shook his head. \"The men\n won't swallow it any more. There's\u2014well, there's been talk\n about having a board meeting.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson's ruddy cheeks paled. \"Board meeting, huh?\"\n He licked his heavy lips. \"Now look, Bailey, we've always\n worked well together. I consider you a good friend of mine.\n You've got to get things under control. Tell the men we're\n making progress. Tell them Management is beginning to\n weaken from its original stand. Tell them we expect to have\n the strike broken in another few hours. Tell them anything.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He waited until Bailey was gone. Then, with a trembling\n hand he lifted the visiphone receiver. \"Get me Walter Towne,\"\n he said.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'm not an unreasonable man,\" Torkleson was saying\n miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and\n forth in front of the spokesmen for the striking managers.\n \"Perhaps we were a little demanding, I concede it! Overenthusiastic\n with our ownership, and all that. But I'm sure we\n can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly\n within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company\n houses.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter Towne stifled a yawn. \"Perhaps you didn't understand\n us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the board of\n directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing\n we're interested in right now.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the\n contract your lawyer presented.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I know, but you rejected that contract. So we tore it up.\n Anyway, we've changed our minds.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Torkleson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. \"Gentlemen,\n be reasonable! I can guarantee you your jobs, even give\n you a free hand with the management. So the dividends won't be\n so large\u2014the men will have to get used to that. That's it, we'll\n put it through at the next executive conference, give you\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"The board meeting,\" Walter said gently. \"That'll be enough\n for us.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The union boss swore and slammed his fist on the desk.\n \"Walk out in front of those men after what you've done? You're\n fools! Well, I've given you your chance. You'll get your board\n meeting. But you'd better come armed. Because I know how\n to handle this kind of board meeting, and if I have anything\n to say about it, this one will end with a massacre.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The meeting was held in a huge auditorium in the Robling\n administration building. Since every member of the union\n owned stock in the company, every member had the right to\n vote for members of the board of directors. But in the early\n days of the switchover, the idea of a board of directors smacked\n too strongly of the old system of corporate organization to suit\n the men. The solution had been simple, if a trifle ungainly.\n Everyone who owned stock in Robling Titanium was automatically\n a member of the board of directors, with Torkleson\n as chairman of the board. The stockholders numbered over\n ten thousand.\n\n\n\n\n   They were all present. They were packed in from the wall\n to the stage, and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed\n into the corridors. They jammed the lobby. Ten thousand men\n rose with a howl of anger when Walter Towne walked out on\n the stage. But they quieted down again as Dan Torkleson\n started to speak.\n\n\n\n\n   It was a masterful display of rabble-rousing. Torkleson\n paced the stage, his fat body shaking with agitation, pointing\n a chubby finger again and again at Walter Towne. He pranced\n and he ranted. He paused at just the right times for thunderous\n peals of applause.\n\n\n\n\n   \"This morning in my office we offered to compromise with\n these jackals,\" he cried, \"and they rejected compromise. Even\n at the cost of lowering dividends, of taking food from the\n mouths of your wives and children, we made our generous\n offers. They were rejected with scorn. These thieves have one\n desire in mind, my friends, to starve you all, and to destroy\n your company and your jobs. To every appeal they heartlessly\n refused to divulge the key to the lock-in. And now this man\u2014the\n ringleader who keeps the key word buried in secrecy\u2014has\n the temerity to ask an audience with you. You're angry men;\n you want to know the man to blame for our hardship.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He pointed to Towne with a flourish. \"I give you your man.\n Do what you want with him.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men\n rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed\n past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered\n up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists.\n\n\n\n\n   Then somebody appeared with a rope.\n\n\n\n\n   Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly\n the roar of the men was drowned in another sound\u2014a soul-rending,\n teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze,\n jaws sagging, eyes wide, hardly believing their ears. In the\n instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter\n grabbed the microphone. \"You want the code word to start\n the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down!\"\n\n\n\n\n   The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkleson\n burst to his feet. \"It's a trick!\" he howled. \"Wait 'til you\n hear their price.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We have no price, and no demands,\" said Walter Towne.\n \"We will\n\n\n    give\n\n\n   you the code word, and we ask nothing in return\n but that you listen for sixty seconds.\" He glanced back at\n Torkleson, and then out to the crowd. \"You men here are an\n electing body\u2014right? You own this great plant and company,\n top to bottom\u2014right?\n\n\n    You should all be rich\n\n\n   , because Robling\n could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich.\n Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how\n\n\n    you\n\n\n   can be rich.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly,\n Walter Towne was talking their language.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You think that since you own the company, times have\n changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you\n were? Of course not. Because you haven't learned yet that\n oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't\n learned moderation. And you never will, until you throw out\n the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last\n ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer\n and richer since the switchover. Throw him out, and you too\n can be rich.\" He paused for a deep breath. \"You want the code\n word to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man\n sitting there. \"The code word is TORKLESON!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Much later, Walter Towne and Jeff Bates pried the trophies\n off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly.\n \"Pity about Dan Torkleson. Gruesome affair.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter nodded as he struggled down with a moose head.\n \"Yes, a pity, but you know the boys when they get upset.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I suppose so.\" The lawyer stopped to rest, panting. \"Anyway,\n with the newly elected board of directors, things will be\n different for everybody. You took a long gamble.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear.\n It just took a little timing.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Still, I didn't think they'd elect you secretary of the union.\n It just doesn't figure.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Walter Towne chuckled. \"Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's\n been a little screwy since the switchover. And in a\n screwy world like this\u2014\" He shrugged, and tossed down the\n moose head. \"\n\n\n    Anything\n\n\n   figures.\"\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhat is wrong with the reports?\n\n (A) Production and sales are down.\n (B) Walter forgot to do them. \n (C) Walter put in false information to make it appear as though the company is thriving. \n (D) Walter did the reports the late.\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "A", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 35008, "query_start_index": 35010, "query_end_index": 35270, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "22462_BUA2LH2S_5", "pid": "22462_BUA2LH2S_5_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nSLINGSHOT\n\n\n\n\n   BY\n\n\n   IRVING W. LANDE\n\n\n\n\n   Illustrated by Emsh\n\n\n\n\n   The slingshot\n   was, I believe, one of the few\n weapons of history that wasn't used in the last war.\n That doesn't mean it won't be used in the next!\n\n\n\n\n   \"Got a bogey at three o'clock high.\n Range about six hundred miles.\"\n Johnson spoke casually, but his voice\n in the intercom was thin with tension.\n\n\n\n\n   Captain Paul Coulter, commanding\n Space Fighter 308, 58th Squadron,\n 33rd Fighter Wing, glanced up out\n of his canopy in the direction indicated,\n and smiled to himself at the\n instinctive reaction. Nothing there\n but the familiar starry backdrop, the\n moon far down to the left. If the\n light wasn't right, a ship might be\n invisible at half a mile. He squeezed\n the throttle mike button. \"Any IFF?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"No IFF.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"O.K., let me know as soon as you\n have his course.\" Coulter squashed\n out his cigar and began his cockpit\n check, grinning without humor as he\n noticed that his breathing had deepened\n and his palms were moist on\n the controls. He looked down to\n make sure his radio was snug in its\n pocket on his leg; checked the thigh\n harness of his emergency rocket,\n wrapped in its thick belly pad; checked\n the paired tanks of oxygen behind\n him, hanging level from his shoulders\n into their niche in the \"cradle.\"\n He flipped his helmet closed, locked\n it, and opened it again. He tossed\n a sardonic salute at the photograph\n of a young lady who graced the side\n of the cockpit. \"Wish us luck, sugar.\"\n He pressed the mike button again.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You got anything yet, Johnny?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"He's going our way, Paul. Have\n it exact in a minute.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Coulter scanned the full arch of\n sky visible through the curving panels\n of the dome, thinking the turgid\n thoughts that always came when action\n was near. His chest was full of\n the familiar weakness\u2014not fear exactly,\n but a tight, helpless feeling\n that grew and grew with the waiting.\n\n\n\n\n   His eyes and hands were busy in\n the familiar procedure, readying the\n ship for combat, checking and re-checking\n the details that could mean\n life and death, but his mind watched\n disembodied, yearning back to earth.\n\n\n\n\n   Sylvia always came back first. Inviting\n smile and outstretched hands.\n Nyloned knees, pink sweater, and\n that clinging, clinging white silk\n skirt. A whirling montage of laughing,\n challenging eyes and tossing sky-black\n hair and soft arms tightening\n around his neck.\n\n\n\n\n   Then Jean, cool and self-possessed\n and slightly disapproving,\n with warmth and humor peeping\n through from underneath when she\n smiled. A lazy, crinkly kind of smile,\n like Christmas lights going on one\n by one. He wished he'd acted more\n grown up that night they watched\n the rain dance at the pueblo. For the\n hundredth time, he went over what\n he remembered of their last date,\n seeing the gleam of her shoulder, and\n the angry disappointment in her eyes;\n hearing again his awkward apologies.\n She was a nice kid. Silently his mouth\n formed the words. \"You're a nice\n kid.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    I think she loves me. She was just\n mad because I got drunk.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The tension of approaching combat\n suddenly blended with the memory,\n welling up into a rush of tenderness\n and affection. He whispered her\n name, and suddenly he knew that if\n he got back he was going to ask her\n to marry him.\n\n\n\n\n   He thought of his father, rocking\n on the porch of the Pennsylvania\n farm, pipe in his mouth, the weathered\n old face serene, as he puffed and\n listened to the radio beside him. He\n wished he'd written him last night,\n instead of joining the usual beer and\n bull session in the wardroom. He\n wished\u2014. He wished.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I've got him, Paul. He's got two\n point seven miles of RV on us. Take\n thirty degrees high on two point one\n o'clock for course to IP.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Automatically he turned the control\n wheel to the right and eased it\n back. The gyros recorded the turn to\n course.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Hold 4 G's for one six five seconds,\n then coast two minutes for initial\n point five hundred miles on his\n tail.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Right, Johnny. One sixty-five,\n then two minutes.\" He set the timer,\n advanced the throttle to 4 G's, and\n stepped back an inch as the acceleration\n took him snugly into the cradle.\n The Return-To-Station-Fuel and Relative-Velocity-To-Station\n gauges did\n their usual double takes on a change\n of course, as the ship computer recorded\n the new information. He\n liked those two gauges\u2014the two old\n ladies.\n\n\n\n\n   Mrs. RSF kept track of how much\n more fuel they had than they needed\n to get home. When they were moving\n away from station, she dropped\n in alarmed little jumps, but when\n they were headed home, she inched\n along in serene contentment, or if\n they were coasting, sneaked triumphantly\n back up the dial.\n\n\n\n\n   Mrs. RVS started to get jittery at\n about ten mps away from home, and\n above fifteen, she was trembling\n steadily. He didn't blame the old\n ladies for worrying. With one hour\n of fuel at 5 G's, you didn't fire a\n single squirt unless there was a good\n reason for it. Most of their time on\n a mission was spent free wheeling,\n in the anxiety-laden boredom that\n fighting men have always known.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Wish the Red was coming in across\n our course.\n\n\n   It would have taken less\n fuel, and the chase wouldn't have\n taken them so far out. But then\n they'd probably have been spotted,\n and lost the precious element of surprise.\n\n\n\n\n   He blessed the advantage of better\n radar. In this crazy \"war,\" so like\n the dogfights of the first world war,\n the better than two hundred mile\n edge of American radar was more\n often than not the margin of victory.\n The American crews were a little\n sharper, a little better trained, but\n with their stripped down ships, and\n midget crewmen, with no personal\n safety equipment, the Reds could\n accelerate longer and faster, and go\n farther out. You had to get the jump\n on them, or it was just too bad.\n\n\n\n\n   The second hand hit forty-five in\n its third cycle, and he stood loose in\n the cradle as the power died.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Sixty-two combat missions but the\n government says there's no war.\n\n\n   His\n mind wandered back over eight years\n in the service. Intelligence tests. Physical\n tests. Psychological tests. Six\n months of emotional adjustment in\n the screep. Primary training. Basic\n and advanced training. The pride and\n excitement of being chosen for space\n fighters. By the time he graduated,\n the United States and Russia each had\n several satellite stations operating, but\n in 1979, the United States had won\n the race for a permanent station on\n the Moon. What a grind it had been,\n bringing in the supplies.\n\n\n\n\n   A year later the Moon station had\n \"blown up.\" No warning. No survivors.\n Just a brand-new medium-sized\n crater. And six months later,\n the new station, almost completed,\n went up again. The diplomats had\n buzzed like hornets, with accusations\n and threats, but nothing could be\n proven\u2014there\n\n\n    were\n\n\n   bombs stored at\n the station. The implication was clear\n enough. There wasn't going to be\n any Moon station until one government\n ruled Earth. Or until the United\n States and Russia figured out a way\n to get along with each other. And so\n far, getting along with Russia was\n like trying to get along with an\n octopus.\n\n\n\n\n   Of course there were rumors that\n the psych warfare boys had some\n gimmick cooked up, to turn the\n U. S. S. R. upside down in a revolution,\n the next time power changed\n hands, but he'd been hearing that one\n for years. Still, with four new dictators\n over there in the last eleven\n years, there was always a chance.\n\n\n\n\n   Anyway, he was just a space\n jockey, doing his job in this screwball\n fight out here in the empty reaches.\n Back on Earth, there was no war. The\n statesmen talked, held conferences,\n played international chess as ever.\n Neither side bothered the other's\n satellites, though naturally they were\n on permanent alert. There just wasn't\n going to be any Moon station for a\n while. Nobody knew what there\n might be on the Moon, but if one\n side couldn't have it, then the other\n side wasn't going to have it either.\n\n\n\n\n   And meanwhile, the struggle was\n growing deadlier, month by month,\n each side groping for the stranglehold,\n looking for the edge that would\n give domination of space, or make\n all-out war a good risk. They hadn't\n found it yet, but it was getting bloodier\n out here all the time. For a while,\n it had been a supreme achievement\n just to get a ship out and back, but\n gradually, as the ships improved,\n there was a little margin left over for\n weapons. Back a year ago, the average\n patrol was nothing but a sightseeing\n tour. Not that there was much to see,\n when you'd been out a few times.\n Now, there were Reds around practically\n every mission.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Thirteen missions to go, after today.\n\n\n   He wondered if he'd quit at\n seventy-five. Deep inside him, the old\n pride and excitement were still\n strong. He still got a kick out of the\n way the girls looked at the silver\n rocket on his chest. But he didn't\n feel as lucky as he used to. Twenty-nine\n years old, and he was starting\n to feel like an old man. He pictured\n himself lecturing to a group of eager\n kids.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Had a couple of close calls, those\n last two missions.\n\n\n   That Red had\n looked easy, the way he was wandering\n around. He hadn't spotted them\n until they were well into their run,\n but when he got started he'd made\n them look like slow motion, just the\n same. If he hadn't tried that harebrained\n sudden deceleration....\n Coulter shook his head at the memory.\n And on the last mission they'd\n been lucky to get a draw. Those boys\n were good shots.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   \"We're crossing his track, Paul.\n Turn to nine point five o'clock and\n hold 4 G's for thirty-two seconds,\n starting on the count ... five\u2014four\u2014three\u2014two\u2014one\u2014go!\"\n He completed\n the operation in silence, remarking\n to himself how lucky he was\n to have Johnson. The boy loved a\n chase. He navigated like a hungry\n hawk, though you had to admit his\n techniques were a bit irregular.\n\n\n\n\n   Coulter chuckled at the ad lib way\n they operated, remembering the\n courses, the tests, the procedures practiced\n until they could do them backwards\n blindfolded. When they tangled\n with a Red, the Solter co-ordinates\n went out the hatch. They navigated\n by the enemy. There were times\n during a fight when he had no more\n idea of his position than what the\n old ladies told him, and what he\n could see of the Sun, the Earth, and\n the Moon.\n\n\n\n\n   And using \"right side up\" as a\n basis for navigation. He chuckled\n again. Still, the service had had to\n concede on \"right side up,\" in designing\n the ships, so there was something\n to be said for it. They hadn't\n been able to simulate gravity without\n fouling up the ships so they had\n to call the pilot's head \"up.\" There\n was something comforting about it.\n He'd driven a couple of the experimental\n jobs, one with the cockpit set\n on gimbals, and one where the whole\n ship rotated, and he hadn't cared for\n them at all. Felt disoriented, with\n something nagging at his mind all\n the time, as though the ships had\n been sabotaged. A couple of pilots\n had gone nuts in the \"spindizzy,\"\n and remembering his own feelings as\n he watched the sky go by, it was easy\n to understand.\n\n\n\n\n   Anyway, \"right side up\" tied in\n perfectly with the old \"clock\" system\n Garrity had dug out of those magazines\n he was always reading. Once\n they got used to it, it had turned out\n really handy. Old Doc Hoffman, his\n astrogation prof, would have turned\n purple if he'd ever dreamed they'd\n use such a conglomeration. But\n it worked. And when you were\n in a hurry, it worked in a hurry, and\n that was good enough for Coulter.\n He'd submitted a report on it to\n Colonel Silton.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You've got him, Paul. We're\n dead on his tail, five hundred miles\n back, and matching velocity. Turn\n forty-two degrees right, and you're\n lined up right on him.\" Johnson was\n pleased with the job he'd done.\n\n\n\n\n   Coulter watched the pip move into\n his sightscreen. It settled less than a\n degree off dead center. He made the\n final corrections in course, set the air\n pressure control to eight pounds, and\n locked his helmet.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Nice job, Johnny. Let's button\n up. You with us, Guns?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Garrity sounded lazy as a well-fed\n tiger. \"Ah'm with yew, cap'n.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Coulter advanced the throttle to\n 5 G's. And with the hiss of power,\n SF 308 began the deadly, intricate,\n precarious maneuver called a combat\n pass\u2014a maneuver inherited from the\n aerial dogfight\u2014though it often turned\n into something more like the\n broadside duels of the old sailing\n ships\u2014as the best and least suicidal\n method of killing a spaceship. To\n start on the enemy's tail, just out of\n his radar range. To come up his track\n at 2 mps relative velocity, firing six\n .30 caliber machine guns from fifty\n miles out. In the last three or four\n seconds, to break out just enough to\n clear him, praying that he won't\n break in the same direction.\n\n\n    And to\n keep on going.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Four minutes and thirty-four seconds\n to the break.\n\n\n   Sixty seconds at\n 5 G's; one hundred ninety-two seconds\n of free wheeling; and then, if\n they were lucky, the twenty-two frantic\n seconds they were out here for\u2014throwing\n a few pounds of steel slugs\n out before them in one unbroken\n burst, groping out fifty miles into\n the darkness with steel and radar fingers\n to kill a duplicate of themselves.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    This is the worst. These three minutes\n are the worst.\n\n\n   One hundred\n ninety-two eternal seconds of waiting,\n of deathly silence and deathly\n calm, feeling and hearing nothing\n but the slow pounding of their own\n heartbeats. Each time he got back, it\n faded away, and all he remembered\n was the excitement. But each time\n he went through it, it was worse. Just\n standing and waiting in the silence,\n praying they weren't spotted\u2014staring\n at the unmoving firmament and\n knowing he was a projectile hurtling\n two miles each second straight at a\n clump of metal and flesh that was\n the enemy. Knowing the odds were\n twenty to one against their scoring\n a kill ... unless they ran into him.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   At eighty-five seconds, he corrected\n slightly to center the pip. The momentary\n hiss of the rockets was a\n relief. He heard the muffled yammering\n as Guns fired a short burst\n from the .30's standing out of their\n compartments around the sides of the\n ship. They were practically recoilless,\n but the burst drifted him forward\n against the cradle harness.\n\n\n\n\n   And suddenly the waiting was\n over. The ship filled with vibration\n as Guns opened up.\n\n\n    Twenty-five seconds\n to target.\n\n\n   His eyes flicked from\n the sightscreen to the sky ahead,\n looking for the telltale flare of rockets\u2014ready\n to follow like a ferret.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    There he is!\n\n\n   At eighteen miles\n from target, a tiny blue light flickered\n ahead. He forgot everything but the\n sightscreen, concentrating on keeping\n the pip dead center. The guns hammered\n on. It seemed they'd been firing\n for centuries. At ten-mile range,\n the combat radar kicked the automatics\n in, turning the ship ninety\n degrees to her course in one and a\n half seconds. He heard the lee side\n firing cut out, as Garrity hung on\n with two, then three guns.\n\n\n\n\n   He held it as long as he could.\n Closer than he ever had before. At\n four miles he poured 12 G's for two\n seconds.\n\n\n\n\n   They missed ramming by something\n around a hundred yards. The\n enemy ship flashed across his tail in\n a fraction of a second, already turned\n around and heading up its own track,\n yet it seemed to Paul he could make\n out every detail\u2014the bright red star,\n even the tortured face of the pilot.\n Was there something lopsided in the\n shape of that rocket plume, or was\n he just imagining it in the blur of\n their passing? And did he hear a\n\n\n    ping\n\n\n   just at that instant, feel the\n ship vibrate for a second?\n\n\n\n\n   He continued the turn in the direction\n the automatics had started, bringing\n his nose around to watch the\n enemy's track. And as the shape of\n the plume told him the other ship\n was still heading back toward Earth,\n he brought the throttle back up to\n 12 G's, trying to overcome the lead\n his pass had given away.\n\n\n\n\n   Guns spoke quietly to Johnson.\n \"Let me know when we kill his RV.\n Ah may get another shot at him.\"\n\n\n\n\n   And Johnny answered, hurt,\n \"What do you think I'm doing down\n here\u2014reading one of your magazines?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Paul was struggling with hundred-pound\n arms, trying to focus the telescope\n that swiveled over the panel.\n As the field cleared, he could see that\n the plume was flaring unevenly, flickering\n red and orange along one side.\n Quietly and viciously, he was talking\n to himself. \"Blow! Blow!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   And she blew. Like a dirty ragged\n bit of fireworks, throwing tiny handfuls\n of sparks into the blackness.\n Something glowed red for a while,\n and slowly faded.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    There, but for the grace of God....\n\n\n   Paul shuddered in a confused\n mixture of relief and revulsion.\n\n\n\n\n   He cut back to 4 G's, noting that\n RVS registered about a mile per\n second away from station, and suddenly\n became aware that the red light\n was on for loss of air. The cabin\n pressure gauge read zero, and his\n heart throbbed into his throat as he\n remembered that\n\n\n    pinging\n\n\n   sound, just\n as they passed the enemy ship. He\n told Garrity to see if he could locate\n the loss, and any other damage, and\n was shortly startled by a low amazed\n whistle in his earphones.\n\n\n\n\n   \"If Ah wasn't lookin' at it, Ah\n wouldn't believe it. Musta been one\n of his shells went right around the\n fuel tank and out again, without hittin'\n it. There's at least three inches of\n tank on a line between the holes! He\n musta been throwin' curves at us.\n Man, cap'n, this is our lucky day!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Paul felt no surprise, only relief\n at having the trouble located. The\n reaction to the close call might not\n come till hours later. \"This kind of\n luck we can do without. Can you\n patch the holes?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Ah can patch the one where it\n came in, but it musta been explodin'\n on the way out. There's a hole Ah\n could stick mah head through.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That's a good idea.\" Johnson was\n not usually very witty, but this was\n one he couldn't resist.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Never mind, Guns. A patch that\n big wouldn't be safe to hold air.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   They were about eighty thousand\n miles out. He set course for Earth at\n about five and a half mps, which\n Johnson calculated to bring them in\n on the station on the \"going away\"\n side of its orbit, and settled back for\n the tedious two hours of free wheeling.\n For ten or fifteen minutes, the\n interphone crackled with the gregariousness\n born of recent peril, and\n gradually the ship fell silent as each\n man returned to his own private\n thoughts.\n\n\n\n\n   Paul was wondering about the men\n on the other ship\u2014whether any of\n them were still alive. Eighty thousand\n miles to fall. That was a little\n beyond the capacity of an emergency\n rocket\u2014about 2 G's for sixty seconds\u2014even\n if they had them. What a\n way to go home! He wondered what\n he'd do if it happened to him. Would\n he wait out his time, or just unlock\n his helmet.\n\n\n\n\n   Guns' drawl broke into his reverie.\n \"Say, cap'n, Ah've been readin' in\n this magazine about a trick they used\n to use, called skip bombin'. They'd\n hang a bomb on the bottom of one\n of these airplanes, and fly along the\n ground, right at what they wanted\n to hit. Then they'd let the bomb go\n and get out of there, and the bomb\n would sail right on into the target.\n You s'pose we could fix this buggy\n up with an A bomb or an H bomb\n we could let go a few hundred miles\n out? Stick a proximity fuse on it, and\n a time fuse, too, in case we missed.\n Just sittin' half a mile apart and\n tradin' shots like we did on that last\n mission is kinda hard on mah nerves,\n and it's startin' to happen too often.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Nice work if we could get it.\n I'm not crazy about those broadside\n battles myself. You'd think they'd\n have found something better than\n these thirty caliber popguns by now,\n but the odds say we've got to throw\n as many different chunks of iron as\n we can, to have a chance of hitting\n anything, and even then it's twenty\n to one against us. You wouldn't have\n one chance in a thousand of scoring\n a hit with a bomb at that distance,\n even if they didn't spot it and take\n off. What you'd need would be a\n rocket that could chase them, with\n the bomb for a head. And there's no\n way we could carry that size rocket,\n or fire it if we could. Some day these\n crates will come with men's rooms,\n and we'll have a place to carry something\n like that.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"How big would a rocket like that\n be?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Five, six feet, by maybe a foot.\n Weigh at least three hundred\n pounds.\"\n\n\n\n\n   It was five minutes before Guns\n spoke again. \"Ah been thinkin',\n cap'n. With a little redecoratin', Ah\n think Ah could get a rocket that size\n in here with me. We could weld a\n rail to one of the gun mounts that\n would hold it up to five or six G's.\n Then after we got away from station,\n Ah could take it outside and mount\n it on the rail.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Forget it, lad. If they ever caught\n us pulling a trick like that, they'd\n have us on hydroponic duty for the\n next five years. They just don't want\n us playing around with bombs, till\n the experts get all the angles figured\n out, and build ships to handle them.\n And besides, who do you think will\n rig a bomb like that, without anybody\n finding out? And where do you think\n we'd get a bomb in the first place?\n They don't leave those things lying\n around. Kovacs watches them like a\n mother hen. I think he counts them\n twice a day.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sorry, cap'n. Ah just figured if\n you could get hold of a bomb, Ah\n know a few of the boys who could\n rig the thing up for us and keep\n their mouths shut.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, forget about it. It's not a\n bad idea, but we haven't any bomb.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Right, cap'n.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   But it was Paul who couldn't forget\n about it. All the rest of the way\n back to station, he kept seeing visions\n of a panel sliding aside in the nose\n of a sleek and gleaming ship, while\n a small rocket pushed its deadly snout\n forward, and then streaked off at\n tremendous acceleration.\n\n\n\n\n   Interrogation was brief. The mission\n had turned up nothing new.\n Their kill made eight against seven\n for Doc Miller's crew, and they made\n sure Miller and the boys heard about\n it. They were lightheaded with the\n elation that followed a successful\n mission, swapping insults with the\n rest of the squadron, and reveling in\n the sheer contentment of being back\n safe.\n\n\n\n\n   It wasn't until he got back to his\n stall, and started to write his father\n a long overdue letter, that he remembered\n he had heard Kovacs say he\n was going on leave.\n\n\n\n\n   When he finished the letter, he\n opened the copy of \"Lady Chatterley's\n Lover\" he had borrowed from\n Rodriguez's limited but colorful library.\n He couldn't keep his mind on\n it. He kept thinking of the armament\n officer.\n\n\n\n\n   Kovacs was a quiet, intelligent kid,\n devoted to his work. Coulter wasn't\n too intimate with him. He wasn't a\n spaceman, for one thing. One of those\n illogical but powerful distinctions\n that sub-divided the men of the station.\n And he was a little too polite to\n be easy company.\n\n\n\n\n   Paul remembered the time he had\n walked into the Muroc Base Officer's\n Club with Marge Halpern on his\n arm. The hunger that had lain undisguised\n on Kovacs' face the moment\n he first saw them. Marge was\n a striking blonde with a direct manner,\n who liked men, especially orbit\n station men. He hadn't thought about\n the incident since then, but the look\n in Kovacs' eyes kept coming back to\n him as he tried to read.\n\n\n\n\n   He wasn't sure how he got there,\n or why, when he found himself walking\n into Colonel Silton's office to ask\n for the leave he'd passed up at his\n fiftieth mission. He'd considered taking\n it several times, but the thought\n of leaving the squadron, even for a\n couple of weeks, had made him feel\n guilty, as though he were quitting.\n\n\n\n\n   Once he had his papers, he started\n to get excited about it. As he cleaned\n up his paper work and packed his\n musette, his hands were fumbling,\n and his mind was full of Sylvia.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The vastness of Muroc Base was as\n incredible as ever. Row on uncounted\n row of neat buildings, each resting at\n the top of its own hundred-yard\n deep elevator shaft. A pulsing, throbbing\n city, dedicated to the long slow\n struggle to get into space and stay\n there. The service crew eyed them\n with studied indifference, as they\n writhed out of the small hatch and\n stepped to the ground. They drew a\n helijet at operations, and headed immediately\n for Los Angeles.\n\n\n\n\n   Kovacs had been impressed when\n Paul asked if he'd care to room together\n while they were on leave. He\n was quiet on the flight, as he had\n been on the way down, listening contentedly,\n while Paul talked combat\n and women with Bob Parandes, another\n pilot going on leave.\n\n\n\n\n   They parked the helijet at Municipal\n Field and headed for the public\n PV booths, picking up a coterie of\n two dogs and five assorted children\n on the way. The kids followed quietly\n in their wake, ecstatic at the sight of\n their uniforms.\n\n\n\n\n   Paul squared his shoulders, as befitted\n a hero, and tousled a couple of\n uncombed heads as they walked. The\n kids clustered around the booths, as\n Kovacs entered one to locate a hotel\n room, and Paul another, to call\n Sylvia.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Honey, I've been so scared you\n weren't coming back. Where are you?\n When will I see you? Why didn't\n you write?...\" She sputtered to a\n stop as he held up both hands in\n defense.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Whoa, baby. One thing at a time.\n I'm at the airport. You'll see me tonight,\n and I'll tell you the rest then.\n That is, if you're free tonight. And\n tomorrow. And the day after, and\n the day after that. Are you free?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Her hesitation was only momentary.\n \"Well, I was going out\u2014with\n a girl friend. But she'll understand.\n What's up?\"\n\n\n\n\n   He took a deep breath. \"I'd like\n to get out of the city for a few days,\n where we can take things easy and\n be away from the crowds. And there\n is another guy I'd like to bring\n along.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We could take my helijet out to\n my dad's cottage at\u2014\n\n\n    What did you\n say?\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n\n\n   It was a ticklish job explaining\n about Kovacs, but when she understood\n that he just wanted to do a\n friend a favor, and she'd still have\n Paul all to herself, she calmed down.\n They made their arrangements quickly,\n and switched off.\n\n\n\n\n   He hesitated a minute before he\n called Marge. She was quite a dish\n to give up. Once she'd seen him with\n Sylvia, he'd be strictly\n\n\n    persona non\n grata\n\n\n   \u2014that was for sure. It was an\n unhappy thought. Well, maybe it was\n in a good cause. He shrugged and\n called her.\n\n\n\n\n   She nearly cut him off when she\n first heard his request, but he did\n some fast talking. The idea of several\n days at the cottage intrigued her, and\n when he described how smitten\n Kovacs had been, she brightened up\n and agreed to come. He switched off,\n adjusted the drape of his genuine\n silk scarf, and stepped out of the\n booth.\n\n\n\n\n   Kovacs and the kids were waiting.\n The armament officer had apparently\n been telling them of Paul's exploits.\n They glowed with admiration. The\n oldest boy, about eleven, had true\n worship in his eyes. He hesitated a\n moment, then asked gravely: \"Would\n you tell us how you kill a Red, sir?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Paul eyed the time-honored weapon\n that dangled from the youngster's\n hand. He bent over and tapped it\n with his finger. His voice was warm\n and confiding, but his eyes were far\n away.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I think next we're going to try\n a slingshot,\" he said.\n\n\n\n\n   THE END\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Transcriber's Note:\n\n\n\n\n   This etext was produced from\n\n\n    Astounding Science Fiction\n\n\n   November 1955.\n Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright\n on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors\n have been corrected without note.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   ***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SLINGSHOT***\n\n\n\n\n   ******* This file should be named 22462-h.txt or 22462-h.zip *******\n\n\n\n\n   This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n\n\n   http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/4/6/22462\n\n\n\n\n   Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\n will be renamed.\n\n\n\n\n   Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no\n one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\n permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,\n set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to\n copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to\n protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project\n Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you\n charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you\n do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the\n rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose\n such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and\n research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do\n practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is\n subject to the trademark license, especially commercial\n redistribution.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhat was the ping that Coulter heard?\n\n (A) The sound of the lopsided rocket plume in the Red ship\n (B) The sound of an impact in the fuel tanks\n (C) The sound of the cabin depressurizing\n (D) The sound of the Red pilot killing his RV\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "B", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 29604, "query_start_index": 29606, "query_end_index": 29871, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "31736_TV0CUXDH_4", "pid": "31736_TV0CUXDH_4_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nTranscriber's Note:\n\n\n\n\n   This etext was produced from the September 1960 issue of If. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Star Performer\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   By ROBERT J. SHEA\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Blue Boy's rating was high and his fans were loyal to the\n death\u2014anyone's death!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir gingerly fitted the round opening in the bottom of the silvery\n globe over the top of his hairless blue skull. He pulled the globe\n down until he felt tiny filaments touching his scalp. The tips of the\n wires were cold.\n\n\n\n\n   The moderator then said, \"\n\n\n    Dreaming Through the Universe\n\n\n   tonight\n brings you the first native Martian to appear on the dreamwaves\u2014Gavir\n of the Desert Men. With him is his guardian, Dr. Malcomb Rice, the\n noted anthropologist.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Then the moderator questioned Malcomb, while Gavir nervously\n awaited the moment when his thoughts would be transmitted to millions\n of Earthmen. Malcomb told how he had been struck by Gavir's\n intelligence and missionary-taught ability to speak Earth's language,\n and had decided to bring Gavir to Earth.\n\n\n\n\n   The moderator turned to Gavir. \"Are you anxious to get back to Mars?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    No!\n\n\n   Gavir thought. Back behind the Preserve Barrier that killed you\n instantly if you stepped too close to it? Back to the constant fear of\n being seized by MDC guards for a labor pool, to wind up in the MDC\n mines?\n\n\n\n\n   Mars was where Gavir's father had been pinned, bayonets through his\n hands and feet, to the wall of a shack just the other side of the\n Barrier, to die slowly, out of Gavir's reach. Father James told Gavir\n that the head of MDC himself had ordered the killing, because Gavir's\n father had tried to organize resistance to the Corporation. Mars was\n where the magic powers of the Earthmen and the helplessness of the\n Martian tribes would always protect the head of MDC from Gavir's\n vengeance.\n\n\n\n\n   Back to that world of hopeless fear and hatred?\n\n\n    I never want to go\n back to Mars! I want to stay here!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   But that wasn't what he was supposed to think. Quickly he said, \"I\n will be happy to return to my people.\"\n\n\n\n\n   A movement caught his eye. The producer, reclining on a divan in a far\n corner of the small studio, was making some kind of signal by beating\n his fist against his forehead.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, enough of that!\" the moderator said briskly. \"How about singing\n one of your tribal songs for us?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir said, \"I will sing the\n\n\n    Song of Going to Hunt\n\n\n   .\" He heaved\n himself up from the divan, and, feet planted wide apart, threw back\n his head and began to howl.\n\n\n\n\n   He was considered a poor singer in his tribe, and he was not surprised\n that Malcomb and the moderator winced. But Malcomb had told him that\n it wouldn't matter. The dreamees receiving the dreamcast would hear\n the song as it\n\n\n    should\n\n\n   sound, as Gavir heard it in his mind.\n Everything that Gavir saw and heard and felt in his mind, the dreamees\n could see and hear and feel....\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   I\n   t was cold, bitter cold, on the plain. The hunter stood at the edge\n of the camp as the shriveled Martian sun struck the tops of the Shakam\n hills. The hunter hefted the long, balanced narvoon, the throwing\n knife, in his hand. He had faith in the knife, and in his skill with\n it.\n\n\n\n\n   The hunter filled his lungs, the cold air reaching deep into his\n chest. He shouted out his throat-bursting hunting cry. He began to run\n across the plain.\n\n\n\n\n   Crouching behind crumbling red rocks, racing over flat expanses of\n orange sand, the hunter sought traces of the seegee, the great slow\n desert beast whose body provided his tribe with all the essentials of\n existence. At last he saw tracks. He mounted a dune. Out on the plain\n before him a great brown seegee lumbered patiently, unaware of its\n danger.\n\n\n\n\n   The hunter was about to strike out after it, when a dark form leaped\n at him.\n\n\n\n\n   The hunter saw it out of the corner of his eye at the last moment. His\n startled sidestep saved him from the neck-breaking snap of the great\n jaws.\n\n\n\n\n   The drock's long body was armored with black scales. Curving fangs\n protruded from its upper jaw. Its hand-like forepaws ended in hooked\n claws, to grasp and tear its prey. It was larger, stronger, faster\n than the hunter. The thin Martian air carried weirdly high-pitched\n cries which proclaimed its craving to sink its fangs into the hunter's\n body. The drock's huge hind legs coiled back on their triple joints,\n and it sprang.\n\n\n\n\n   The hunter thrust the gleaming knife out before him, so that the dark\n body would land on its gleaming blade. The drock twisted in mid-air\n and landed to one side of the hunter.\n\n\n\n\n   Now, before it could gather itself for another spring, there was time\n for one cast of the blade. It had to be done at once. It had to be\n perfect. If it failed, the knife would be lost and the drock would\n have its kill. The hunter grasped the weapon by the blade, drew his\n arm back, and snapped it forward.\n\n\n\n\n   The blade struck deep into the throat of the drock.\n\n\n\n\n   The drock screamed eerily and jumped clumsily. The hunter threw\n himself at the great, dark body and retrieved the knife. He struck\n with it again and again into the gray twitching belly. Colorless blood\n ran out over the hard, tightly-stretched skin.\n\n\n\n\n   The drock fell, gave a last convulsion, and lay still. The hunter\n plunged the blade into the red sand to clean it. He threw back his\n head and bellowed his hunting cry. There was great glory in killing\n the drock, for it showed that the Desert Man and not the drock, was\n lord of the red waste....\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir sat down on the divan, exhausted, his song finished. He didn't\n hear the moderator winding up the dreamcast. Then the producer of the\n program was upon him.\n\n\n\n\n   He began shouting even before Gavir removed his headset. \"What kind\n of a fool are you? Before you started that song, you dreamed things\n about the Martian Development Corporation that were libelous! I got\n the whole thing\u2014the Barrier, the guards, the labor pools and mines,\n the father crucified. It was awful! MDC is one of our biggest\n sponsors.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Malcomb said, \"You can't expect an untrained young Martian to control\n his very thoughts. And may I point out that your tone is hostile?\"\n\n\n\n\n   At this a sudden change came over the producer. The standard Earth\n expression\u2014invincible benignity\u2014took control of his face. \"I\n apologize for having spoken sharply, but dreamcasting is a\n nerve-wracking business. If it weren't for Ethical Conditioning, I\n don't know how I'd control my aggressive impulses. The Suppression of\n Aggression is the Foundation of Civilization, eh?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Malcomb smiled. \"Ethical Conditioning Keeps Society from Fissioning.\"\n He shook hands with the producer.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Come around tomorrow at 1300 and collect your fee,\" said the\n producer. \"Good night, gentlemen.\"\n\n\n\n\n   As they left the Global Dreamcasting System building, Gavir said to\n Malcomb, \"Can we go to a bookstore tonight?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Tomorrow. I'm taking you to your hotel and then I'm going back to my\n apartment. We both need sleep. And don't forget, you've been warned\n not to go prowling around the city by yourself....\"\n\n\n\n\n   As soon as Gavir was sure that Malcomb was out of the hotel and well\n on his way home, he left his room and went out into the city.\n\n\n\n\n   In a pitifully few days he would be back in the Preserve, back with\n the fear of MDC, with hunger and the hopeless desire to find and kill\n the man who had ordered his father's death.\n\n\n\n\n   Now he had an opportunity to learn more about the universe of the\n Earthmen. Despite Malcomb's orders, he was going to find a seller of\n books.\n\n\n\n\n   During a reading class at the mission school, Father James had said,\n \"In books there is power. All that you call magic in our Earth\n civilization is explained in books.\" Gavir wanted to learn. It was his\n only hope to find an alternative to the short, fear-ridden,\n impoverished life he foresaw for himself.\n\n\n\n\n   A river of force carried him, along with thousands of\n Earthmen\u2014godlike beings in their perfect health and their impregnable\n benignity\u2014through the streets of the city. Platforms of force raised\n and lowered him through the city's multiple levels....\n\n\n\n\n   And, as has always happened to outlanders in cities, he became lost.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He was in a quarter where furtive red and violet lights danced in the\n shadows of hunched buildings. A half-dozen Earthmen approached him,\n stopped and stared. Gavir stared back.\n\n\n\n\n   The Earthmen wore black garments and furs and metal ornaments. The\n biggest of them wore a black suit, a long black cape, and a\n broad-brimmed black hat. He carried a coiled whip in one hand. The\n Earthmen turned to one another.\n\n\n\n\n   \"A Martian.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Let's give pain and death to the Martian! It will be a new\n experience\u2014one to savor.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Take pain, Martian!\"\n\n\n\n\n   The Earthman with the black hat raised his arm, and the long heavy\n lash fell on Gavir. He felt a savage sting in the arm he had thrown up\n to protect his eyes.\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir leaped at the Earthmen. He clubbed the man with the whip across\n the face. As the others rushed in, Gavir flailed about him with long\n arms and heavy fists.\n\n\n\n\n   He began to enjoy it. It was rare that a Martian had an opportunity to\n knock Earthmen down. The mood of the\n\n\n    Song of Going to Hunt\n\n\n   came over\n him. He sprang free of his attackers and drew his glittering narvoon.\n\n\n\n\n   The man with the whip yelled. They looked at his knife, and then all\n at once turned and ran. Gavir drew back his arm and threw the knife\n with a practiced catapult-snap of shoulder, elbow, and wrist. To his\n surprise, the blade clattered to the street far short of his\n retreating enemies. Then he remembered: you couldn't throw far in the\n gravity of Earth.\n\n\n\n\n   The Earthmen disappeared into a lift-force field. Gavir decided not to\n pursue them. He walked forward and picked up his narvoon, and saw that\n the street on which it lay was solid black pavement, not a\n force-field. He must be in the lowest level of the city. He didn't\n know his way around; he might meet more enemies. He forgot about the\n books he'd wanted, and began to search for his hotel.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   When he got back to his room, he went immediately to bed. He slept\n late.\n\n\n\n\n   Malcomb woke him at 1100. Gavir told Malcomb about the\n strangely-dressed men who had tried to kill him.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I told you not to wander around alone.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But you did not tell me that Earthmen might try to kill me. You have\n told me that Earthmen are good and peace-loving, that there have been\n no acts of violence on Earth for many decades. You have told me that\n only the MDC men are exceptions, because they are living off Earth,\n and this somehow makes them different.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Well, those people you ran into are another exception.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You know about the Regeneration and Rejuvenation treatment we have\n here on Earth. A variation of it was given you to acclimate you to\n Earth's gravity and atmosphere. Well, since the R&R treatment was\n developed, we Earthmen have a life-expectancy of about one hundred\n fifty years. Those people who attacked you were Century-Plus. They are\n over a hundred years old, but as healthy, physically, as ever.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What is wrong with them?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"They seem to have outgrown their Ethical Conditioning. They live\n wildly. Violently. It's a problem without precedent, and we don't know\n what to do with them. The fact is, Senile Delinquency is our number\n one problem.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why not punish them?\" said Gavir.\n\n\n\n\n   \"They're too powerful. They are often people who've pursued successful\n careers and acquired a good deal of property and position. And there\n are getting to be more of them all the time. But come on. You and I\n have to go over to Global Dreamcasting and collect our fee.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The impeccably affable producer of\n\n\n    Dreaming Through the Universe\n\n\n   gave Malcomb a check and then asked them to follow him.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Mr. Davery wants to see you. Mr.\n\n\n    Hoppy\n\n\n   Davery, executive\n vice-president in charge of production. Scion of one of Earth's oldest\n communications media families!\"\n\n\n\n\n   They went with the producer to the upper reaches of the Global\n Dreamcasting building. There they were ushered into a huge office.\n\n\n\n\n   They found Mr. Hoppy Davery lounging on a divan the size of a\n space-port. He was youthful in appearance, as were all Earthmen, but a\n soft plumpness and a receding hairline made him look slightly older\n than average.\n\n\n\n\n   He pointed a rigid finger at Malcomb and Gavir. \"I want you two to\n hear a condensed recording of statements taken from calls we received\n last night.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir stiffened. They\n\n\n    had\n\n\n   gotten into trouble because of his\n thoughts about MDC.\n\n\n\n\n   A voice boomed out of the ceiling.\n\n\n\n\n   \"That Martian boy has power. That song was a fist in the jaw. More!\"\n\n\n\n\n   A woman's voice followed:\n\n\n\n\n   \"If you let that boy go back to Mars I'll never dream a Global program\n again.\"\n\n\n\n\n   More voices:\n\n\n\n\n   \"Enormous!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Potent!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"That hunting song drove me mad. I\n\n\n    like\n\n\n   being mad!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Keep him on Earth.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Hoppy Davery pressed a button in the control panel on his divan, and\n the voices fell silent.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Those callers that admitted their age were all Century-Plus. The boy\n appeals to the Century-Plus mentality. I want to try him again. This\n time on a really big dream-show, not just an educational 'cast. Got a\n spot on next week's Farfel Flisket Show. If he gets the right\n response, we talk about a contract. Okay?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Malcomb said, \"His visa expires\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We'll take care of his visa.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir trembled with joy. Hoppy Davery pressed another button and a\n secretary entered with papers. She was followed by another woman.\n\n\n\n\n   The second woman was dark-haired and slender. She wore leather boots\n and tight brown breeches. She was bare from the waist up and her\n breasts were young and full. A jewelled clip fastened a scarlet cape\n at her neck. Her lips were a disconcertingly vivid red, apparently an\n artificial color. She kissed Hoppy Davery on the forehead, leaving red\n blotches on his pink dome. He wiped his forehead and looked at his\n hand.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Do you have to wear that barbaric face-paint?\" Hoppy turned sad eyes\n on Gavir and Malcomb. \"Gentlemen, my mother, Sylvie Davery.\"\n\n\n\n\n   A Senile Delinquent! thought Gavir. She looked like Davery's younger\n sister. Malcomb stared at her apprehensively, and Gavir wondered if\n she were somehow going to attack them.\n\n\n\n\n   She looked at Gavir. \"Mmm. What a body, what gorgeous blue skin. How\n tall are you, Blue Boy?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"He's approximately seven feet tall, Sylvie,\" said Hoppy, \"and what do\n you want here, anyway?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Just came up to see Blue Boy. One of the crowd dreamed him last\n night. Positively manic about him. I found out he'd be with you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"See?\" said Hoppy to Gavir. \"The Century-Plus mentality. You've got\n something they go for. Undoubtedly because you're\u2014forgive me\u2014such a\n complete barbarian. That's what they're all trying to be.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Spare me another lecture on Senile Delinquency, Our Number One\n Problem.\" She walked to the door and Gavir watched her all the way.\n She turned with a swirl of scarlet and a dramatic display of healthy\n young flesh. \"See you again, Blue Boy.\"\n\n\n\n\n   After Sylvie left, Hoppy Davery said, \"That might be a good\n professional name\u2014Blue Boy. Gavir doesn't\n\n\n    mean\n\n\n   anything. Now what\n kind of a song could you do for the Farfel Flisket show?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir thought. \"Perhaps you would like the\n\n\n    Song of Creation\n\n\n   .\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"It's part of a fertility rite,\" Malcomb explained.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Great! Give the Senile Delinquents another workout. It's not quite\n ethical, but its good for us. But for heaven's sake, Blue Boy, keep\n your mind off MDC!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The following week, Gavir sang the\n\n\n    Song of Creation\n\n\n   on the Farfel\n Flisket show, and transmitted the images which it brought up in his\n mind to his audience. A jubilant Hoppy Davery called him at his hotel\n next morning.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Best response I've ever seen! The Century-Plussers have been rioting\n and throwing mass orgies ever since you sang. But they take time out\n to call us up and beg for more. I've got a sponsor and a two-year\n contract lined up for you.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The sponsor was pacing back and forth in Hoppy Davery's office when\n Malcomb and Gavir arrived. Hoppy introduced him proudly. \"Mr. Jarvis\n Spurling, president of the Martian Development Corporation.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir's hand leaped at the narvoon under his doublet.\n\n\n\n\n   Then he stopped himself. He turned the gesture into the proffer of a\n handshake. \"How do you do?\" he said quietly. In his mind he\n congratulated himself. He had learned emotional control from the\n Earthmen. Here was the man who had ordered his father crucified! Yet\n he had managed to hide his instant desire to strike, to kill, to carry\n out the oath of the blood feud then and there.\n\n\n\n\n   Jarvis Spurling ignored Gavir's hand and stared coldly at him. There\n was not a trace of the usual Earthman's kindliness in his square,\n battered face. \"I'm told you got talent. Okay, but a Bluie is a Bluie.\n I'll pay you because a Bluie on Dreamvision is good publicity for MDC\n products. But one slip like on your first 'cast and you go back to the\n Preserve.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Mr. Spurling!\" said Malcomb. \"Your tone is hostile!\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Damn right. That Ethical Conditioning slop doesn't work on me. I've\n lived too long on the frontier. And I know Bluies.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Iwill sign the contract,\" said Gavir.\n\n\n\n\n   As he drew his signature pictograph on the contract, Sylvie Davery\n sauntered in. She held a white tube between her painted lips. The end\n of the tube was glowing and giving off clouds of smoke. Hoppy Davery\n coughed and Sylvie winked at Gavir. Gavir straightened up, and she\n took a long look at his seven feet.\n\n\n\n\n   \"All finished, Blue Boy? Come on, let's go have a drink at Lucifer\n Grotto.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Caution told Gavir to refuse. But before he could speak Spurling\n snapped, \"Disgusting! An Earth woman and a Bluie! If you were on Mars,\n lady, we'd deport you so fast your tail would burn. And God help the\n Bluie!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Sylvie blew a cloud of smoke at Spurling. \"You're not on Mars, Jack.\n You're back in civilization where we do what we damned well please.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Spurling laughed. \"I've heard about you Century-Plussers. You're all\n sick.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You can't claim any monopoly on mental health. Not with that\n concentration camp you run on Mars. Coming, Gavir?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir grinned at Spurling. \"The contract, I believe, does not cover my\n private life.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Hoppy Davery said, \"Sylvie, I don't think this is wise.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Sylvie uttered a short, sharp obscenity, linked arms with Gavir, and\n strolled out.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You screwball Senile Delinquent,\" Spurling yelled after Sylvie, \"you\n oughtta be locked up!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Lucifer Grotto was in that same quarter in which Gavir had been\n attacked. Sylvie told him it was\n\n\n    the\n\n\n   hangout for wealthier New York\n Century-Plussers. Gavir told her about the attack, and she laughed.\n \"It won't happen again. You're a hero to the Senile Delinquents now.\n By the way, the big fellow with the broad-brimmed hat, he's one of the\n most prominent Senile Delinquents of our day. He's president of the\n biggest privately-owned space line, but he likes to call himself the\n Hat Rat. You must be one of the few people who ever got away from him\n alive.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"He seemed happy to get away from me,\" said Gavir.\n\n\n\n\n   An arrangement of force-planes and 3V projections made the front of\n Lucifer Grotto appear to be a curtain of flames. Gavir hung back, but\n Sylvie inserted a tiny gold pitchfork into a small aperture in the\n glowing, rippling surface. The flames swept aside, revealing a\n doorway. A bearded man in black tights escorted them through a\n luridly-lit bar to a private room. When they were alone, Sylvie\n dropped her cape to the floor, sat on the edge of a huge, pink divan,\n and smiled at Gavir.\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir contemplated her. That she was over a hundred years old was a\n little frightening. But the skin of her face and her bare upper body\n was a warm color, and tautly filled. She had lashed out at Spurling,\n and he liked her for that. But in one way she was like Spurling. She\n didn't fit into the bland, non-violent world of Malcomb and Hoppy.\n\n\n\n\n   He shook his head. He said, \"Sylvie, why\u2014well, why are you the way\n you are? Why\u2014and how\u2014have you broken away from Ethical\n Conditioning?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Sylvie frowned. She spoke a few words into the air, ordering drinks.\n She said, \"I didn't do it deliberately. When I reached the age of\n about a hundred it stopped working for me. I suddenly wanted to do\n what\n\n\n    I\n\n\n   wanted to do. And then I found out that I didn't\n\n\n    know\n\n\n   what\n I wanted to do. It was Ethical Conditioning or nothing, so I picked\n nothing. And here I am, chasing nothing.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"How do you chase nothing?\"\n\n\n\n\n   She set fire to a white tube. \"This, for instance. They used to do it\n before they found out it caused cancer. Now there's no more cancer,\n but even if there were, I'd still smoke. That's the attitude I have.\n You try things. You live in the past, if you're inclined, adopt the\n costumes and manners of some more colorful time. You try ridiculous\n things, disgusting things, vicious things. You know they're all\n nothing, but you have to do something, so you go on doing nothing,\n elaborately and violently.\"\n\n\n\n\n   A tray of drinks rose through the floor. Sylvie frowned as she noticed\n a folded paper tucked between the glasses. She picked it up and read\n it, chuckled, and read it again, aloud.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Sir: I beg you to forgive the presumption of my recent attack on\n you. Since then you have captured my imagination. I now hold you to be\n the noblest savage of them all. Henceforward please consider me, Your\n obedient servant, Hat Rat.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"You've impressed him,\" said Sylvie. \"But you impress me even more.\n Come here.\"\n\n\n\n\n   She held out slim arms to him. He had no wish to refuse her. She was\n not like a Martian woman, but he found the differences exciting and\n attractive. He went to her, and he forgot entirely that she was over a\n hundred years old.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   In the months that followed, Gavir's fame spread over Earth. By\n spring, the rating computers credited him with an audience of eight\n hundred million\u2014ninety-five percent of whom were Century-Plussers.\n Davery doubled Gavir's salary.\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir toured the world with Sylvie, mobbed everywhere by worshipful\n Century-Plussers. Male Century-Plussers by the millions adopted blue\n doublets and blue kilts in honor of their hero.\n\n\n\n\n   Blue-dyed hair was now\n\n\n    de rigueur\n\n\n   among the ladies of Lucifer\n Grotto. The Hat Rat himself, who often appeared at a respectful\n distance in crowds around Gavir, now wore a wide-brimmed hat of\n brightest blue.\n\n\n\n\n   Then there came the dreamcast on which Gavir sang the\n\n\n    Song of\n Complaint\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n   It was an ancient song, a Desert Man's outcry against injustice,\n enemies, false friends and callous leaders. It was a protest against\n sufferings that could neither be borne nor prevented. At the climax of\n the song Gavir pictured a tribal chief who refused to make fair\n division of the spoils of a hunt with his warriors. Gradually he\n allowed this image to turn into a picture of Hoppy Davery withholding\n bundles of money from a starving Gavir. Then he ended the song.\n\n\n\n\n   Hoppy sent for him next morning.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Why did you do that?\" he said. \"Listen to this.\"\n\n\n\n\n   A recorded voice boomed: \"This is Hat Rat. Pay the Blue Boy what he\n deserves, or I will give you death. It will be a personal thing\n between you and me. I will besprinkle you with corrosive acids; I will\n burn out your eyes; I will\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Hoppy cut the voice off. Gavir saw that he was sweating. \"There were\n\n\n    dozens\n\n\n   like that. If you want more money, I'll\n\n\n    give\n\n\n   you more\n money. Say something nice about me on your next dreamcast, for\n heaven's sake!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir spread his big blue hands. \"I am sorry. I don't want more money.\n I cannot always control the pictures I make. These images come into\n my mind even though they have nothing to do with me.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Hoppy shook his head. \"That's because you haven't had Ethical\n Conditioning. We don't have this trouble with our other performers.\n You just must remember that dreamvision is the most potent\n communications medium ever devised. Be\n\n\n    careful\n\n\n   .\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I will,\" said Gavir.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   On his next dreamcast Gavir sang the\n\n\n    Song of the Blood Feud\n\n\n   . He\n pictured a Desert Man whose father had been killed by a drock.\n\n\n\n\n   The Desert Man ran over the red sand, and he found the drock. He did\n not throw his knife. That would not have satisfied his hatred. He fell\n upon the drock and stabbed and stabbed.\n\n\n\n\n   The Desert Man howled his hunting-cry over the body of his enemy, and\n spat into its face.\n\n\n\n\n   And the fanged face of the drock turned into the square, battered face\n of Jarvis Spurling. Gavir held the image in his mind for a long\n moment.\n\n\n\n\n   When the dreamcast was over, a studio page ran up to Gavir. \"Mr.\n Spurling wants to see you at once, at his office.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Let him come and find me,\" said Gavir. \"Let us go, Sylvie.\"\n\n\n\n\n   They went to Lucifer Grotto, where Gavir's wealthiest admirers among\n the Senile Delinquents were giving a party for him in the Pandemonium\n Room. The only prominent person missing, as Sylvie remarked after\n surveying the crowd, was the Hat Rat. They wondered about it, but no\n one knew where he was.\n\n\n\n\n   Sheets of flame illuminated the wild features and strange garments of\n over a hundred Century-Plus ladies and gentlemen. Gouts of flame\n leaped from the walls to light antique-style cigarettes. Drinks were\n refilled from nozzles of molded fire.\n\n\n\n\n   An hour passed from the time of Gavir's arrival.\n\n\n\n\n   Then Jarvis Spurling joined the party. There was a heavy frontier\n sonic pistol strapped at his waist. A protesting Malcomb was behind\n him.\n\n\n\n\n   Jarvis Spurling's square face was dark with anger. \"You deliberately\n put my face on that animal! You want to make the public hate me. I pay\n your salary and keep you here on Earth, and this is what I get for it.\n All right. A Bluie is a Bluie, and I'll treat you like a Bluie should\n be treated.\" He unsnapped his holster and drew the square, heavy\n pistol out and pointed it at Gavir.\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir stood up. His right hand plucked at his doublet.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You're itching to go for that throwing knife,\" said Spurling. \"Go on!\n Take it out and get ready to throw it. I'll give you that much\n chance. Let's make a game out of this. We'll make like we're back on\n Mars, Bluie, and you're out hunting a drock. And you find one, only\n this drock has a gun. How about that, Bluie?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gavir took out the narvoon, grasped the blade, and drew his arm back.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Gavir!\"\n\n\n\n\n   It was the Hat Rat. He stood between pillars of flame in the doorway\n of the Pandemonium Room of Lucifer Grotto, and there was a peculiar\n contrivance of dark brown wood and black metal tubing cradled in his\n arm. \"This ancient shotgun I dedicate to your blood feud. I shall hunt\n down your enemy, Gavir!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Spurling turned. The Hat Rat saw him.\n\n\n\n\n   \"The enemy!\" the Hat Rat shouted.\n\n\n\n\n   The shotgun exploded.\n\n\n\n\n   Spurling's body was thrown back against Gavir. Gavir saw a huge ragged\n red caved-in place in Spurling's chest. Spurling's body sagged to the\n floor and lay there face up, eyes open. The Senile Delinquents of\n Lucifer Grotto leaned forward to grin at the tattered body.\n\n\n\n\n   Still holding the narvoon, Gavir stood over his dead enemy. He threw\n back his head and howled out the hunting cry of the Desert Men. Then\n he looked down and spat in Jarvis Spurling's dead face.\n\n\n\n\n   END\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhy did the Earthmen attack Gavir intially?\n\n (A) The Earthmen were older citizens who had outgrown their ethical conditioning\n (B) They were members of the MDC\n (C) Earthlings were very prejudiced against Martians\n (D) Gavir had offended them by staring\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "A", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 28327, "query_start_index": 28329, "query_end_index": 28614, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "99927_EVLEI3Q2_6", "pid": "99927_EVLEI3Q2_6_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nOpen Access: Policies\n\n \n\n\n \n\n\n                                             4.1 OA Policies at Funding Agencies and Universities\n                                             \n\n\n\nAuthors control the volume and growth of OA. They decide whether to submit their work to OA journals (gold OA), whether to deposit their work in OA repositories (green OA), and how to use their copyrights. But scholarly authors are still largely unfamiliar with their OA options. It\u2019s pointless to appeal to them as a bloc because they don\u2019t act as a bloc. It\u2019s not hard to persuade or even excite them once we catch their attention, but because they are so anarchical, overworked, and preoccupied, it\u2019s hard to catch their attention.\n\n\nFortunately, funding agencies and universities are discovering their own interests in fostering OA. These nonprofit institutions make it their mission to advance research and to make that research as useful and widely available as possible. Their money frees researchers to do their work and avoid the need to tie their income to the popularity of their ideas. Above all, these institutions are in an unparalleled position to influence author decisions.\n\n\n\n                                             Today, more than fifty funding agencies and more than one hundred universities have adopted strong OA policies. Each one depends on the primacy of author decisions.\n                                             \n\n\n\n\n                                             One kind of policy, better than nothing, requests or encourages OA. A stronger kind of policy requires OA or makes it the default for new work. These stronger policies are usually called OA \n\nmandates\n\n                                              and I\u2019ll use that term for lack of a better one (but see section 4.2 on how it\u2019s misleading).\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nRequest or encouragement policies\n\n                                                      These merely ask faculty to make their work OA, or recommend OA for their new work. Sometimes they\u2019re called resolutions or pledges rather than policies.\n                                                     \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEncouragement policies can target green and gold OA equally. By contrast, mandates only make sense for green OA, at least today when OA journals constitute only about one-quarter of peer-reviewed journals. A gold OA mandate would put most peer-reviewed journals off-limits and seriously limit faculty freedom to submit their work to the journals of their choice. This problem doesn\u2019t arise for green OA mandates.\n\n\n\n                                             Fortunately, this is well understood. There are no gold OA mandates anywhere; all OA mandates are green. Unfortunately, however, many people mistakenly believe that all OA is gold OA and therefore mistake proposed green OA mandates for proposed gold OA mandates and raise objections that would only apply to gold OA mandates. But as more academics understand the green/gold distinction, and understand that well-written green OA mandates are compatible with academic freedom, more institutions are adopting green OA mandates, almost always at the initiative of faculty themselves.\n \n\n\n\nAt universities, there are roughly three approaches to green OA mandates:\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLoophole mandates\n\n                                                      These require green OA except when the author\u2019s publisher doesn\u2019t allow it.\n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nDeposit mandates\n\n                                                      These require deposit in an OA repository as soon as the article is accepted for publication, but they separate the timing of deposit from the timing of OA. If the author\u2019s publisher doesn\u2019t allow OA, then these policies keep the deposited article dark or non-OA. If the publisher allows OA, immediately or after some embargo, then the deposit becomes OA as soon as the permission kicks in. Because most publishers allow OA on some timetable, this method will provide OA to most new work in due time.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                                             Deposit mandates generally depend on publisher permission for OA, just like loophole mandates. The difference is that they require deposit even when they can\u2019t obtain permission for OA.\n                                             \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nRights-retention mandates\n\n                                                      These require deposit in an OA repository as soon as the article is accepted for publication, just like deposit mandates. But they add a method to secure permission for making the deposit OA. There\u2019s more than one way to secure that permission. At the Wellcome Trust and NIH, which pioneered this approach for funding agencies, when grantees publish articles based on their funded research they must retain the nonexclusive right to authorize OA through a repository. At Harvard, which pioneered this approach for universities, faculty members vote to give the university a standing nonexclusive right (among other nonexclusive rights) to make their future work OA through the institutional repository. When faculty publish articles after that, the university already has the needed permission, and faculty needn\u2019t take any special steps to retain rights or negotiate with publishers. Nor need they wait for the publisher\u2019s embargo to run. Harvard-style policies also give faculty a waiver option, allowing them to opt out of the grant of permission to the university, though not out of the deposit requirement. When faculty members obtain waivers for given works, then Harvard-style mandates operate like deposit mandates and the works remain dark deposits until the institution has permission to make them OA.\n                                                     \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMany OA policies are crossbreeds rather than pure types, but all the policies I\u2019ve seen are variations on these four themes.\n\n\nFirst note that none of the three \u201cmandates\u201d absolutely requires OA. Loophole mandates allow some work to escape through the loophole. Deposit mandates allow some deposited work to remain dark (non-OA), by following publisher preferences. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options allow some work to remain dark, by following author preferences.\n\n\nLoophole and deposit policies defer to publishers for permissions, while rights-retention policies obtain permission from authors before they transfer rights to publishers. For loophole and deposit policies, permission is contingent, because some publishers are willing and some are not. For rights-retention policies, permission is assured, at least initially or by default, although authors may opt out for any publication.\n\n\n\n                                             When loophole policies can\u2019t provide OA, covered works needn\u2019t make it to the repository even as dark deposits. When deposit and rights-retention policies can\u2019t provide OA, at least they require dark deposit for the texts, and OA for the metadata (information about author, title, date, and so on). Releasing the metadata makes even a dark deposit visible to readers and search engines. Moreover, many repositories support an email-request button for works on dark deposit. The button enables a reader to submit a one-click request for a full-text email copy and enables the author to grant or deny the request with a one-click response.\n                                             \n\n\n\nWe could say that rights-retention policies require OA except when authors opt out, or that they simply shift the default to OA. Those are two ways of saying the same thing because, either way, faculty remain free to decide for or against OA for each of their publications. Preserving this freedom and making it conspicuous help muster faculty support, indeed, unanimous faculty votes. Because shifting the default is enough to change behavior on a large scale, waiver options don\u2019t significantly reduce the volume of OA. At Harvard the waiver rate is less than 5 percent, and at MIT it\u2019s less than 2 percent.\n\n\nLoophole policies and rights-retention policies both offer opt-outs. But loophole policies give the opt-out to publishers and rights-retention policies give it to authors. The difference is significant because many more authors than publishers want OA for research articles.\n\n\nMany institutions adopt loophole policies because they believe a blanket exemption for dissenting publishers is the only way to avoid copyright problems. But that is not true. Deposit policies don\u2019t make works OA until publishers allow OA, and rights-retention policies close the loophole and obtain permission directly from authors at a time when authors are the copyright holders.\n\n\n\n                                             OA policies from funding agencies are very much like OA policies from universities. They can encourage green and gold OA, or they can require green OA. If they require green OA, they can do so in one of the three ways above. If there\u2019s a difference, it\u2019s that when funders adopt a rights-retention mandate, they typically don\u2019t offer waiver options. On the contrary, the Wellcome Trust and NIH require their grantees to make their work OA through a certain OA repository on a certain timetable and to retain the right to authorize that OA. If a given publisher will not allow grantees to comply with their prior funding agreement, then grantees must look for another publisher.\n                                             \n\n\n\nThere are two reasons why these strong funder policies don\u2019t infringe faculty freedom to submit work to their journals of their choice. First, researchers needn\u2019t seek funds from these funders. When they choose to do so, then they agree to the OA provisions, just as they agree to the other terms and conditions of the grant. The OA \u201cmandate\u201d is a condition on a voluntary contract, not an unconditional requirement. It\u2019s a reasonable condition as well, since public funders, like the NIH, disburse public money in the public interest, and private funders, like the Wellcome Trust, disburse charitable money for charitable purposes. To my knowledge, no researchers have refused to apply for Wellcome or NIH funds because of the OA condition, even when they plan to publish in OA-averse journals. The OA condition benefits authors and has not been a deal-breaker.\n\n\n\n                                             Second, virtually all publishers accommodate these policies. For example, no surveyed publishers anywhere refuse to publish work by NIH-funded authors on account of the agency\u2019s OA mandate. Hence, in practice grantees may still submit work to the journals of their choice, even without a waiver option to accommodate holdout publishers.\n                                             \n\n\n\nWe should never forget that most toll-access journals already allow green OA and that a growing number of high-quality, high-prestige peer-reviewed journal are gold OA. From one point of view, we don\u2019t need OA mandates when authors already plan to publish in one of those journals. But sometimes toll-access journals change their positions on green OA. Sometimes authors don\u2019t get around to making their work green OA even when their journals allow it. And sometimes authors don\u2019t publish in one of those journals. The final rationale for green OA mandates, then, is for institutions to bring about OA for their entire research output, regardless of how publishers might alter their policies, regardless of author inertia, and regardless of the journals in which faculty or grantees choose to publish.\n\n\nGreen OA mandates don\u2019t assure OA to the entire research output of a university or funding agency, for the same reason that they don\u2019t require OA without qualification. But implementing them provides OA to a much larger percentage of the research output than was already headed toward OA journals or OA repositories, and does so while leaving authors free to submit their work to the journals of their choice.\n\n\n\n                                             I\u2019ve only tried to give a rough taxonomy of OA policies and their supporting arguments. For detailed recommendations on OA policy provisions, and specific arguments for them, see my 2009 analysis of policy options for funding agencies and universities.\n                                             \n\n\n\n\n                                             I\u2019ve also focused here on OA policies for peer-reviewed research articles. Many universities have adopted OA mandates for theses and dissertations, and many funder OA policies also cover datasets. A growing number of universities supplement OA mandates for articles with a sensible and effective policy to assure compliance: When faculty come up for promotion or tenure, the review committee will only consider journal articles on deposit in the institutional repository.\n                                             \n\n\n\n\n                                             4.2 Digression on the Word \u201cMandate\u201d\n                                             \n\n\n\nThe strongest OA policies use words like \u201cmust\u201d or \u201cshall\u201d and require or seem to require OA. They\u2019re commonly called OA \u201cmandates.\u201d But all three varieties of university \u201cmandate\u201d above show why the term is misleading. Loophole mandates don\u2019t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are either not deposited in the repository or not made OA. Deposit mandates don\u2019t require OA without qualification: when publishers dissent, articles are deposited in a repository but are not made OA. Rights-retention mandates with waiver options don\u2019t require OA without qualification: authors may obtain waivers and sometimes do. I haven\u2019t seen a university OA \u201cmandate\u201d anywhere without at least one of these three kinds of flexibility.\n\n\n\n                                             That\u2019s the main reason why no university policies require OA without qualification. There are a few more. First, as Harvard\u2019s Stuart Shieber frequently argues, even the strongest university policies can\u2019t make tenured faculty comply.\n                                             \n                                              Second, as I\u2019ve frequently argued, successful policies are implemented through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance, not coercion. Third, even the strongest policies\u2014even the no-loophole, no-deference, no-waiver policies at the Wellcome Trust and NIH\u2014make OA a condition on a voluntary contract. No policy anywhere pretends to impose an unconditional OA requirement, and it\u2019s hard to imagine how any policy could even try. (\u201cYou must make your work OA even if you don\u2019t work for us or use our funds\u201d?)\n\n\n\nUnfortunately, we don\u2019t have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language while deferring to third-person dissents or offering first-person opt-outs. Nor do we have a good vocabulary for policies that use mandatory language and replace enforcement with compliance-building through expectations, education, incentives, and assistance. The word \u201cmandate\u201d is not a very good fit for policies like this, but neither is any other English word.\n\n\n\n                                             By contrast, we do have a good word for policies that use mandatory language for those who agree to be bound. We call them \u201ccontracts.\u201d While \u201ccontract\u201d is short, accurate, and unfrightening, it puts the accent on the author\u2019s consent to be bound. That\u2019s often illuminating, but just as often we want to put the accent on the content\u2019s destiny to become OA. For that purpose, \u201cmandate\u201d has become the term of art, for better or worse.\n                                             \n\n\n\nI use \u201cmandate\u201d with reluctance because it can frighten some of the people I\u2019m trying to persuade and can give rise to misunderstandings about the policies behind the label. When we have time and space for longer phrases, we can talk about \u201cputting an OA condition\u201d on research grants, in the case of NIH-style policies, or \u201cshifting the default to OA\u201d for faculty research, in the case of Harvard-style policies. These longer expressions are more accurate and less frightening. However, sometimes we need a shorthand term, and we need a term that draws an appropriately sharp contrast with policies that merely request or encourage OA.\n\n\nIf anyone objects that a policy containing mandatory language and a waiver option isn\u2019t really a \u201cmandate,\u201d I won\u2019t disagree. On the contrary, I applaud them for recognizing a nuance which too many others overlook. (It\u2019s depressing how many PhDs can read a policy with mandatory language and a waiver option, notice the mandatory language, overlook the waiver option, and then cite the lack of flexibility as an objection.) But denying that a policy is a mandate can create its own kinds of misunderstanding. In the United States, citizens called for jury duty must appear, even if many can claim exemptions and go home again. We can say that jury duty with exemptions isn\u2019t really a \u201cduty,\u201d provided we don\u2019t conclude that it\u2019s merely a request and encouragement.\n\n\n\n                                             Finally, a common misunderstanding deliberately promulgated by some publishers is that OA must be \u201cmandated\u201d because faculty don\u2019t want it. This position gets understandable but regrettable mileage from the word \u201cmandate.\u201d It also overlooks decisive counter-evidence that we\u2019ve had in hand since 2004. Alma Swan\u2019s empirical studies of researcher attitudes show that an overwhelming majority of researchers would \u201cwillingly\u201d comply with a mandatory OA policy from their funder or employer.\n                                             \n\n\n\n\n                                             The most recent evidence of faculty willingness is the stunning series of strong OA policies adopted by unanimous faculty votes. (When is the last time you heard of a unanimous faculty vote for anything, let alone anything of importance?) As recently as 2007, speculation that we\u2019d soon see more than two dozen unanimous faculty votes for OA policies would have been dismissed as wishful thinking. But now that the evidence lies before us, what looks like wishful thinking is the publishing lobby\u2019s idea that OA must be mandated because faculty don\u2019t want it.\n                                             \n\n\n\nFinally, the fact that faculty vote unanimously for strong OA policies is a good reason to keep looking for a better word than \u201cmandate.\u201d At least it\u2019s a good reason to look past the colloquial implications of the term to the policies themselves and the players who drafted and adopted them. Since 2008, most OA \u201cmandates\u201d at universities have been self-imposed by faculty.\n\n\n\n                                             4.3 Digression on the Historical Timing of OA Policies\n                                             \n\n\n\nSome kinds of strong OA policy that are politically unattainable or unwise today may become attainable and wise in the future. Here are three examples.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                                                     Today, a libre green mandate (say, one giving users the right to copy and redistribute, not just access for reading) would face serious publisher resistance. Even if the policy included rights retention and didn\u2019t depend on publishers for permissions, publisher resistance would still matter because publishers possess\u2014and ought to possess\u2014the right to refuse to publish any work for any reason. They could refuse to publish authors bound by a libre green policy, or they could insist on a waiver from the policy as a condition of publication. Policies triggering rejections hurt authors, and policies driving up waiver rates don\u2019t do much to help OA. However, publisher resistance might diminish as the ratio of OA publishers to toll-access publishers tilts toward OA, as spontaneous author submissions shift toward OA journals, or as the number of institutions with libre green mandates makes resistance more costly than accommodation for publishers. When OA policies are toothless, few in number, or concentrated in small institutions, then they must accommodate publishers in order to avoid triggering rejections and hurting authors. But as policies grow in number, scope, and strength, the situation could flip over, and publishers will have to accommodate OA policies in order to avoid hurting themselves by rejecting too many good authors for reasons unrelated to the quality of their work.\n                                                     \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nToday, a gold OA mandate would limit faculty freedom to submit work to the journals of their choice. But that\u2019s because today only about 25 percent of peer-reviewed journals are OA. As this percentage grows, then a gold OA mandate\u2019s encroachment on academic freedom shrinks. At some point even the most zealous defenders of faculty freedom may decide that the encroachment is negligible. In principle the encroachment could be zero, though of course when the encroachment is zero, and gold OA mandates are harmless, then gold OA mandates would also be unnecessary.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nToday, faculty voting for a rights-retention OA mandate want a waiver option, and when the option is available their votes tend to be overwhelming or unanimous. But there are several circumstances that might make it attractive for faculty to abolish waiver options or make waivers harder to obtain. One is a shift in faculty perspective that makes access to research more urgent than indulging publishers who erect access barriers. Another is a significant rise in publisher acceptance of green OA, which gives virtually all authors\u2014rather than just most\u2014blanket permission for green OA. In the first case, faculty might \u201cvote with their submissions\u201d and steer clear of publishers who don\u2019t allow author-initiated green OA. In the second case, faculty would virtually never encounter such publishers. In the first case, they\u2019d seldom want waivers, and the second they\u2019d seldom need waivers.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                                             It\u2019s understandable that green gratis mandates are spreading faster than green libre mandates, that green mandates in general are spreading faster than gold mandates, and that rights-retention policies with waiver options are spreading faster than rights-retention policies without waivers. However, there is modest growth on one of these fronts: green libre mandates.\n                                             \n\n\n\nThe case against these three kinds of OA policy is time-sensitive, not permanent. It\u2019s circumstantial, and circumstances are changing. But the strategy for institutions wanting to remove access barriers to research is unchanging: they should adopt the strongest policies they can today and watch for the moment when they could strengthen them.\n\n\nAs researchers become more familiar with OA, as more institutions adopt OA policies, as more new literature is covered by strong OA policies, as more toll-access journals convert to OA, as more toll-access journals accommodate OA mandates without converting, and even as more OA journals shift from gratis to libre, institutions will be able strengthen their OA policies without increasing publisher-controlled rejection rates or author-controlled waiver rates. They should watch the shifting balance of power and seize opportunities to strengthen their policies.\n\n\nThe moments of opportunity will not be obvious. They will not be highlighted by objective evidence alone and will call for some self-fulfilling leadership. Institutional policy-makers will have to assess not only the climate created by existing policies, and existing levels of support, but also the likely effects of their own actions. Every strong, new policy increases the likelihood of publisher accommodation, and when enough universities and funders have policies, all publishers will have to accommodate them. In that sense, every strong new policy creates some of the conditions of its own success. Every institution adopting a new policy brings about OA for the research it controls and makes the way easier for other institutions behind it. Like many other policy issues, this is one on which it is easier to follow than to lead, and we already have a growing number of leaders. A critical mass is growing and every policy is an implicit invitation to other institutions to gain strength through common purpose and help accelerate publisher adaptation.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nIn which situations does truly unconditional OA policy apply?\n\n (A) When publishing work in a journal \n (B) When working for a university \n (C) There are no situations where unconditional OA applies \n (D) When working in the field of Physics\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "C", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 24581, "query_start_index": 24583, "query_end_index": 24855, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "31282_BQYW9TCH_4", "pid": "31282_BQYW9TCH_4_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nTranscriber's Note:\n\n\n\n\n   This etext was produced from Amazing Stories April-May 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   MARS CONFIDENTIAL!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Jack Lait & Lee Mortimer\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Illustrator\n\n\n   : L. R. Summers\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Here is history's biggest news scoop! Those intrepid\n reporters Jack Lait and Lee Mortimer, whose best-selling\n exposes of life's seamy side from New York to Medicine Hat\n have made them famous, here strip away the veil of millions\n of miles to bring you the lowdown on our sister planet. It\n is an amazing account of vice and violence, of virtues and\n victims, told in vivid, jet-speed style.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Here you'll learn why Mars is called the Red Planet, the\n part the Mafia plays in her undoing, the rape and rapine\n that has made this heavenly body the cesspool of the\n Universe. In other words, this is Mars\u2014Confidential!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   P-s-s-s-s-t!\n\n\n\n\n   HERE WE GO AGAIN\u2014Confidential.\n\n\n\n\n   We turned New York inside out. We turned Chicago upside down. In\n Washington we turned the insiders out and the outsiders in. The howls\n can still be heard since we dissected the U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\n   But Mars was our toughest task of spectroscoping. The cab drivers\n spoke a different language and the bell-hops couldn't read our\n currency. Yet, we think we have X-rayed the dizziest\u2014and this may\n amaze you\u2014the dirtiest planet in the solar system. Beside it, the\n Earth is as white as the Moon, and Chicago is as peaceful as the Milky\n Way.\n\n\n\n\n   By the time we went through Mars\u2014its canals, its caves, its\n satellites and its catacombs\u2014we knew more about it than anyone who\n lives there.\n\n\n\n\n   We make no attempt to be comprehensive. We have no hope or aim to make\n Mars a better place in which to live; in fact, we don't give a damn\n what kind of a place it is to live in.\n\n\n\n\n   This will be the story of a planet that could have been another proud\n and majestic sun with a solar system of its own; it ended up, instead,\n in the comic books and the pulp magazines.\n\n\n\n\n   We give you MARS CONFIDENTIAL!\n\n\n\n\n   I\n\n\n\n\n   THE LOWDOWN CONFIDENTIAL\n\n\n\n\n   Before the space ship which brings the arriving traveler lands at the\n Martian National Airport, it swoops gracefully over the nearby city in\n a salute. The narrow ribbons, laid out in geometric order, gradually\n grow wider until the water in these man-made rivers becomes crystal\n clear and sparkles in the reflection of the sun.\n\n\n\n\n   As Mars comes closer, the visitor from Earth quickly realizes it has a\n manner and a glamor of its own; it is unworldy, it is out of this\n world. It is not the air of distinction one finds in New York or\n London or Paris. The Martian feeling is dreamlike; it comes from being\n close to the stuff dreams are made of.\n\n\n\n\n   However, after the sojourner lands, he discovers that Mars is not much\n different than the planet he left; indeed, men are pretty much the\n same all over the universe, whether they carry their plumbing inside\n or outside their bodies.\n\n\n\n\n   As we unfold the rates of crime, vice, sex irregularities, graft,\n cheap gambling, drunkenness, rowdyism and rackets, you will get,\n thrown on a large screen, a peep show you never saw on your TV during\n the science-fiction hour.\n\n\n\n\n   Each day the Earth man spends on Mars makes him feel more at home;\n thus, it comes as no surprise to the initiated that even here, at\n least 35,000,000 miles away from Times Square, there are hoodlums who\n talk out of the sides of their mouths and drive expensive convertibles\n with white-walled tires and yellow-haired frails. For the Mafia, the\n dread Black Hand, is in business here\u2014tied up with the\n subversives\u2014and neither the Martian Committee for the Investigation\n of Crime and Vice, nor the Un-Martian Activities Committee, can dent\n it more than the Kefauver Committee did on Earth, which is practically\n less than nothing.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   This is the first time this story has been printed. We were offered\n four trillion dollars in bribes to hold it up; our lives were\n threatened and we were shot at with death ray guns.\n\n\n\n\n   We got this one night on the fourth bench in Central Park, where we\n met by appointment a man who phoned us earlier but refused to tell his\n name. When we took one look at him we did not ask for his credentials,\n we just knew he came from Mars.\n\n\n\n\n   This is what he told us:\n\n\n\n\n   Shortly after the end of World War II, a syndicate composed of\n underworld big-shots from Chicago, Detroit and Greenpoint planned to\n build a new Las Vegas in the Nevada desert. This was to be a plush\n project for big spenders, with Vegas and Reno reserved for the\n hoi-polloi.\n\n\n\n\n   There was to be service by a private airline. It would be so\n ultra-ultra that suckers with only a million would be thumbed away and\n guys with two million would have to come in through the back door.\n\n\n\n\n   The Mafia sent a couple of front men to explore the desert. Somewhere\n out beyond the atom project they stumbled on what seemed to be the\n answer to their prayer.\n\n\n\n\n   It was a huge, mausoleum-like structure, standing alone in the desert\n hundreds of miles from nowhere, unique, exclusive and mysterious. The\n prospectors assumed it was the last remnant of some fabulous and\n long-dead ghost-mining town.\n\n\n\n\n   The entire population consisted of one, a little duffer with a white\n goatee and thick lensed spectacles, wearing boots, chaps and a silk\n hat.\n\n\n\n\n   \"This your place, bud?\" one of the hoods asked.\n\n\n\n\n   When he signified it was, the boys bought it. The price was\n agreeable\u2014after they pulled a wicked-looking rod.\n\n\n\n\n   Then the money guys came to look over their purchase. They couldn't\n make head or tail of it, and you can hardly blame them, because inside\n the great structure they found a huge contraption that looked like a\n cigar (Havana Perfecto) standing on end.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What the hell is this,\" they asked the character in the opera hat, in\n what is known as a menacing attitude.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The old pappy guy offered to show them. He escorted them into the\n cigar, pressed a button here and there, and before you could say \"Al\n Capone\" the roof of the shed slid back and they began to move upward\n at a terrific rate of speed.\n\n\n\n\n   Three or four of the Mafia chieftains were old hop-heads and felt at\n home. In fact, one of them remarked, \"Boy, are we gone.\" And he was\n right.\n\n\n\n\n   The soberer Mafistas, after recovering from their first shock, laid\n ungentle fists on their conductor. \"What goes on?\" he was asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"This is a space ship and we are headed for Mars.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"What's Mars?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A planet up in space, loaded with gold and diamonds.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Any bims there?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I beg your pardon, sir. What are bims?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Get a load of this dope. He never heard of bims. Babes, broads,\n frails, pigeons, ribs\u2014catch on?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Oh, I assume you mean girls. There must be, otherwise what are the\n diamonds for?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The outward trip took a week, but it was spent pleasantly. During that\n time, the Miami delegation cleaned out Chicago, New York and\n Pittsburgh in a klabiash game.\n\n\n\n\n   The hop back, for various reasons, took a little longer. One reason\n may have been the condition of the crew. On the return the boys from\n Brooklyn were primed to the ears with\n\n\n    zorkle\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Zorkle\n\n\n   is a Martian medicinal distillation, made from the milk of\n the\n\n\n    schznoogle\n\n\n   \u2014a six-legged cow, seldom milked because few Martians\n can run fast enough to catch one.\n\n\n    Zorkle\n\n\n   is strong enough to rip\n steel plates out of battleships, but to stomachs accustomed to the\n stuff sold in Flatbush, it acted like a gentle stimulant.\n\n\n\n\n   Upon their safe landing in Nevada, the Columbuses of this first flight\n to Mars put in long-distance calls to all the other important hoods in\n the country.\n\n\n\n\n   The Crime Cartel met in Cleveland\u2014in the third floor front of a\n tenement on Mayfield Road. The purpose of the meeting was to \"cut up\"\n Mars.\n\n\n\n\n   Considerable dissension arose over the bookmaking facilities, when it\n was learned that the radioactive surface of the planet made it\n unnecessary to send scratches and results by wire. On the contrary,\n the steel-shod hooves of the animals set up a current which carried\n into every pool room, without a pay-off to the wire service.\n\n\n\n\n   The final division found the apportionment as follows:\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    New York mob\n\n\n   : Real estate and investments (if any)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Chicago mob\n\n\n   : Bookmaking and liquor (if any)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Brooklyn mob\n\n\n   : Protection and assassinations\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Jersey mob\n\n\n   : Numbers (if any) and craps (if any)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Los Angeles mob\n\n\n   : Girls (if any)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Galveston and New Orleans mobs\n\n\n   : Dope (if any)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Cleveland mob\n\n\n   : Casinos (if any)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Detroit mob\n\n\n   : Summer resorts (if any)\n\n\n\n\n   The Detroit boys, incidentally, burned up when they learned the\n Martian year is twice as long as ours, consequently it takes two years\n for one summer to roll around.\n\n\n\n\n   After the summary demise of three Grand Councilors whose deaths were\n recorded by the press as occurring from \"natural causes,\" the other\n major and minor mobs were declared in as partners.\n\n\n\n\n   The first problem to be ironed out was how to speed up transportation;\n and failing that, to construct spacious space ships which would\n attract pleasure-bent trade from\n\n\n    Terra\n\n\n   \u2014Earth to you\u2014with such\n innovations as roulette wheels, steam rooms, cocktail lounges, double\n rooms with hot and cold babes, and other such inducements.\n\n\n\n\n   II\n\n\n\n\n   THE INSIDE STUFF CONFIDENTIAL\n\n\n\n\n   Remember, you got this first from Lait and Mortimer. And we defy\n anyone to call us liars\u2014and prove it!\n\n\n\n\n   Only chumps bring babes with them to Mars. The temperature is a little\n colder there than on Earth and the air a little thinner. So Terra\n dames complain one mink coat doesn't keep them warm; they need two.\n\n\n\n\n   On the other hand, the gravity is considerably less than on Earth.\n Therefore, even the heaviest bim weighs less and can be pushed over\n with the greatest of ease.\n\n\n\n\n   However, the boys soon discovered that the lighter gravity played\n havoc with the marijuana trade. With a slight tensing of the muscles\n you can jump 20 feet, so why smoke \"tea\" when you can fly like crazy\n for nothing?\n\n\n\n\n   Martian women are bags, so perhaps you had better disregard the\n injunction above and bring your own, even if it means two furs.\n\n\n\n\n   Did you ever see an Alaska\n\n\n    klutch\n\n\n   (pronounced klootch)? Probably\n not. Well, these Arctic horrors are Ziegfeld beauts compared to the\n Martian fair sex.\n\n\n\n\n   They slouch with knees bent and knuckles brushing the ground, and if\n Ringling Bros, is looking for a mate for Gargantua, here is where to\n find her. Yet, their manner is habitually timid, as though they've\n been given a hard time. From the look in their deep-set eyes they seem\n to fear abduction or rape; but not even the zoot-suited goons from\n Greenpernt gave them a second tumble.\n\n\n\n\n   The visiting Mafia delegation was naturally disappointed at this state\n of affairs. They had been led to believe by the little guy who\n escorted them that all Martian dames resembled Marilyn Monroe, only\n more so, and the men were Adonises (and not Joe).\n\n\n\n\n   Seems they once were, at that. This was a couple of aeons ago when\n Earthmen looked like Martians do now, which seems to indicate that\n Martians, as well as Men, have their ups and downs.\n\n\n\n\n   The citizens of the planet are apparently about halfway down the\n toboggan. They wear clothes, but they're not handstitched. Their\n neckties don't come from Sulka. No self-respecting goon from Gowanus\n would care to be seen in their company.\n\n\n\n\n   The females always appear in public fully clothed, which doesn't help\n them either. But covering their faces would. They buy their dresses at\n a place called Kress-Worth and look like Paris\n\n\n    nouveau riche\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n   There are four separate nations there, though nation is hardly the\n word. It is more accurate to say there are four separate clans that\n don't like each other, though how they can tell the difference is\n beyond us. They are known as the East Side, West Side, North Side and\n Gas House gangs.\n\n\n\n\n   Each stays in its own back-yard. Periodic wars are fought, a few\n thousand of the enemy are dissolved with ray guns, after which the\n factions retire by common consent and throw a banquet at which the\n losing country is forced to take the wives of the visitors, which is a\n twist not yet thought of on Earth.\n\n\n\n\n   Martian language is unlike anything ever heard below. It would baffle\n the keenest linguist, if the keenest linguist ever gets to Mars.\n However, the Mafia, which is a world-wide blood brotherhood with\n colonies in every land and clime, has a universal language. Knives and\n brass knucks are understood everywhere.\n\n\n\n\n   The Martian lingo seems to be somewhat similar to Chinese. It's not\n what they say, but how they say it. For instance,\n\n\n    psonqule\n\n\n   may mean\n \"I love you\" or \"you dirty son-of-a-bitch.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The Mafistas soon learned to translate what the natives were saying by\n watching the squint in their eyes. When they spoke with a certain\n expression, the mobsters let go with 45s, which, however, merely have\n a stunning effect on the gent on the receiving end because of the\n lesser gravity.\n\n\n\n\n   On the other hand, the Martian death ray guns were not fatal to the\n toughs from Earth; anyone who can live through St. Valentine's Day in\n Chicago can live through anything. So it came out a dead heat.\n\n\n\n\n   Thereupon the boys from the Syndicate sat down and declared the\n Martians in for a fifty-fifty partnership, which means they actually\n gave them one per cent, which is generous at that.\n\n\n\n\n   Never having had the great advantages of a New Deal, the Martians are\n still backward and use gold as a means of exchange. With no Harvard\n bigdomes to tell them gold is a thing of the past, the yellow metal\n circulates there as freely and easily as we once kicked pennies around\n before they became extinct here.\n\n\n\n\n   The Mafistas quickly set the Martians right about the futility of\n gold. They eagerly turned it over to the Earthmen in exchange for\n green certificates with pretty pictures engraved thereon.\n\n\n\n\n   III\n\n\n\n\n   RACKETS VIA ROCKETS\n\n\n\n\n   Gold, platinum, diamonds and other precious stuff are as plentiful on\n Mars as hayfever is on Earth in August.\n\n\n\n\n   When the gangsters lamped the loot, their greedy eyes and greasy\n fingers twitched, and when a hood's eyes and fingers twitch, watch\n out; something is twitching.\n\n\n\n\n   The locals were completely honest. They were too dumb to be thieves.\n The natives were not acquisitive. Why should they be when gold was so\n common it had no value, and a neighbor's wife so ugly no one would\n covet her?\n\n\n\n\n   This was a desperate situation, indeed, until one of the boys from\n East St. Louis uttered the eternal truth: \"There ain't no honest man\n who ain't a crook, and why should Mars be any different?\"\n\n\n\n\n   The difficulty was finding the means and method of corruption. All the\n cash in Jake Guzik's strong box meant nothing to a race of characters\n whose brats made mudpies of gold dust.\n\n\n\n\n   The discovery came as an accident.\n\n\n\n\n   The first Earthman to be eliminated on Mars was a two-bit hood from\n North Clark Street who sold a five-cent Hershey bar with almonds to a\n Martian for a gold piece worth 94 bucks.\n\n\n\n\n   The man from Mars bit the candy bar. The hood bit the gold piece.\n\n\n\n\n   Then the Martian picked up a rock and beaned the lad from the Windy\n City. After which the Martian's eyes dilated and he let out a scream.\n Then he attacked the first Martian female who passed by. Never before\n had such a thing happened on Mars, and to say she was surprised is\n putting it lightly. Thereupon, half the female population ran after\n the berserk Martian.\n\n\n\n\n   When the organization heard about this, an investigation was ordered.\n That is how the crime trust found out that there is no sugar on Mars;\n that this was the first time it had ever been tasted by a Martian;\n that it acts on them like junk does on an Earthman.\n\n\n\n\n   They further discovered that the chief source of Martian diet\n is\u2014believe it or not\u2014poppy seed, hemp and coca leaf, and that the\n alkaloids thereof: opium, hasheesh and cocaine have not the slightest\n visible effect on them.\n\n\n\n\n   Poppies grow everywhere, huge russet poppies, ten times as large as\n those on Earth and 100 times as deadly. It is these poppies which have\n colored the planet red. Martians are strictly vegetarian: they bake,\n fry and stew these flowers and weeds and eat them raw with a goo made\n from fungus and called\n\n\n    szchmortz\n\n\n   which passes for a salad dressing.\n\n\n\n\n   Though the Martians were absolutely impervious to the narcotic\n qualities of the aforementioned flora, they got higher than Mars on\n small doses of sugar.\n\n\n\n\n   So the Mafia was in business. The Martians sniffed granulated sugar,\n which they called snow. They ate cube sugar, which they called \"hard\n stuff\", and they injected molasses syrup into their veins with hypos\n and called this \"mainliners.\"\n\n\n\n\n   There was nothing they would not do for a pinch of sugar. Gold,\n platinum and diamonds, narcotics by the acre\u2014these were to be had in\n generous exchange for sugar\u2014which was selling on Earth at a nickel or\n so a pound wholesale.\n\n\n\n\n   The space ship went into shuttle service. A load of diamonds and dope\n coming back, a load of sugar and blondes going up. Blondes made\n Martians higher even than sugar, and brought larger and quicker\n returns.\n\n\n\n\n   This is a confidential tip to the South African diamond trust: ten\n space ship loads of precious stones are now being cut in a cellar on\n Bleecker Street in New York. The mob plans to retail them for $25 a\n carat!\n\n\n\n\n   Though the gangsters are buying sugar at a few cents a pound here and\n selling it for its weight in rubies on Mars, a hood is always a hood.\n They've been cutting dope with sugar for years on Earth, so they\n didn't know how to do it any different on Mars. What to cut the sugar\n with on Mars? Simple. With heroin, of course, which is worthless\n there.\n\n\n\n\n   This is a brief rundown on the racket situation as it currently exists\n on our sister planet.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    FAKED PASSPORTS\n\n\n   : When the boys first landed they found only vague\n boundaries between the nations, and Martians could roam as they\n pleased. Maybe this is why they stayed close to home. Though anyway\n why should they travel? There was nothing to see.\n\n\n\n\n   The boys quickly took care of this. First, in order to make travel\n alluring, they brought 20 strippers from Calumet City and set them\n peeling just beyond the border lines.\n\n\n\n\n   Then they went to the chieftains and sold them a bill of goods (with a\n generous bribe of sugar) to close the borders. The next step was to\n corrupt the border guards, which was easy with Annie Oakleys to do\n the burlesque shows.\n\n\n\n\n   The selling price for faked passports fluctuates between a ton and\n three tons of platinum.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    VICE\n\n\n   : Until the arrival of the Earthmen, there were no illicit\n sexual relations on the planet. In fact, no Martian in his right mind\n would have relations with the native crop of females, and they in turn\n felt the same way about the males. Laws had to be passed requiring all\n able-bodied citizens to marry and propagate.\n\n\n\n\n   Thus, the first load of bims from South Akard Street in Dallas found\n eager customers. But these babes, who romanced anything in pants on\n earth, went on a stand-up strike when they saw and smelled the\n Martians. Especially smelled. They smelled worse than Texas yahoos\n just off a cow farm.\n\n\n\n\n   This proved embarrassing, to say the least, to the procurers.\n Considerable sums of money were invested in this human cargo, and the\n boys feared dire consequences from their shylocks, should they return\n empty-handed.\n\n\n\n\n   In our other Confidential essays we told you how the Mafia employs\n some of the best brains on Earth to direct and manage its far-flung\n properties, including high-priced attorneys, accountants, real-estate\n experts, engineers and scientists.\n\n\n\n\n   A hurried meeting of the Grand Council was called and held in a\n bungalow on the shores of one of Minneapolis' beautiful lakes. The\n decision reached there was to corner chlorophyll (which accounts in\n part for the delay in putting it on the market down here) and ship it\n to Mars to deodorize the populace there. After which the ladies of the\n evening got off their feet and went back to work.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    GAMBLING\n\n\n   : Until the arrival of the Mafia, gambling on Mars was\n confined to a simple game played with children's jacks. The loser had\n to relieve the winner of his wife.\n\n\n\n\n   The Mafia brought up some fine gambling equipment, including the\n layouts from the Colonial Inn in Florida, and the Beverly in New\n Orleans, both of which were closed, and taught the residents how to\n shoot craps and play the wheel, with the house putting up sugar\n against precious stones and metals. With such odds, it was not\n necessary to fake the games more than is customary on Earth.\n\n\n\n\n   IV\n\n\n\n\n   LITTLE NEW YORK CONFIDENTIAL\n\n\n\n\n   Despite what Earth-bound professors tell you about the Martian\n atmosphere, we know better. They weren't there.\n\n\n\n\n   It is a dogma that Mars has no oxygen. Baloney. While it is true that\n there is considerably less than on Earth in the surface atmosphere,\n the air underground, in caves, valleys and tunnels, has plenty to\n support life lavishly, though why Martians want to live after they\n look at each other we cannot tell you, even confidential.\n\n\n\n\n   For this reason Martian cities are built underground, and travel\n between them is carried on through a complicated system of subways\n predating the New York IRT line by several thousand centuries, though\n to the naked eye there is little difference between a Brooklyn express\n and a Mars express, yet the latter were built before the Pyramids.\n\n\n\n\n   When the first load of Black Handers arrived, they naturally balked\n against living underground. It reminded them too much of the days\n before they went \"legitimate\" and were constantly on the lam and\n hiding out.\n\n\n\n\n   So the Mafia put the Martians to work building a town. There are no\n building materials on the planet, but the Martians are adept at making\n gold dust hold together with diamond rivets. The result of their\n effort\u2014for which they were paid in peppermint sticks and lump\n sugar\u2014is named Little New York, with hotels, nightclubs, bars,\n haberdashers, Turkish baths and horse rooms. Instead of\n air-conditioning, it had oxygen-conditioning. But the town had no\n police station.\n\n\n\n\n   There were no cops!\n\n\n\n\n   Finally, a meeting was held at which one punk asked another, \"What the\n hell kind of town is it with no cops? Who we going to bribe?\"\n\n\n\n\n   After some discussion they cut cards. One of the Bergen County boys\n drew the black ace. \"What do I know about being a cop?\" he squawked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"You can take graft, can't you? You been shook down, ain't you?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The boys also imported a couple of smart mouthpieces and a ship of\n blank habeas corpus forms, together with a judge who was the brother\n of one of the lawyers, so there was no need to build a jail in this\n model city.\n\n\n\n\n   The only ones who ever get arrested, anyway, are the Martians, and\n they soon discovered that the coppers from\n\n\n    Terra\n\n\n   would look the\n other way for a bucket full of gold.\n\n\n\n\n   Until the arrival of the Earthmen, the Martians were, as stated,\n peaceful, and even now crime is practically unknown among them. The\n chief problem, however, is to keep them in line on pay nights, when\n they go on sugar binges.\n\n\n\n\n   Chocolate bars are as common on Mars as saloons are on Broadway, and\n it is not unusual to see \"gone\" Martians getting heaved out of these\n bars right into the gutter. One nostalgic hood from Seattle said it\n reminded him of Skid Row there.\n\n\n\n\n   V\n\n\n\n\n   THE RED RED PLANET\n\n\n\n\n   The gangsters had not been on Mars long before they heard rumors about\n other outsiders who were supposed to have landed on the other side of\n\n\n    Mt. Sirehum\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n   The boys got together in a cocktail lounge to talk this over, and they\n decided they weren't going to stand for any other mobs muscling in.\n\n\n\n\n   Thereupon, they despatched four torpedoes with Tommy guns in a big\n black limousine to see what was going.\n\n\n\n\n   We tell you this Confidential. What they found was a Communist\n apparatus sent to Mars from Soviet Russia.\n\n\n\n\n   This cell was so active that Commies had taken over almost half the\n planet before the arrival of the Mafia, with their domain extending\n from the\n\n\n    Deucalionis Region\n\n\n   all the way over to\n\n\n    Phaethontis\n\n\n   and\n down to\n\n\n    Titania\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n   Furthermore, through propaganda and infiltration, there were Communist\n cells in every quarter of the planet, and many of the top officials of\n the four Martian governments were either secretly party members or\n openly in fronts.\n\n\n\n\n   The Communist battle cry was: \"Men of Mars unite; you have nothing to\n lose but your wives.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Comes the revolution, they were told, and all Martians could remain\n bachelors. It is no wonder the Communists made such inroads. The\n planet became known as \"The Red Red Planet.\"\n\n\n\n\n   In their confidential books about the cities of Earth, Lait and\n Mortimer explored the community of interest between the organized\n underworld and the Soviet.\n\n\n\n\n   Communists are in favor of anything that causes civil disorder and\n unrest; gangsters have no conscience and will do business with anyone\n who pays.\n\n\n\n\n   On Earth, Russia floods the Western powers, and especially the United\n States, with narcotics, first to weaken them and provide easy prey,\n and second, for dollar exchange.\n\n\n\n\n   And on Earth, the Mafia, which is another international conspiracy\n like the Communists, sells the narcotics.\n\n\n\n\n   And so when the gangsters heard there were Communist cells on Mars,\n they quickly made a contact.\n\n\n\n\n   For most of the world's cheap sugar comes from Russia! The Mafia\n inroad on the American sugar market had already driven cane up more\n than 300 per cent. But the Russians were anxious, able and willing to\n provide all the beets they wanted at half the competitive price.\n\n\n\n\n   VI\n\n\n\n\n   THE HONEST HOODS\n\n\n\n\n   As we pointed out in previous works, the crime syndicate now owns so\n much money, its chief problem is to find ways in which to invest it.\n\n\n\n\n   As a result, the Mafia and its allies control thousands of legitimate\n enterprises ranging from hotel chains to railroads and from laundries\n to distilleries.\n\n\n\n\n   And so it was on Mars. With all the rackets cornered, the gangsters\n decided it was time to go into some straight businesses.\n\n\n\n\n   At the next get-together of the Grand Council, the following\n conversation was heard:\n\n\n\n\n   \"What do these mopes need that they ain't getting?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A big fat hole in the head.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Cut it out. This is serious.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"A hole in the head ain't serious?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"There's no profit in them one-shot deals.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"It's the repeat business you make the dough on.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Maybe you got something there. You can kill a jerk only once.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"But a jerk can have relatives.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"We're talking about legit stuff. All the rest has been taken care\n of.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"With the Martians I've seen, a bar of soap could be a big thing.\"\n\n\n\n\n   From this random suggestion, there sprang up a major interplanetary\n project. If the big soap companies are wondering where all that soap\n went a few years ago, we can tell them.\n\n\n\n\n   It went to Mars.\n\n\n\n\n   Soap caught on immediately. It was snapped up as fast as it arrived.\n\n\n\n\n   But several questions popped into the minds of the Mafia soap\n salesman.\n\n\n\n\n   Where was it all going? A Martian, in line for a bar in the evening,\n was back again the following morning for another one.\n\n\n\n\n   And why did the Martians stay just as dirty as ever?\n\n\n\n\n   The answer was, the Martians stayed as dirty as ever because they\n weren't using the soap to wash with. They were eating it!\n\n\n\n\n   It cured the hangover from sugar.\n\n\n\n\n   Another group cornered the undertaking business, adding a twist that\n made for more activity. They added a Department of Elimination. The\n men in charge of this end of the business circulate through the\n chocolate and soap bars, politely inquiring, \"Who would you like\n killed?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Struck with the novelty of the thing, quite a few Martians remember\n other Martians they are mad at. The going price is one hundred carats\n of diamonds to kill; which is cheap considering the average laborer\n earns 10,000 carats a week.\n\n\n\n\n   Then the boys from the more dignified end of the business drop in at\n the home of the victim and offer to bury him cheap. Two hundred and\n fifty carats gets a Martian planted in style.\n\n\n\n\n   Inasmuch as Martians live underground, burying is done in reverse, by\n tying a rocket to the tail of the deceased and shooting him out into\n the stratosphere.\n\n\n\n\n   VII\n\n\n\n\n   ONE UNIVERSE CONFIDENTIAL\n\n\n\n\n   Mars is presently no problem to Earth, and will not be until we have\n all its gold and the Martians begin asking us for loans.\n\n\n\n\n   Meanwhile, Lait and Mortimer say let the gangsters and communists have\n it. We don't want it.\n\n\n\n\n   We believe Earth would weaken itself if it dissipated its assets on\n foreign planets. Instead, we should heavily arm our own satellites,\n which will make us secure from attack by an alien planet or\n constellation.\n\n\n\n\n   At the same time, we should build an overwhelming force of space ships\n capable of delivering lethal blows to the outermost corners of the\n universe and return without refueling.\n\n\n\n\n   We have seen the futility of meddling in everyone's business on Earth.\n Let's not make that mistake in space. We are unalterably opposed to\n the UP (United Planets) and call upon the governments of Earth not to\n join that Inter-Solar System boondoggle.\n\n\n\n\n   We have enough trouble right here.\n\n\n\n\n   THE APPENDIX CONFIDENTIAL:\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Blast-off\n\n\n   : The equivalent of the take-off of Terran\n aviation. Space ships blast-off into space. Not to be\n confused with the report of a sawed-off shot gun.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Blasting pit\n\n\n   : Place from which a space ship blasts off.\n Guarded area where the intense heat from the jets melts the\n ground. Also used for cock-fights.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Spacemen\n\n\n   : Those who man the space ships. See any comic\n strip.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Hairoscope\n\n\n   : A very sensitive instrument for space\n navigation. The sighting plate thereon is centered around\n two crossed hairs. Because of the vastness of space, very\n fine hairs are used. These hairs are obtained from the\n Glomph-Frog, found only in the heart of the dense Venusian\n swamps. The hairoscope is a must in space navigation. Then\n how did they get to Venus to get the hair from the\n Glomph-Frog? Read Venus Confidential.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Multiplanetary agitation\n\n\n   : The inter-spacial methods by\n which the Russians compete for the minds of the Neptunians\n and the Plutonians and the Gowaniuns.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Space suit\n\n\n   : The clothing worn by those who go into space.\n The men are put into modernistic diving suits. The dames\n wear bras and panties.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Grav-plates\n\n\n   : A form of magnetic shoe worn by spacemen\n while standing on the outer hull of a space ship halfway to\n Mars. Why a spaceman wants to stand on the outer hull of a\n ship halfway to Mars is not clear. Possibly to win a bet.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Space platform\n\n\n   : A man-made satellite rotating around Earth\n between here and the Moon. Scientists say this is a\n necessary first step to interplanetary travel. Mars\n Confidential proves the fallacy of this theory.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Space Academy\n\n\n   : A college where young men are trained to be\n spacemen. The student body consists mainly of cadets who\n served apprenticeships as elevator jockeys.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Asteroids\n\n\n   : Tiny worlds floating around in space, put there\n no doubt to annoy unwary space ships.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Extrapolation\n\n\n   : The process by which a science-fiction\n writer takes an established scientific fact and builds\n thereon a story that couldn't happen in a million years, but\n maybe 2,000,000.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Science fiction\n\n\n   : A genre of escape literature which takes\n the reader to far-away planets\u2014and usually neglects to\n bring him back.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    S.F.\n\n\n   : An abbreviation for science fiction.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Bem\n\n\n   : A word derived by using the first letters of the\n three words: Bug Eyed Monster. Bems are ghastly looking\n creatures in general. In science-fiction yarns written by\n Terrans, bems are natives of Mars. In science-fiction yarns\n written by Martians, bems are natives of Terra.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    The pile\n\n\n   : The source from which power is derived to carry\n men to the stars. Optional on the more expensive space\n ships, at extra cost.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Atom blaster\n\n\n   : A gun carried by spacemen which will melt\n people down to a cinder. A .45 would do just as well, but\n then there's the Sullivan Act.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Orbit\n\n\n   : The path of any heavenly body. The bodies are held\n in these orbits by natural laws the Republicans are thinking\n of repealing.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Nova\n\n\n   : The explosive stage into which planets may pass.\n According to the finest scientific thinking, a planet will\n either nova, or it won't.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Galaxy\n\n\n   : A term used to confuse people who have always\n called it The Milky Way.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Sun spots\n\n\n   : Vast electrical storms on the sun which\n interfere with radio reception, said interference being\n advantageous during political campaigns.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Atomic cannons\n\n\n   : Things that go\n\n\n    zap\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Audio screen\n\n\n   : Television without Milton Berle or\n wrestling.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Disintegrating ray\n\n\n   : Something you can't see that turns\n something you can see into something you can't see.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Geiger counter\n\n\n   : Something used to count Geigers.\n\n\n    Interstellar space\n\n\n   : Too much nothing at all, filled with\n rockets, flying saucers, advanced civilizations, and\n discarded copies of\n\n\n    Amazing Stories\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Mars\n\n\n   : A candy bar.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Pluto\n\n\n   : A kind of water.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Ray guns\n\n\n   : Small things that go\n\n\n    zap\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Time machine\n\n\n   : A machine that carries you back to yesterday\n and into next year. Also, an alarm clock.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Time warp\n\n\n   : The hole in time the time machine goes through\n to reach another time. A hole in nothing.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Terra\n\n\n   : Another name for Earth. It comes from\n\n\n    terra\n\n\n   firma\n or something like that.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Hyperdrive\n\n\n   : The motor that is used to drive a space ship\n faster than the speed of light. Invented by science-fiction\n writers but not yet patented.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Ether\n\n\n   : The upper reaches of space and whatever fills them.\n Also, an anaesthetic.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    Luna\n\n\n   : Another name for the Moon. Formerly a park in Coney\n Island.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nWhat is not true about the relationship between Martians and humans?\n\n (A) Humans are happy to bring their women to Mars as another manipulation tactic against the race.\n (B) Martians find no value in the things humans do, such as gold and diamonds, making humans feel\n (C) Humans are more interested in giving Martians sugar than they are in any other sort of drug.\n (D) Martians value what humans bring to their planet, including teaching them new ways to do things like conduct business and build structures.\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "D", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 35378, "query_start_index": 35380, "query_end_index": 35922, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "99914_0Q5X8VEX_4", "pid": "99914_0Q5X8VEX_4_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\nThe end of the web\n\n \n\n\n \n\nIn the past year, as we have witnessed the upending of the political order, the internet has been the theatre where many of the battles have been fought: from the hacking and leaking of Democratic party emails, to the proliferation of fake news and alternative facts, and yes, the outpourings of @realDonaldTrump.\nWith domestic and geopolitical tensions rising, governments are finding it increasingly hard to function amid a constant barrage of uncontrollable information and potential cyber-attacks, making them grow more wary both of the internet's influence and their ability to control it.\nThe fallout from this means we are facing the prospect of countries around the world pulling the plug on the open, global internet and creating their own independent networks. We might be about to see the end of the world wide internet as we know it.\nWith globalisation under attack, the ultimate bastion of borderlessness \u2013 the global internet \u2013 might very well be one the biggest scalps taken by the newly emerging world order heralded in by Brexit and Trump. If a global orthodoxy of free trade, soft power and international organisations is overpowered by belligerent nations and isolationism, the net will inevitably be swept away with it.\nYet although fragmentation \u2013 and ultimately also Balkanisation \u2013 will carry great social and economic cost, it could also be an opportunity. Europe, which has already been flexing its muscles when it comes to internet policy, now finds itself forced to rely less on US cooperation. It should therefore become a frontrunner in developing an alternative, decentralised internet, with its root values of fairness, openness and democracy restored. This could help the net \u2013 and indeed Europe \u2013 to become more resilient again. As much as we fear the 'splinternet', we should welcome the Euronet.\nWeaponisation of the internet\nSince we've become dependent on the internet for almost everything we do, dangers to the network's integrity threaten devastating effects. Governments may be tempted to turn inwards in an attempt to shield themselves and their citizens from cyber-attacks.\nLast October, unknown hackers used an array of badly secured 'internet of things' (IoT) devices to bring down most of the internet on the east coast of America in one of the largest DDoS (distributed denial-of-service) attacks to date. While depriving Americans of Amazon and Facebook for several hours was surely an inconvenience, the potential of the weaponised internet to do harm is infinitely greater.\nAs more of the components of a country's critical infrastructure move online, the number of possible targets grows too. Hackers shut down a significant part of Ukraine's electricity grid in 2015, and crippled several important Estonian industries, including its banks, in 2007.\nMany cyber-security experts warn about the lacklustre defence of everything from air traffic control towers and voting machines to nuclear plants. One well-placed attack could do more damage than the most aggressive of traditional military campaigns, at a fraction of the cost. Because of the high degree of uncertainty surrounding cyber-capabilities \u2013 'know your enemy' is a hard adage to follow if potential culprits and their capabilities are so tough to track \u2013 it has become impossible for governments to completely shield their countries from cyber-attacks.\nThe growing urge to control the internet has also become apparent over the influence of so-called fake news. Distorting public opinion and fact as a manipulation technique is nothing new: it's been used since Roman times. But the relentless pace and scope with which the internet allows information to disseminate is quite unprecedented. Governments and the media (who have themselves often swapped truth for clicks) are having an increasingly hard time stemming the flow of biased or misleading news stories. So the democratic process suffers.\nThe solutions offered by the reluctant tech giants providing a platform for fake news won't be sufficient to stop it altogether. This will prompt more countries to follow Russia and China in building their own platforms like VKontakte and Baidu, thus reducing foreign influence and allowing for extensive censorship and monitoring. The desire of developing countries to establish their own social networks will see them retreat into their own national bubbles.\nFragile infrastructure\nWhile cyber attacks and false information campaigns use the internet to attack the infrastructure by which our societies function, the internet's own infrastructure is also at risk. Despite the internet's ephemeral, lawless appeal, its underlying network of cables, tubes and wires is very much rooted in the physical world. Over 99 per cent of all global internet communications are facilitated by an impressive web of undersea cables, connecting all corners of the world. A submarine deliberately destroying one of these cables in a hard-to-reach place could bring down access to parts of the internet for weeks; and so, by extension, all the systems that rely upon it.\nThe fallibility of this shared infrastructure also makes it impossible to keep foreign or hostile actors out of domestic affairs. Though governments that heavily restrict internet access might find it easier to prevent information from flowing in and out of the country, they are still reliant on the same co-owned systems, with some parts inevitably falling under other countries' jurisdictions.\nThis became very clear after the 2013 Snowden revelations, which showed that the US routinely tapped into foreign internet traffic routed through the country. The massive scale of this monitoring even led then president of Brazil Dilma Rousseff to call for the construction of an undersea cable from Brazil directly to Europe, bypassing the prying eyes of the National Security Agency altogether. And US intelligence agencies are by no means the only ones doing this kind of snooping, as we know all too well.\nWith various nations eyeing each other suspiciously and traditional alliances crumbling, building alternative structures to make foreign interference more difficult seems a logical consequence.\nWho rules the internet?\nIt won't just be the actual infrastructure and 'hard' elements of the internet where governments will seek more independence. Internet governance, the catch-all term to describe the processes and decisions that determine how the internet is managed, and how its technical norms and standards are set, is increasingly complex.\nIn principle, no single actor should be in charge of the internet governance processes. Ideally, these should be overseen by a multi-stakeholder model where governments, the private sector and advocacy groups would have an equal voice and where anyone could be allowed to become involved. In practice, however, it is US government institutions and companies \u2013 yes, the usual suspects \u2013 that set the rules. They tend to be over-represented in meetings, and in charge of some of the largest regulatory bodies. American stewardship over the internet has long been an area of contention. Countries like China, Russia, and many (mainly developing) countries want more control over their own domestic networks, preferring to see the current model replaced by something more Westphalian, perhaps resembling the United Nations.\nThis discussion will likely flair up again soon as the Trump administration seeks ways to reverse the Internet Assigned Numbers Authority (IANA) transition: an arcane but highly controversial policy issue. IANA is the agency in charge of maintaining the global DNS (Domain Name System) as well as managing Internet Protocol (IP) address allocation and other important basic structural functions of the internet. The internet\u2019s IANA functions had traditionally been managed by the non-profit ICANN (the Internet Corporation for Assigned Names and Numbers), but remained under contract of the US Department of Commerce, which oversaw its processes \u2013 effectively leaving it under US government control. After almost 20 years of bickering and international kowtowing, IANA was brought under full ICANN control last October, finally becoming fully independent. This to the great dismay of many Republican lawmakers; particularly senator Ted Cruz, who has been fighting to stop the process for years.\nIf the US government does decide to overturn the transition (and Trump has certainly shown enthusiasm for overturning decisions of the previous administration), it will do a lot of damage to the American-led governance process. How much credibility can it have when the most important partner doesn't even play by the rules?\nAs these tensions increase, we'll likely see a push for more government bodies to take control of internet governance (such as the short-lived, Brazil-led NETMundial initiative), abandoning the more inclusive and cooperative approach involving businesses and civil society organisations. Then if the process fell even further apart, it would be a substantial challenge to the interoperable global internet, as regulations and standards swiftly went in different directions.\nThe Big Four\nThough the internet was initially heralded as the greatest democratiser of information since Gutenberg, most data now flows through only a handful of companies. Silicon Valley tech giants, with the 'Big Four' of Apple, Google, Facebook and Amazon at the helm, rake in most of the spoils of the all-conquering global online economy.\nIn their ambition to expand even further, these tech companies are themselves also an important cause of internet fragmentation, erecting 'walled gardens' all over the world. Facebook's controversial Free Basics service, which offers free data plans to users in developing countries, but which restricts access to a small number of Facebook-approved websites, is a prime example. Some call it digital colonialism.\nThese moves aimed at generating even more revenue, concentrated in the hands of the few as inequality rises, understandably cause concern among governments and citizens alike. But our main worry should not be about economics. The Big Four \u2013 controlling our data, as well as our access to information \u2013 wield an inordinate amount of power. Indeed, Denmark recently announced it would appoint a igital ambassador specifically to deal with these technology giants, citing their influence as larger than that of many countries.\nCitizens worldwide have become so dependent on these platforms that there are effectively no readily available alternatives to move to if things turn sour. The sheer scale of the Women's March and similar demonstrations in recent weeks would not have been possible without the ability to organise online. What if these channels fall away, their freedom restricted by companies under the yoke of a hostile government?\nThough many American technology companies have already pledged they will not assist with the creation of a 'Muslim registry' \u2013 and have pushed back on Trump\u2019s latest immigration restrictions\n\u2013\nwe have to be very aware that the amount of personal data they have on each of us would make it far too easy for them to do so.\nForeign governments, which in the current political climate cannot rely on Google abiding by its mantra, 'Don't be evil', will aggressively start to pursue the construction of domestic alternatives. It is something we are already seeing happening worldwide.\nThe splinternet\nThough the dream of the web internet pioneers was one of a completely open, non-hierarchical internet, over the years barriers have been springing up that restrict this freedom. Bit by bit, the internet is becoming more cordoned off.\nThe idea of splitting up the internet into different, Balkanised internets \u2013 with a completely separate infrastructure \u2013 is not new. After the Snowden revelations, Germany took action and started looking into the construction of the 'Internetz', a German-only network (although one that allows for the possibility of expanding to the rest of the EU).\nWe do not currently have an example of a real internet island in place, but the closest version we see is probably the Great Firewall of China. Though China hasn't built an entirely separate infrastructure, its internet looks entirely different from what we are used to, with content heavily censored and many platforms and websites completely banned.\nRussia appears to be following suit. Last November, Russia banned LinkedIn from operating in the country because the social network did not adhere to a new law decreeing that all data generated by Russian users should be stored within Russia itself. In recent weeks, news has also emerged that Moscow has been working with Beijing to implement something similar to the Great Firewall for its own domestic users. Democracies and autocracies alike have long come to understand the great power of the internet and have learned how to both harness and restrict it.\nWho will be the first to go it alone? It's difficult to say yet but the usual suspects are lining up: China; Russia; Europe; even Trump's America\n.\nOther countries like Brazil or Turkey might see a compelling reason to do so as well.\nNow that we are so used to a ubiquitous and global internet, it's hard to imagine what a world of fragmented, national internets might look like. What we do know is that the internet of fun and games, of unfettered access, is quickly coming to an end. When it does, it will be another big nail in the coffin for globalisation.\nBreaking free\nThe idea of a Balkanised internet, of different national and supranational internet islands, is a dark one. What living in such a future would look like, no one knows. Inevitably, though, it would herald a world of less mutual understanding, less shared prosperity and shrinking horizons.\nHowever, the fragmentation of the internet need not be bad news. As the limitations of its original incarnation are becoming increasingly clear, starting from scratch provides us with an important opportunity to right our initial wrongs. We can build a network or networks that are more ethical, inclusive and resilient to outside threats.\nWhile this is a moment of disharmony and uncertainty for the European project, the EU has much it agrees upon when it comes to policy and regulating the internet's mostly American corporate giants: from its ambitious data protection policies and the right to be forgotten, to Apple tax case. But it could do more. The global internet as we know it today began as a public space where everyone had an equal opportunity to use it as we liked. But it has quickly privatised, locking us into platforms that 'harvest' our data. As European citizens grow increasingly concerned about the negative impacts of the internet, the EU has a great opportunity.\nThe EU should take a different approach to the internet and, rather than making it an unregulated free-for-all, consider it a 'commons': a public good open to all, excluding none. The EU could create and fund the infrastructure for this and help ensure safety for all. Meanwhile, small businesses and individuals would do their bit by creating a variety of tools to add to this commons, which would become fully interoperable through shared standards and underpinning technologies.\nOne necessary component of such an internet commons is that it should be decentralised. Decentralising the internet and rethinking its structure would allow users to take back control over the network of networks, letting them manage their own personal data rather than giving it away to large companies, as well as offering them more choice over the tools they use. It is also often said that distributed internets would also inherently be much safer: largescale cyber-attacks are easier to prevent if we reduce the number of central nodes that traffic can travel through.\nBut a European internet would above all need to be radically ambitious \u2013 especially with the EU in a fractured state. The rules for the decentralised, new internet are still wide open, and we have the opportunity to set them. The emergence of a new world order is forcing Europe to rethink itself, come closer together and defend its values in the world. Creating a completely new internet built around these values \u2013 and open to any like-minded country to join \u2013 might be one extraordinarily effective way of achieving it.\nThis is an extended version of a piece originally published in Nesta's 10 predictions for 2017 series\nCorrection 20 February 2017: this article was updated to correct a few instances of 'web' to 'internet'\nThis article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nThe author is afraid\n\n (A) that the dark web is going to cause long-lasting issues.\n (B) government is going to cause a revolt through their internet sanctions.\n (C) people have lost sight of what the internet is for.\n (D) that huge problems can come from not having proper defenses in place on the internet.\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "D", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 16867, "query_start_index": 16869, "query_end_index": 17208, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}
{"id": "32665_VRYQXG3Y_9", "pid": "32665_VRYQXG3Y_9_0", "input": "You are provided a story and a multiple-choice question with 4 possible answers (marked by A, B, C, D). Choose the best answer by writing its corresponding letter (either A, B, C, or D).\n\nStory:\n<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ -->\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The Anglers of Arz\n\n\n\n\n   By Roger Dee\n\n\n\n\n   Illustrated by BOB MARTIN\n\n\n\n\n   [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science\n Fiction January 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence\n that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    There were two pinkish, bipedal fishermen on the tiny\n islet.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   In order to make Izaak Walton's sport complete, there must\n be an angler, a fish, and some bait. All three existed on Arz but there\n was a question as to which was which.\n\n\n\n\n   The third night of the\n\n\n    Marco Four's\n\n\n   landfall on the moonless Altarian\n planet was a repetition of the two before it, a nine-hour intermission\n of drowsy, pastoral peace. Navigator Arthur Farrell\u2014it was his turn to\n stand watch\u2014was sitting at an open-side port with a magnoscanner ready;\n but in spite of his vigilance he had not exposed a film when the\n inevitable pre-dawn rainbow began to shimmer over the eastern ocean.\n\n\n\n\n   Sunrise brought him alert with a jerk, frowning at sight of two pinkish,\n bipedal Arzian fishermen posted on the tiny coral islet a quarter-mile\n offshore, their blank triangular faces turned stolidly toward the beach.\n\n\n\n\n   \"They're at it again,\" Farrell called, and dropped to the mossy turf\n outside. \"Roll out on the double! I'm going to magnofilm this!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Stryker and Gibson came out of their sleeping cubicles reluctantly,\n belting on the loose shorts which all three wore in the balmy Arzian\n climate. Stryker blinked and yawned as he let himself through the port,\n his fringe of white hair tousled and his naked paunch sweating. He\n looked, Farrell thought for the thousandth time, more like a retired\n cook than like the veteran commander of a Terran Colonies expedition.\n\n\n\n\n   Gibson followed, stretching his powerfully-muscled body like a wrestler\n to throw off the effects of sleep. Gibson was linguist-ethnologist of\n the crew, a blocky man in his early thirties with thick black hair and\n heavy brows that shaded a square, humorless face.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Any sign of the squids yet?\" he asked.\n\n\n\n\n   \"They won't show up until the dragons come,\" Farrell said. He adjusted\n the light filter of the magnoscanner and scowled at Stryker. \"Lee, I\n wish you'd let me break up the show this time with a dis-beam. This\n butchery gets on my nerves.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Stryker shielded his eyes with his hands against the glare of sun on\n water. \"You know I can't do that, Arthur. These Arzians may turn out to\n be Fifth Order beings or higher, and under Terran Regulations our\n tampering with what may be a basic culture-pattern would amount to armed\n invasion. We'll have to crack that cackle-and-grunt language of theirs\n and learn something of their mores before we can interfere.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Farrell turned an irritable stare on the incurious group of Arzians\n gathering, nets and fishing spears in hand, at the edge of the\n sheltering bramble forest.\n\n\n\n\n   \"What stumps me is their motivation,\" he said. \"Why do the fools go out\n to that islet every night, when they must know damned well what will\n happen next morning?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gibson answered him with an older problem, his square face puzzled. \"For\n that matter, what became of the city I saw when we came in through the\n stratosphere? It must be a tremendous thing, yet we've searched the\n entire globe in the scouter and found nothing but water and a scattering\n of little islands like this one, all covered with bramble. It wasn't a\n city these pink fishers could have built, either. The architecture was\n beyond them by a million years.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Stryker and Farrell traded baffled looks. The city had become something\n of a fixation with Gibson, and his dogged insistence\u2014coupled with an\n irritating habit of being right\u2014had worn their patience thin.\n\n\n\n\n   \"There never was a city here, Gib,\" Stryker said. \"You dozed off while\n we were making planetfall, that's all.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gibson stiffened resentfully, but Farrell's voice cut his protest short.\n \"Get set! Here they come!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Out of the morning rainbow dropped a swarm of winged lizards, twenty\n feet in length and a glistening chlorophyll green in the early light.\n They stooped like hawks upon the islet offshore, burying the two Arzian\n fishers instantly under their snapping, threshing bodies. Then around\n the outcrop the sea boiled whitely, churned to foam by a sudden\n uprushing of black, octopoid shapes.\n\n\n\n\n   \"The squids,\" Stryker grunted. \"Right on schedule. Two seconds too late,\n as usual, to stop the slaughter.\"\n\n\n\n\n   A barrage of barbed tentacles lashed out of the foam and drove into the\n melee of winged lizards. The lizards took the air at once, leaving\n behind three of their number who disappeared under the surface like\n harpooned seals. No trace remained of the two Arzian natives.\n\n\n\n\n   \"A neat example of dog eat dog,\" Farrell said, snapping off the\n magnoscanner. \"Do any of those beauties look like city-builders, Gib?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Chattering pink natives straggled past from the shelter of the thorn\n forest, ignoring the Earthmen, and lined the casting ledges along the\n beach to begin their day's fishing.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Nothing we've seen yet could have built that city,\" Gibson said\n stubbornly. \"But it's here somewhere, and I'm going to find it. Will\n either of you be using the scouter today?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Stryker threw up his hands. \"I've a mountain of data to collate, and\n Arthur is off duty after standing watch last night. Help yourself, but\n you won't find anything.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   The scouter was a speeding dot on the horizon when Farrell crawled into\n his sleeping cubicle a short time later, leaving Stryker to mutter over\n his litter of notes. Sleep did not come to him at once; a vague sense of\n something overlooked prodded irritatingly at the back of his\n consciousness, but it was not until drowsiness had finally overtaken him\n that the discrepancy assumed definite form.\n\n\n\n\n   He recalled then that on the first day of the\n\n\n    Marco's\n\n\n   planetfall one\n of the pink fishers had fallen from a casting ledge into the water, and\n had all but drowned before his fellows pulled him out with extended\n spear-shafts. Which meant that the fishers could not swim, else some\n would surely have gone in after him.\n\n\n\n\n   And the Marco's crew had explored Arz exhaustively without finding any\n slightest trace of boats or of boat landings. The train of association\n completed itself with automatic logic, almost rousing Farrell out of his\n doze.\n\n\n\n\n   \"I'll be damned,\" he muttered. \"No boats, and they don't swim.\n\n\n    Then how\n the devil do they get out to that islet?\n\n\n   \"\n\n\n\n\n   He fell asleep with the paradox unresolved.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Stryker was still humped over his records when Farrell came out of his\n cubicle and broke a packaged meal from the food locker. The visicom over\n the control board hummed softly, its screen blank on open channel.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Gibson found his lost city yet?\" Farrell asked, and grinned when\n Stryker snorted.\n\n\n\n\n   \"He's scouring the daylight side now,\" Stryker said. \"Arthur, I'm going\n to ground Gib tomorrow, much as I dislike giving him a direct order.\n He's got that phantom city on the brain, and he lacks the imagination to\n understand how dangerous to our assignment an obsession of that sort can\n be.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Farrell shrugged. \"I'd agree with you offhand if it weren't for Gib's\n bullheaded habit of being right. I hope he finds it soon, if it's here.\n I'll probably be standing his watch until he's satisfied.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Stryker looked relieved. \"Would you mind taking it tonight? I'm\n completely bushed after today's logging.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Farrell waved a hand and took up his magnoscanner. It was dark outside\n already, the close, soft night of a moonless tropical world whose moist\n atmosphere absorbed even starlight. He dragged a chair to the open port\n and packed his pipe, settling himself comfortably while Stryker mixed a\n nightcap before turning in.\n\n\n\n\n   Later he remembered that Stryker dissolved a tablet in his glass, but at\n the moment it meant nothing. In a matter of minutes the older man's\n snoring drifted to him, a sound faintly irritating against the velvety\n hush outside.\n\n\n\n\n   Farrell lit his pipe and turned to the inconsistencies he had uncovered.\n The Arzians did not swim, and without boats....\n\n\n\n\n   It occurred to him then that there had been two of the pink fishers on\n the islet each morning, and the coincidence made him sit up suddenly,\n startled. Why two? Why not three or four, or only one?\n\n\n\n\n   He stepped out through the open lock and paced restlessly up and down on\n the springy turf, feeling the ocean breeze soft on his face. Three days\n of dull routine logwork had built up a need for physical action that\n chafed his temper; he was intrigued and at the same time annoyed by the\n enigmatic relation that linked the Arzian fishers to the dragons and\n squids, and his desire to understand that relation was aggravated by the\n knowledge that Arz could be a perfect world for Terran colonization.\n That is, he thought wryly, if Terran colonists could stomach the weird\n custom pursued by its natives of committing suicide in pairs.\n\n\n\n\n   He went over again the improbable drama of the past three mornings, and\n found it not too unnatural until he came to the motivation and the means\n of transportation that placed the Arzians in pairs on the islet, when\n his whole fabric of speculation fell into a tangled snarl of\n inconsistencies. He gave it up finally; how could any Earthman\n rationalize the outlandish compulsions that actuated so alien a race?\n\n\n\n\n   He went inside again, and the sound of Stryker's muffled snoring fanned\n his restlessness. He made his decision abruptly, laying aside the\n magnoscanner for a hand-flash and a pocket-sized audicom unit which he\n clipped to the belt of his shorts.\n\n\n\n\n   He did not choose a weapon because he saw no need for one. The torch\n would show him how the natives reached the outcrop, and if he should\n need help the audicom would summon Stryker. Investigating without\n Stryker's sanction was, strictly speaking, a breach of Terran\n Regulations, but\u2014\n\n\n\n\n   \"Damn Terran Regulations,\" he muttered. \"I've got to\n\n\n    know\n\n\n   .\"\n\n\n\n\n   Farrell snapped on the torch at the edge of the thorn forest and entered\n briskly, eager for action now that he had begun. Just inside the edge of\n the bramble he came upon a pair of Arzians curled up together on the\n mossy ground, sleeping soundly, their triangular faces wholly blank and\n unrevealing.\n\n\n\n\n   He worked deeper into the underbrush and found other sleeping couples,\n but nothing else. There were no humming insects, no twittering\n night-birds or scurrying rodents. He had worked his way close to the\n center of the island without further discovery and was on the point of\n turning back, disgusted, when something bulky and powerful seized him\n from behind.\n\n\n\n\n   A sharp sting burned his shoulder, wasp-like, and a sudden overwhelming\n lassitude swept him into a darkness deeper than the Arzian night. His\n last conscious thought was not of his own danger, but of Stryker\u2014asleep\n and unprotected behind the\n\n\n    Marco's\n\n\n   open port....\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He was standing erect when he woke, his back to the open sea and a\n prismatic glimmer of early-dawn rainbow shining on the water before him.\n For a moment he was totally disoriented; then from the corner of an eye\n he caught the pinkish blur of an Arzian fisher standing beside him, and\n cried out hoarsely in sudden panic when he tried to turn his head and\n could not.\n\n\n\n\n   He was on the coral outcropping offshore, and except for the involuntary\n muscles of balance and respiration his body was paralyzed.\n\n\n\n\n   The first red glow of sunrise blurred the reflected rainbow at his feet,\n but for some seconds his shuttling mind was too busy to consider the\n danger of predicament.\n\n\n    Whatever brought me here anesthetized me first\n\n\n   ,\n he thought.\n\n\n    That sting in my shoulder was like a hypo needle.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   Panic seized him again when he remembered the green flying-lizards; more\n seconds passed before he gained control of himself, sweating with the\n effort. He had to get help. If he could switch on the audicom at his\n belt and call Stryker....\n\n\n\n\n   He bent every ounce of his will toward raising his right hand, and\n failed.\n\n\n\n\n   His arm was like a limb of lead, its inertia too great to budge. He\n relaxed the effort with a groan, sweating again when he saw a fiery\n half-disk of sun on the water, edges blurred and distorted by tiny\n surface ripples.\n\n\n\n\n   On shore he could see the\n\n\n    Marco Four\n\n\n   resting between thorn forest and\n beach, its silvered sides glistening with dew. The port was still open,\n and the empty carrier rack in the bow told him that Gibson had not yet\n returned with the scouter.\n\n\n\n\n   He grew aware then that sensation was returning to him slowly, that the\n cold surface of the audicom unit at his hip\u2014unfelt before\u2014was pressing\n against the inner curve of his elbow. He bent his will again toward\n motion; this time the arm tensed a little, enough to send hope flaring\n through him. If he could put pressure enough against the stud....\n\n\n\n\n   The tiny click of its engaging sent him faint with relief.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Stryker!\" he yelled. \"Lee, roll out\u2014\n\n\n    Stryker\n\n\n   !\"\n\n\n\n\n   The audicom hummed gently, without answer.\n\n\n\n\n   He gathered himself for another shout, and recalled with a chill of\n horror the tablet Stryker had mixed into his nightcap the night before.\n Worn out by his work, Stryker had made certain that he would not be\n easily disturbed.\n\n\n\n\n   The flattened sun-disk on the water brightened and grew rounder. Above\n its reflected glare he caught a flicker of movement, a restless\n suggestion of flapping wings.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   He tried again. \"Stryker, help me! I'm on the islet!\"\n\n\n\n\n   The audicom crackled. The voice that answered was not Stryker's, but\n Gibson's.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Farrell! What the devil are you doing on that butcher's block?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Farrell fought down an insane desire to laugh. \"Never mind that\u2014get\n here fast, Gib! The flying-lizards\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   He broke off, seeing for the first time the octopods that ringed the\n outcrop just under the surface of the water, waiting with barbed\n tentacles spread and yellow eyes studying him glassily. He heard the\n unmistakable flapping of wings behind and above him then, and thought\n with shock-born lucidity:\n\n\n    I wanted a backstage look at this show, and\n now I'm one of the cast\n\n\n   .\n\n\n\n\n   The scouter roared in from the west across the thorn forest, flashing so\n close above his head that he felt the wind of its passage. Almost\n instantly he heard the shrilling blast of its emergency bow jets as\n Gibson met the lizard swarm head on.\n\n\n\n\n   Gibson's voice came tinnily from the audicom. \"Scattered them for the\n moment, Arthur\u2014blinded the whole crew with the exhaust, I think. Stand\n fast, now. I'm going to pick you up.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The scouter settled on the outcrop beside Farrell, so close that the hot\n wash of its exhaust gases scorched his bare legs. Gibson put out thick\n brown arms and hauled him inside like a straw man, ignoring the native.\n The scouter darted for shore with Farrell lying across Gibson's knees in\n the cockpit, his head hanging half overside.\n\n\n\n\n   Farrell had a last dizzy glimpse of the islet against the rush of green\n water below, and felt his shaky laugh of relief stick in his throat. Two\n of the octopods were swimming strongly for shore, holding the rigid\n Arzian native carefully above water between them.\n\n\n\n\n   \"Gib,\" Farrell croaked. \"Gib, can you risk a look back? I think I've\n gone mad.\"\n\n\n\n\n   The scouter swerved briefly as Gibson looked back. \"You're all right,\n Arthur. Just hang on tight. I'll explain everything when we get you safe\n in the\n\n\n    Marco\n\n\n   .\"\n\n\n\n\n   Farrell forced himself to relax, more relieved than alarmed by the\n painful pricking of returning sensation. \"I might have known it, damn\n you,\" he said. \"You found your lost city, didn't you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gibson sounded a little disgusted, as if he were still angry with\n himself over some private stupidity. \"I'd have found it sooner if I'd\n had any brains. It was under water, of course.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n   In the\n\n\n    Marco Four\n\n\n   , Gibson routed Stryker out of his cubicle and mixed\n drinks around, leaving Farrell comfortably relaxed in the padded control\n chair. The paralysis was still wearing off slowly, easing Farrell's fear\n of being permanently disabled.\n\n\n\n\n   \"We never saw the city from the scouter because we didn't go high\n enough,\" Gibson said. \"I realized that finally, remembering how they\n used high-altitude blimps during the First Wars to spot submarines, and\n when I took the scouter up far enough there it was, at the ocean\n bottom\u2014a city to compare with anything men ever built.\"\n\n\n\n\n   Stryker stared. \"A marine city? What use would sea-creatures have for\n buildings?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"None,\" Gibson said. \"I think the city must have been built ages ago\u2014by\n men or by a manlike race, judging from the architecture\u2014and was\n submerged later by a sinking of land masses that killed off the original\n builders and left Arz nothing but an oversized archipelago. The squids\n took over then, and from all appearances they've developed a culture of\n their own.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"I don't see it,\" Stryker complained, shaking his head. \"The pink\n fishers\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Are cattle, or less,\" Gibson finished. \"The octopods are the dominant\n race, and they're so far above Fifth Order that we're completely out of\n bounds here. Under Terran Regulations we can't colonize Arz. It would be\n armed invasion.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Invasion of a squid world?\" Farrell protested, baffled. \"Why should\n surface colonization conflict with an undersea culture, Gib? Why\n couldn't we share the planet?\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Because the octopods own the islands too, and keep them policed,\"\n Gibson said patiently. \"They even own the pink fishers. It was one of\n the squid-people, making a dry-land canvass of his preserve here to pick\n a couple of victims for this morning's show, that carried you off last\n night.\"\n\n\n\n\n   \"Behold a familiar pattern shaping up,\" Stryker said. He laughed\n suddenly, a great irrepressible bellow of sound. \"Arz is a squid's\n world, Arthur, don't you see? And like most civilized peoples, they're\n sportsmen. The flying-lizards are the game they hunt, and they raise the\n pink fishers for\u2014\"\n\n\n\n\n   Farrell swore in astonishment. \"Then those poor devils are put out there\n deliberately, like worms on a hook\u2014angling in reverse! No wonder I\n couldn't spot their motivation!\"\n\n\n\n\n   Gibson got up and sealed the port, shutting out the soft morning breeze.\n \"Colonization being out of the question, we may as well move on before\n the octopods get curious enough about us to make trouble. Do you feel up\n to the acceleration, Arthur?\"\n\n\n\n\n   Farrell and Stryker looked at each other, grinning. Farrell said: \"You\n don't think I want to stick here and be used for bait again, do you?\"\n\n\n\n\n   He and Stryker were still grinning over it when Gibson, unamused,\n blasted the\n\n\n    Marco Four\n\n\n   free of Arz.\n\nQuestion and Possible Answers:\nOf the following options, what is a potential moral of this story?\n\n (A) Exploration of the unknown can lead to many surprises.\n (B) Discovery is fun and can be done without inherently endangering one's wellbeing.\n (C) Communication with other species and cultures is a delicate process that needs to be done with care.\n (D) Learning is a process that takes time and can be best done independently.\n\nAnswer:\n", "output": "A", "document_start_index": 195, "document_end_index": 19349, "query_start_index": 19351, "query_end_index": 19780, "truncation_seperator": "... [The rest of the story is omitted]\n\n"}