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).

Story:
CAPTAIN CHAOS

   By NELSON S. BOND

   The Callisto-bound

    Leo

   needed

   a cook. What it got was a piping-voiced

   Jonah who jinxed it straight into Chaos.

   We picked up our new cook on Phobos. Not Phoebus or Phoebe; I mean
 Phobos, Mars' inner moon. Our regular victual mangler came down with
 acute indigestion—tasted some of his own cooking, no doubt—when we
 were just one blast of a jet-tube out of Sand City spaceport. But since
 we were rocketing under sealed orders, we couldn't turn back.

   So we laid the

    Leo

   down on Phobos' tiny cradle-field and bundled
 our ailing grub-hurler off to a hospital, and the skipper said to me,
 "Mister Dugan," he said, "go out and find us a cook!"

   "Aye, sir!" I said, and went.

   Only it wasn't that easy. In those days, Phobos had only a handful
 of settlers, and most of them had good-paying jobs. Besides, we were
 at war with the Outer Planets, and no man in his right senses wanted
 to sign for a single-trip jump on a rickety old patrolship bound for
 nobody-knew-where. And, of course, cooks are dime-a-dozen when you
 don't need one, but when you've got to locate one in a hurry they're as
 difficult to find as petticoats in a nudist camp.

   I tried the restaurants and the employment agencies, but it was no
 dice. I tried the hotels and the tourist homes and even one or two
 of the cleaner-looking joy-joints. Again I drew a blank. So, getting
 desperate, I audioed a plaintive appeal to the wealthy Phobosian
 colonists, asking that one of the more patriotic sons-of-riches donate
 a chef's services to the good old I.P.S., but my only response was a
 loud silence.

   So I went back to the ship. I said, "Sorry, sir. We're up against it. I
 can't seem to find a cook on the whole darned satellite."

   The skipper scowled at me from under a corduroy brow and fumed, "But
 we've got to have a cook, Dugan! We can't go on without one!"

   "In a pinch," I told him, "

    I

   might be able to boil a few pies, or
 scramble us a steak or something, Skipper."

   "Thanks, Dugan, but that won't do. On this trip the men must be fed
 regularly and well. Makeshift meals are O.Q. on an ordinary run, but
 when you're running the blockade—"

   He stopped abruptly. But too late; I had caught his slip of the tongue.
 I stared at him. I said, "The blockade, sir? Then you've read our
 orders?"

   The Old Man nodded soberly.

   "Yes. You might as well know, Lieutenant. Everyone will be told as soon
 as the

    Leo

   lifts gravs again. My orders were to be opened four hours
 after leaving Sand City. I read them a few minutes ago.

   "We are to attempt to run the Outer Planets Alliance blockade at any
 spot which reconnaisance determines as favorable. Our objective is
 Jupiter's fourth satellite, Callisto. The Solar Federation Intelligence
 Department has learned of a loyalist uprising on that moon. It is
 reported that Callisto is weary of the war, with a little prompting
 will secede from the Alliance and return to the Federation.

   "If this is true, it means we have at last found the foothold we have
 been seeking; a salient within easy striking distance of Jupiter,
 capital of the Alliance government. Our task is to verify the rumor
 and, if it be true, make a treaty with the Callistans."

   I said, "Sweet howling stars—some assignment, sir! A chance to end
 this terrible war ... form a permanent union of the entire Solar
 family ... bring about a new age of prosperity and happiness."

   "If," Cap O'Hara reminded me, "we succeed. But it's a tough job. We
 can't expect to win through the enemy cordon unless our men are in top
 physical condition. And that means a sound, regular diet. So we must
 find a cook, or—"

   "The search," interrupted an oddly high-pitched, but not unpleasant
 voice, "is over. Where's the galley?"

   I whirled, and so did the Old Man. Facing us was an outlandish little
 figure; a slim, trim, natty little Earthman not more than five-foot-two
 in height; a smooth-cheeked young fellow swaddled in a spaceman's
 uniform at least three sizes too large. Into the holster of his harness
 was thrust a Haemholtz ray-pistol big enough to burn an army, and in
 his right hand he brandished a huge, gleaming carving-knife. He frowned
 at us impatiently.

   "Well," he repeated impatiently, "where is it?"

   The Old Man stared.

   "W-who," he demanded dazedly, "might you be?"

   "I might be," retorted the little stranger, "lots of people. But I came
 here to be your new cook."

   O'Hara said, "The new—What's your name, mister?"

   "Andy," replied the newcomer. "Andy Laney."

   The Old Man's lip curled speculatively. "Well, Andy Laney," he said,
 "you don't look like much of a cook to

    me

   ."

   But the little mugg just returned the Old Man's gaze coolly. "Which
 makes it even," he retorted. "

    You

   don't look like much of a skipper
 to

    me

   . Do I get the job, or don't I?"

   The captain's grin faded, and his jowls turned pink. I stepped forward
 hastily. I said, "Excuse me, sir, shall I handle this?" Then, because
 the skipper was still struggling for words: "You," I said to the little
 fellow, "are a cook?"

   "One of the best!" he claimed complacently.

   "You're willing to sign for a blind journey?"

   "Would I be here," he countered, "if I weren't?"

   "And you have your space certificate?"

   "I—" began the youngster.

   "Smart Aleck!" That was the Old Man, exploding into coherence at last.
 "Rat-tailed, clever-cracking little smart Aleck! Don't look like much
 of a skipper, eh? Well, my fine young rooster—"

   I said quickly, "If you don't mind, sir, this is no time to worry over
 trifles. 'Any port in a storm,' you know. And if this young man

    can

   cook—"

   The skipper's color subsided. So did he, grumbling. "Well, perhaps
 you're right, Dugan. All right, Slops, you're hired. The galley's
 on the second level, port side. Mess in three quarters of an
 hour. Get going! Dugan, call McMurtrie and tell him we lift gravs
 immediately—

    Slops!

   What are you doing at that table?"

   For the little fellow had sidled across the control-room and now, eyes
 gleaming inquisitively, was peering at our trajectory charts. At the
 skipper's roar he glanced up at us eagerly.

   "Vesta!" he piped in that curiously high-pitched and mellow voice.
 "Loft trajectory for Vesta! Then we're trying to run the Alliance
 blockade, Captain?"

   "None of your business!" bellowed O'Hara in tones of thunderous
 outrage. "Get below instantly, or by the lavendar lakes of Luna I'll—"

   "If I were you," interrupted our diminutive new chef thoughtfully, "I'd
 try to broach the blockade off Iris rather than Vesta. For one thing,
 their patrol line will be thinner there; for another, you can come in
 through the Meteor Bog, using it as a cover."

   "

    Mr. Dugan!

   "

   The Old Man's voice had an ominous ring to it, one I had seldom heard.
 I sprang to attention and saluted smartly. "Aye, sir?"

   "Take this—this culinary tactician out of my sight before I forget I'm
 an officer and a gentleman. And tell him that when I want advice I'll
 come down to the galley for it!"

   A hurt look crept into the youngster's eyes. Slowly he turned and
 followed me from the turret, down the ramp, and into the pan-lined
 cubicle which was his proper headquarters. When I was turning to leave
 he said apologetically, "I didn't mean any harm, Mr. Dugan. I was just
 trying to help."

   "You must learn not to speak out of turn, youngster," I told him
 sternly. "The Old Man's one of the smartest space navigators who ever
 lifted gravs. He doesn't need the advice or suggestions of a cook."

   "But I was raised in the Belt," said the little chap plaintively. "I
 know the Bog like a book. And I was right; our safest course

    is

   by
 way of Iris."

   Well, there you are! You try to be nice to someone, and what happens?
 He tees off on you. I got a little sore I guess. Anyhow, I told the
 little squirt off, but definitely.

   "Now, listen!" I said bluntly. "You volunteered for the job. Now
 you've got to take what comes with it: orders! From now on, suppose
 you take care of the cooking and let the rest of us worry about the
 ship—Captain Slops!"

   And I left, banging the door behind me hard.

   So we hit the spaceways for Vesta, and after a while the Old Man called
 up the crew and told them our destination, and if you think they were
 scared or nervous or anything like that, why, you just don't know
 spacemen. From oil-soaked old Jock McMurtrie, the Chief Engineer, all
 the way down the line to Willy, our cabin-boy, the

    Leo's

   complement
 was as thrilled as a sub-deb at an Academy hop.

   John Wainwright, our First Officer, licked his chops like a fox in a
 hen-house and said, "The blockade! Oboyoboy! Maybe we'll tangle with
 one of the Alliance ships, hey?"

   Blinky Todd, an ordinary with highest rating, said with a sort of
 macabre satisfaction, "I hopes we

    do

   meet up with 'em, that's whut I
 does, sir! Never did have no love for them dirty, skulkin' Outlanders,
 that's whut I didn't!"

   And one of the black-gang blasters, a taciturn chap, said nothing—but
 the grim set of his jaw and the purposeful way he spat on his callused
 paws were mutely eloquent.

   Only one member of the crew was absent from the conclave. Our new
 Slops. He was busy preparing midday mess, it seems, because scarcely
 had the skipper finished talking than the audio hummed and a cheerful
 call rose from the galley:

   "Soup's on! Come and get it!"

   Which we did. And whatever failings "Captain Slops" might have, he
 had not exaggerated when he called himself one of the best cooks in
 space. That meal, children, was a meal! When it comes to victuals
 I can destroy better than describe, but there was stuff and things
 and such-like, all smothered in gravy and so on, and huge quantities
 of this and that and the other thing, all of them unbelievably
 dee-luscious!

   Beyond a doubt it was the finest feast we of the

    Leo

   had enjoyed in
 a 'coon's age. Even the Old Man admitted that as, leaning back from
 the table, he patted the pleasant bulge due south of his belt buckle.
 He rang the bell that summoned Slops from the galley, and the little
 fellow came bustling in apprehensively.

   "Was everything all right, sir?" he asked.

   "Not only all right, Slops," wheezed Captain O'Hara, "but perfect!
 Accept my congratulations on a superb meal, my boy. Did you find
 everything O.Q. in the galley?"

   "Captain Slops" blushed like a stereo-struck school-gal, and fidgeted
 from one foot to another.

   "Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you very much. Yes, the galley was in fine
 order. That is—" He hesitated—"there is one little thing, sir."

   "So? Well, speak up, son, what is it? I'll get it fixed for you right
 away." The Old Man smiled archly. "Must have everything shipshape for a
 tip-top chef, what?"

   The young hash-slinger still hesitated bashfully.

   "But it's such a

    little

   thing, sir, I almost hate to bother you with
 it."

   "No trouble at all. Just say the word."

   "Well, sir," confessed Slops reluctantly, "I need an incinerator in
 the galley. The garbage-disposal system in there now is old-fashioned,
 inconvenient and unsanitary. You see, I have to carry the waste down
 two levels to the rocket-chamber in order to expel it."

   The skipper's brow creased.

   "I'm sorry, Slops," he said, "but I don't see how we can do anything
 about that. Not just now, at any rate. That job requires equipment we
 don't have aboard. After this jump is over I'll see what I can do."

   "Oh, I realize we don't have the regular equipment," said Slops shyly,
 "but I've figured out a way to get the same effect with equipment we
 do have. There's an old Nolan heat-cannon rusting in the storeroom.
 If that could be installed by the galley vent, I could use it as an
 incinerator."

   I said, "Hold everything, Slops! You can't do that! It's against
 regulations. Code 44, Section xvi, says, 'Fixed armament shall be
 placed only in gunnery embrasures insulated against the repercussions
 of firing charges, re-radiation, or other hazards accruent to heavy
 ordnance.'"

   Our little chef's face fell. "Now, that's too bad," he said
 discouragedly. "I was planning a special banquet for tomorrow, with
 roast marsh-duck and all the fixings, pinberry pie—but, oh, well!—if
 I have no incinerator—"

   The skipper's eyes bulged, and he drooled like a pup at a barbeque.
 He was a bit of a sybarite, was Captain David O'Hara; if there was
 anything he dearly loved to exercise his molars on it was Venusian
 marsh-duck topped with a dessert of Martian pinberry pie. He said:

   "We-e-ell, now, Mr. Dugan, let's not be too technical. After all, that
 rule was put in the book only to prevent persons which shouldn't ought
 to do so from having control of ordnance. But that isn't what Slops
 wants the cannon for, is it, son? So I don't see any harm in rigging
 up the old Nolan in the galley for incineration purposes. Did you say

    all

   the fixings, Slops?"

   Maybe I was mistaken, but for a moment I suspected I caught a queer
 glint in our little chef's eyes; it might have been gratitude, or, on
 the other hand, it might have been self-satisfaction. Whatever it was
 it passed quickly, and Captain Slops' soft voice was smooth as silk
 when he said:

   "Yes, Captain, all the fixings. I'll start cooking the meal as soon as
 the new incinerator is installed."

   So that was that. During the night watch two men of the crew lugged
 the ancient Nolan heat cannon from stores and I went below to check. I
 found young Slops bent over the old cannon, giving it a strenuous and
 thorough cleaning. The way he was oiling and scrubbing at that antique
 reminded me of an apprentice gunner coddling his first charge.

   I must have startled him, entering unexpectedly as I did, for when I
 said, "Hi, there!" he jumped two feet and let loose a sissy little
 piping squeal. Then, crimson-faced with embarrassment, he said, "Oh,
 h-hello, Lieutenant. I was just getting my new incinerator shipshape.
 Looks O.Q., eh?"

   "If you ask me," I said, "it looks downright lethal. The Old Man must
 be off his gravs to let a young chuckle-head like you handle that toy."

   "But I'm only going to use it," he said plaintively, "to dispose of
 garbage."

   "Well, don't dump your cans when there are any ships within range," I
 warned him glumly, "or there'll be a mess of human scraps littering up
 the void. That gun may be a museum piece, but it still packs a wallop."

   "Yes, sir," said Slops meekly. "I'll be careful how I use it, sir."

   I had finished my inspection, and I sniggered as his words reminded me
 of a joke I'd heard at a spacemans' smoker.

   "Speaking of being careful, did you hear the giggler about the old maid
 at the Martian baths? Well, it seems this perennial spinster wandered,
 by accident, into the men's shower room and met up with a brawny young
 prospector—"

   Captain Slops said, "Er—excuse me, Lieutenant, but I have to get this
 marsh-duck stuffed."

   "Plenty of time, Slops. Wait till you hear this; it will kill you. The
 old maid got flustered and said, 'Oh, I'm sorry! I must be in the wrong
 compartment—'"

   "If you don't mind, Mr. Dugan," interrupted the cook loudly, "I'm
 awfully busy. I don't have any time for—"

   "The prospector looked her over carefully for a couple of seconds; then
 answered, 'That's O.Q. by me, sister. I won't—'"

   "I—I've got to go now, Lieutenant," shouted Slops. "Just remembered
 something I've got to get from stores." And without even waiting to
 hear the wallop at the end of my tale he fled from the galley, very
 pink and flustered.

   So there was one for the log-book! Not only did our emergency chef lack
 a sense of humor, but the little punk was bashful, as well! Still, it
 was no skin off my nose if Slops wanted to miss the funniest yarn of a
 decade. I shrugged and went back to the control turret.

   All that, to make an elongated story brief, happened on the first day
 out of Mars. As any schoolchild knows, it's a full hundred million from
 the desert planet to the asteroid belt. In those days, there was no
 such device as a Velocity-Intensifier unit, and the

    Leo

   , even though
 she was then considered a reasonably fast little patroller, muddled
 along at a mere 400,000 m.p.h. Which meant it would take us at least
 ten days, perhaps more, to reach that disputed region of space around
 Vesta, where the Federation outposts were sparse and the Alliance block
 began.

   That period of jetting was a mingled joy and pain in the britches.
 Captain Slops was responsible for both.

   For one thing, as I've hinted before, he was a bit of a panty-waist.
 It wasn't so much the squeaky voice or the effeminate gestures he cut
 loose with from time to time. One of the roughest, toughest scoundrels
 who ever cut a throat on Venus was "High G" Gordon, who talked like a
 boy soprano, and the meanest pirate who ever highjacked a freighter was
 "Runt" Hake—who wore diamond ear-rings and gold fingernail polish!

   But it was Slops' general attitude that isolated him from the command
 and crew. In addition to being a most awful prude, he was a kill-joy.
 When just for a lark we begged him to boil us a pot of spaghetti, so we
 could pour a cold worm's nest into Rick Bramble's bed, he shuddered and
 refused.

   "Certainly not!" he piped indignantly. "You must be out of your minds!
 I never heard of such a disgusting trick! Of course, I won't be a party
 to it. Worms—Ugh!"

   "Yeah!" snorted Johnny Wainwright disdainfully, "And

    ugh!

   to you,
 too. Come on, Joe, let's get out of here before we give Slops bad
 dreams and goose-flesh!"

   Nor was hypersensitiveness Slops' worst failing. If he was squeamish
 about off-color jokes and such stuff, he had no compunctions whatsoever
 against sticking his nose in where it didn't belong.

   He was an inveterate prowler. He snooped everywhere and anywhere from
 ballast-bins to bunk-rooms. He quizzed the Chief about engine-room
 practices, the gunner's mate on problems of ballistics, even the
 cabin-boy on matters of supplies and distribution of same. He was not
 only an asker; he was a teller, as well. More than once during the next
 nine days he forced on the skipper the same gratuitous advice which
 before had enraged the Old Man. By sheer perseverance he earned the
 title I had tagged him with: "Captain Slops."

   I was willing to give him another title, too—Captain Chaos. God knows
 he created enough of it!

   "It's a mistake to broach the blockade at Vesta," he argued over and
 over again.

   "O.Q., Slops," the skipper would nod agreeably, with his mouth full
 of some temper-softening tidbit, "you're right and I'm wrong, as you
 usually are. But I'm in command of the

    Leo

   , and you ain't. Now, run
 along like a good lad and bring me some more of this salad."

   So ten days passed, and it was on the morning of the eleventh day out
 of Sand City that we ran into trouble with a capital trub. I remember
 that morning well, because I was in the mess-hall having breakfast with
 Cap O'Hara, and Slops was playing another variation on the old familiar
 theme.

   "I glanced at the chart this morning, sir," he began as he minced in
 with a platterful of golden flapjacks and an ewer of Vermont maple
 syrup, "and I see we are but an hour or two off Vesta. I am very much
 afraid this is our last chance to change course—"

   "And for that," chuckled the Old Man, "Hooray! Pass them pancakes, son.
 Maybe now you'll stop shooting off about how we ought to of gone by way
 of Iris. Mmmm! Good!"

   "Thank you, sir," said Slops mechanically. "But you realize there is
 extreme danger of encountering enemy ships?"

   "Keep your pants on, Slops!"

   "Eh?" The chef looked startled. "Beg pardon, sir?"

   "I said keep your pants on. Sure, I know. And I've took precautions.
 There's a double watch on duty, and men at every gun. If we do meet up
 with an Alliance craft, it'll be just too bad for them!

   "Yes, sirree!" The Old Man grinned comfortably. "I almost hope we
 do bump into one. After we burn it out of the void we'll have clear
 sailing all the way to Callisto."

   "But—but if there should be more than one, sir?"

   "Don't be ridiculous, my boy. Why should there be?"

   "Well, for one thing," wrangled our pint-sized cook, "because rich
 ekalastron deposits were recently discovered on Vesta. For another,
 because Vesta's orbit is now going into aphelion stage, which will
 favor a concentration of raiders."

   The skipper choked, spluttered, and disgorged a bite of half-masticated
 pancake.

   "Eka—Great balls of fire! Are you sure?"

   "Of course, I'm sure. I told you days ago that I was born and raised in
 the Belt, Captain."

   "I know. But why didn't you tell me about Vesta before? I mean about
 the ekalastron deposits?"

   "Why—why, because—" said Slops. "Because—"

   "Don't give me lady-logic, you dope!" roared the Old Man, an enraged
 lion now, his breakfast completely forgotten. "Give me a sensible
 answer! If you'd told me

    that

   instead of just yipping and yapping
 about how via Iris was a nicer route I'd have listened to you! As it
 is, we're blasting smack-dab into the face of danger. And us on the
 most vital mission of the whole ding-busted war!"

   He was out of his seat, bustling to the audio, buzzing Lieutenant
 Wainwright on the bridge.

   "Johnny—that you? Listen, change traj quick! Set a new course through
 the Belt by way of Iris and the Bog, and hurry up, because—"

   What reason he planned to give I do not know, for he never finished
 that sentence. At that moment the

    Leo

   rattled like a Model AA
 spacesled in an ionic storm, rolled, quivered and slewed like a drunk
 on a freshly-waxed floor. The motion needed no explanation; it was
 unmistakeable to any spacer who has ever hopped the blue. Our ship had
 been gripped, and was now securely locked, in the clutch of a tractor
 beam!

   What happened next was everything at once. Officers Wainwright and
 Bramble were in the turret, and they were both good sailors. They knew
 their duties and how to perform them. An instant after the

    Leo

   had
 been assaulted, the ship bucked and slithered again, this time with the
 repercussions of our own ordnance. Over the audio, which Sparks had
 hastily converted into an all-way, inter-ship communicating unit, came
 a jumble of voices. A call for Captain O'Hara to "Come to the bridge,
 sir!" ... the harsh query of Chief McMurtrie, "Tractor beams on stern
 and prow, sir. Shall I attempt to break them?" ... and a thunderous

    groooom!

   from the fore-gunnery port as a crew went into action ... a
 plaintive little shriek from somebody ... maybe from Slops himself....

   Then on an ultra-wave carrier, drowning local noises beneath waves of
 sheer volume, came English words spoken with a foreign intonation. The
 voice of the Alliance commander.

   "Ahoy the

    Leo

   ! Calling the captain of the

    Leo

   !"

   O'Hara, his great fists knotted at his sides, called back, "O'Hara of
 the

    Leo

   answering. What do you want?"

   "Stand by to admit a boarding party, Captain. It is futile to resist.
 You are surrounded by six armed craft, and your vessel is locked in
 our tensiles. Any further effort to make combat will bring about your
 immediate destruction!"

   From the bridge, topside, snarled Johnny Wainwright, "The hell with
 'em, Skipper! Let's fight it out!" And elsewhere on the

    Leo

   angry
 voices echoed the same defi. Never in my life had I felt such a
 heart-warming love for and pride in my companions as at that tense
 moment. But the Old Man shook his head, and his eyes were glistening.

   "It's no use," he moaned strickenly, more to himself than to me. "I
 can't sacrifice brave men in a useless cause, Dugan. I've got to—" He
 faced the audio squarely. To the enemy commander he said, "Very good,
 sir! In accordance with the Rules of War, I surrender into your hands!"

   The firing ceased, and a stillness like that of death blanketed the

    Leo

   .

   It was then that Andy Laney, who had lingered in the galley doorway
 like a frozen figuring, broke into babbling incredulous speech.

   "You—you're giving up like this?" he bleated. "Is this all you're
 going to do?"

   The Old Man just looked at him, saying never a word, but that glance
 would have blistered the hide off a Mercurian steelback. I'm more
 impetuous. I turned on the little idiot vituperatively.

   "Shut up, you fool! Don't you realize there's not a thing we can do but
 surrender? Dead, we're of no earthly use to anyone. Alive, there is
 always a chance one of us may get away, bring help. We have a mission
 to fulfil, an important one. Corpses can't run errands."

   "But—but if they take us prisoners," he questioned fearfully, "what
 will they do with us?"

   "A concentration camp somewhere. Perhaps on Vesta."

   "And the

    Leo

   ?"

   "Who knows? Maybe they'll send it to Jupiter with a prize crew in
 command."

   "That's what I thought. But they mustn't be allowed to do that. We're
 marked with the Federation tricolor!"

   A sharp retort trembled on the tip of my tongue, but I never uttered
 it. Indeed, I swallowed it as comprehension dawned. There came to me
 the beginnings of respect for little Andy Laney's wisdom. He had been
 right about the danger of the Vesta route, as we had learned to our
 cost; now he was right on this other score.

   The skipper got it, too. His jaw dropped. He said, "Heaven help us,
 it's the truth! To reach Jupiter you've got to pass Callisto. If the
 Callistans saw a Federation vessel, they'd send out an emissary to
 greet it. Our secret would be discovered, Callisto occupied by the
 enemy...."

   I think he would have turned, then, and given orders to continue the
 fight even though it meant suicide for all of us. But it was too late.
 Already our lock had opened to the attackers; down the metal ramp we
 now heard the crisp cadence of invading footsteps. The door swung open,
 and the Alliance commandant stood smiling triumphantly before us.

Question and Possible Answers:
What is the most likely meaning of the slang O.Q.? (in twentieth-century American English)

 (A) cool
 (B) no worries
 (C) my bad
 (D) O.K./OK

Answer:

Output: D


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).

Story:
THE STAR-SENT KNAVES

   BY KEITH LAUMER

   Illustrated by Gaughan

   When the Great Galactic Union first encounters

   Earth ... is this what is going to happen?

   I

   Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,
 with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shouldered
 in a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane's
 travel-stained six foot one.

   "Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me." He nodded toward
 the florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like something
 that needed oiling. "Something about important information regarding
 safeguarding my paintings."

   "That's right, Mr. Snithian," Dan said. "I believe I can be of great
 help to you."

   "Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me...." The red eyes bored
 into Dan like hot pokers.

   "Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guards
 here—the papers are full of it—"

   "Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,
 I'd have no concern for my paintings today!"

   "Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been left
 unguarded."

   "Now, wait a minute—" Kelly started.

   "What's that?" Snithian cut in.

   "You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds day
 and night—"

   "Two hundred and twenty-five," Kelly snapped.

   "—but no one at all in the vault with the paintings," Slane finished.

   "Of course not," Snithian shrilled. "Why should I post a man in the
 vault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside."

   "The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault," Dan said.
 "There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken."

   "By the saints, he's right," Kelly exclaimed. "Maybe we ought to have a
 man in that vault."

   "Another idiotic scheme to waste my money," Snithian snapped. "I've
 made you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no more
 nonsense. And throw this nincompoop out!" Snithian turned and stalked
 away, his cloak flapping at his knees.

   "I'll work cheap," Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. "I'm an
 art lover."

   "Never mind that," Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. He
 turned in at an office and closed the door.

   "Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. If
 those pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.
 Just how cheap would you work?"

   "A hundred dollars a week," Dan said promptly. "Plus expenses," he
 added.

   Kelly nodded. "I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. If
 you're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet."

   Dan looked around at the gray walls, with shelves stacked to the low
 ceiling with wrapped paintings. Two three-hundred-watt bulbs shed a
 white glare over the tile floor, a neat white refrigerator, a bunk,
 an arm-chair, a bookshelf and a small table set with paper plates,
 plastic utensils and a portable radio—all hastily installed at Kelly's
 order. Dan opened the refrigerator, looked over the stock of salami,
 liverwurst, cheese and beer. He opened a loaf of bread, built up a
 well-filled sandwich, keyed open a can of beer.

   It wasn't fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone off
 without a hitch.

   Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearing
 from closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It was
 obvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of large
 canvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards—and leaving the locks
 undamaged.

   Yet the paintings were gone. Someone had been in those vaults—someone
 who hadn't entered in the usual way.

   Theory failed at that point; that left the experimental method. The
 Snithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. With
 such a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in the
 vault—day and night—waiting—he would see for himself how they
 operated.

   He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one of
 the brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the package, he
 slid a painting into view. It was a gaily colored view of an open-air
 cafe, with a group of men and women in gay-ninetyish costumes gathered
 at a table. He seemed to remember reading something about it in a
 magazine. It was a cheerful scene; Dan liked it. Still, it hardly
 seemed worth all the effort....

   He went to the wall switch and turned off the lights. The orange glow
 of the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from the
 night-light over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give him
 a momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He groped
 his way to the bunk.

   So far, so good, he reflected, stretching out. When they showed up,
 he'd have to handle everything just right. If he scared them off
 there'd be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at—whatever
 his discovery might mean to him.

   But he was ready. Let them come.

   Eight hours, three sandwiches and six beers later, Dan roused suddenly
 from a light doze and sat up on the cot. Between him and the crowded
 shelving, a palely luminous framework was materializing in mid-air.

   The apparition was an open-work cage—about the size and shape of an
 out-house minus the sheathing, Dan estimated breathlessly. Two figures
 were visible within the structure, sitting stiffly in contoured chairs.
 They glowed, if anything, more brightly than the framework.

   A faint sound cut into the stillness—a descending whine. The cage
 moved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long blue sparks jumped,
 crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cage
 settled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostly
 switches....

   The glow died.

   Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His mouth
 was dry. This was the moment he'd been planning for, but now that it
 was here—

   Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he had
 prepared for the occasion:

    Greeting, visitors from the Future....

   Hopelessly corny. What about:

    Welcome to the Twentieth Century....

   No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs to
 Dan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it now
 looked like nothing more than a rough frame built of steel pipe, with
 a cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieves
 looked ordinary enough: Two men in gray coveralls, one slender and
 balding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticed
 Dan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on the
 table, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked at
 the stacked shelves.

   "Looks like the old boy's been doing all right," the shorter man said.
 "Fathead's gonna be pleased."

   "A very gratifying consignment," his companion said. "However, we'd
 best hurry, Manny. How much time have we left on this charge?"

   "Plenty. Fifteen minutes anyway."

   The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting.

   "Ah, magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period."

   Manny shuffled through the other pictures in the stack.

   "Like always," he grumbled. "No nood dames. I like nood dames."

   "Look at this, Manny! The textures alone—"

   Manny looked. "Yeah, nice use of values," he conceded. "But I still
 prefer nood dames, Fiorello."

   "And this!" Fiorello lifted the next painting. "Look at that gay play
 of rich browns!"

   "I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street," Manny said. "They was
 popular with the sparrows."

   "Manny, sometimes I think your aspirations—"

   "Whatta ya talkin? I use a roll-on." Manny, turning to place a painting
 in the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The painting
 clattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. "Uh...."

   "Oh-oh," Manny said. "A double-cross."

   "I've—ah—been expecting you gentlemen," Dan said. "I—"

   "I told you we couldn't trust no guy with nine fingers on each hand,"
 Manny whispered hoarsely. He moved toward the cage. "Let's blow,
 Fiorello."

   "Wait a minute," Dan said. "Before you do anything hasty—"

   "Don't start nothing, Buster," Manny said cautiously. "We're plenty
 tough guys when aroused."

   "I want to talk to you," Dan insisted. "You see, these paintings—"

   "Paintings? Look, it was all a mistake. Like, we figured this was the
 gent's room—"

   "Never mind, Manny," Fiorello cut in. "It appears there's been a leak."

   Dan shook his head. "No leak. I simply deduced—"

   "Look, Fiorello," Manny said. "You chin if you want to; I'm doing a
 fast fade."

   "Don't act hastily, Manny. You know where you'll end."

   "Wait a minute!" Dan shouted. "I'd like to make a deal with you
 fellows."

   "Ah-hah!" Kelly's voice blared from somewhere. "I knew it! Slane, you
 crook!"

   Dan looked about wildly. The voice seemed to be issuing from a speaker.
 It appeared Kelly hedged his bets.

   "Mr. Kelly, I can explain everything!" Dan called. He turned back to
 Fiorello. "Listen, I figured out—"

   "Pretty clever!" Kelly's voice barked. "Inside job. But it takes more
 than the likes of you to out-fox an old-timer like Eddie Kelly."

   "Perhaps you were right, Manny," Fiorello said. "Complications are
 arising. We'd best depart with all deliberate haste." He edged toward
 the cage.

   "What about this ginzo?" Manny jerked a thumb toward Dan. "He's on to
 us."

   "Can't be helped."

   "Look—I want to go with you!" Dan shouted.

   "I'll bet you do!" Kelly's voice roared. "One more minute and I'll have
 the door open and collar the lot of you! Came up through a tunnel, did
 you?"

   "You can't go, my dear fellow," Fiorello said. "Room for two, no more."

   Dan whirled to the cot, grabbed up the pistol Kelly had supplied. He
 aimed it at Manny. "You stay here, Manny! I'm going with Fiorello in
 the time machine."

   "Are you nuts?" Manny demanded.

   "I'm flattered, dear boy," Fiorello said, "but—"

   "Let's get moving. Kelly will have that lock open in a minute."

   "You can't leave me here!" Manny spluttered, watching Dan crowd into
 the cage beside Fiorello.

   "We'll send for you," Dan said. "Let's go, Fiorello."

   The balding man snatched suddenly for the gun. Dan wrestled with him.
 The pistol fell, bounced on the floor of the cage, skidded into the
 far corner of the vault. Manny charged, reaching for Dan as he twisted
 aside; Fiorello's elbow caught him in the mouth. Manny staggered back
 into the arms of Kelly, bursting red-faced into the vault.

   "Manny!" Fiorello released his grip on Dan, lunged to aid his
 companion. Kelly passed Manny to one of three cops crowding in on his
 heels. Dan clung to the framework as Fiorello grappled with Kelly. A
 cop pushed past them, spotted Dan, moved in briskly for the pinch. Dan
 grabbed a lever at random and pulled.

   Sudden silence fell as the walls of the room glowed blue. A spectral
 Kelly capered before the cage, fluorescing in the blue-violet. Dan
 swallowed hard and nudged a second lever. The cage sank like an
 elevator into the floor, vivid blue washing up its sides.

   Hastily he reversed the control. Operating a time machine was tricky
 business. One little slip, and the Slane molecules would be squeezing
 in among brick and mortar particles....

   But this was no time to be cautious. Things hadn't turned out just the
 way he'd planned, but after all, this was what he'd wanted—in a way.
 The time machine was his to command. And if he gave up now and crawled
 back into the vault, Kelly would gather him in and pin every art theft
 of the past decade on him.

   It couldn't be

    too

   hard. He'd take it slowly, figure out the
 controls....

   Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose gently,
 in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan gritted
 his teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down the cage.
 Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-haloed cook
 waddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan rising slowly
 from the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage rose, penetrated a
 second ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted hall.

   Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest an
 inch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn't traveled so
 much as a minute into the past or future.

   He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled "Forward"
 and another labeled "Back", but all the levers were plain, unadorned
 black. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker type
 knife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance of
 something thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, it
 worked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in the
 usual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be here
 somewhere....

   Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall.

   A girl's head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase. In
 another second she would see him, and give the alarm—and Dan needed
 a few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the controls.
 He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways, sliced through
 the wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed the lever
 back. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with flouncy curtains, a
 four-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing table—

   The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was young. Not
 over eighteen, Dan thought—as nearly as he could tell with the blue
 light playing around her face. She had long hair tied with a ribbon,
 and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and carried a tennis
 racquet in her left hand and an apple in her right. Her back to Dan and
 the cage, she tossed the racquet on a table, took a bite of the apple,
 and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt.

   Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another;
 he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid the
 zipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot toward
 the outer wall as the girl reached behind her back....

   Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hovering
 twenty feet above a clipped lawn.

   He looked at the levers. Wasn't it the first one in line that moved the
 cage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man stepped
 out on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his face
 up—

   Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was in a
 plain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a planter
 filled with glowing blue plants—

   The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as she
 took a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-square
 sunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple core aside,
 seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her, whirled—

   With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, the
 cage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off with
 an acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for the
 controls, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushed
 on, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town,
 approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared up
 fifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it—

   He covered his ears, braced himself—

   With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of the
 cage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop.
 Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud

    click!

   and the glow faded.

   With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around at
 a simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered through
 elaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a potted
 plant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the far
 side of the room a desk. And behind the desk—Something.

   II

   Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, mounted on a torso like a
 hundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him from
 points eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfolded
 and reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss three
 peanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened just
 above the brown eyes.

   "Who're you?" a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor.

   "I'm ... I'm ... Dan Slane ... your honor."

   "What happened to Manny and Fiorello?"

   "They—I—There was this cop. Kelly—"

   "Oh-oh." The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The many-fingered hands
 closed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer.

   "Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted," the basso voice said. "A
 pity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still...." A noise like an
 amplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth.

   "How ... what...?"

   "The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below a
 critical value," the voice said. "A necessary measure to discourage
 big ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how you
 happen to be aboard the carrier, by the way?"

   "I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police ... I
 went for help," Dan finished lamely.

   "Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one's
 anonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps at
 present. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings?"

   Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes,
 accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make out
 the vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headed
 giraffe rearing up above scarlet foliage. The next poster showed a face
 similar to the beachball behind the desk, with red circles painted
 around the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fire
 into a black sky.

   "Too bad." The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted,
 caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked up
 to catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busily
 at work studying the ceiling.

   "I hope," the voice said, "that you ain't harboring no reactionary
 racial prejudices."

   "Gosh, no," Dan reassured the eye. "I'm crazy about—uh—"

   "Vorplischers," the voice said. "From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you call
 it." The Bronx cheer sounded again. "How I long to glimpse once more my
 native fens! Wherever one wanders, there's no pad like home."

   "That reminds me," Dan said. "I have to be running along now." He
 sidled toward the door.

   "Stick around, Dan," the voice rumbled. "How about a drink? I can
 offer you Chateau Neuf du Pape, '59, Romance Conte, '32, goat's milk,
 Pepsi—"

   "No, thanks."

   "If you don't mind, I believe I'll have a Big Orange." The Vorplischer
 swiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted with
 a nipple and turned back to Dan. "Now, I got a proposition which may be
 of some interest to you. The loss of Manny and Fiorello is a serious
 blow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You made the scene at a most
 opportune time. What I got in mind is, with those two clowns out of the
 picture, a vacancy exists on my staff, which you might well fill. How
 does that grab you?"

   "You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine?"

   "Time machine?" The brown eyes blinked alternately. "I fear some
 confusion exists. I don't quite dig the significance of the term."

   "That thing," Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. "The machine I came
 here in. You want me—"

   "Time machine," the voice repeated. "Some sort of chronometer, perhaps?"

   "Huh?"

   "I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess the
 implied concept snows me." The nine-fingered hands folded on the desk.
 The beachball head leaned forward interestedly. "Clue me, Dan. What's a
 time machine?"

   "Well, it's what you use to travel through time."

   The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. "Apparently I've loused
 up my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no idea
 you were capable of that sort of thing." The immense head leaned back,
 the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. "And to think I've been
 spinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art!"

   "But—don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one?"

   "That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your time
 machines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted at
 this development—and astonished as well. They regard this planet as
 Endsville."

   "Your superiors?" Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe he
 could reach the machine and try a getaway—

   "I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly," the beachball said,
 following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inch
 yellow cylinder lying on the desk. "Until the carrier is fueled, I'm
 afraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd best
 introduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader Fourth
 Class, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to develop
 new sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entire
 Secondary Quadrant."

   "But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That

    has

   to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could just
 materialize out of thin air like that."

   "You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan," Blote said. "You
 shouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel,
 that everyone has. Now—" Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper—"I'll
 make a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in good
 condition for me. And in return—"

   "

    I'm

   supposed to supply

    you

   with a time machine?"

   Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. "I dislike pointing it out,
 Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegal
 entry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless some
 embarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr.
 Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself would
 deal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder."
 The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under the
 desk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan.

   "Whereas, on the other hand," Blote's bass voice went on, "you and me
 got the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you up
 with an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, I
 should say. What about it, Dan?"

   "Ah, let me see," Dan temporized. "Time machine. Time machine—"

   "Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan," Blote rumbled ominously.

   "I'd better look in the phone book," Dan suggested.

   Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it.

   "Time, time. Let's see...." He brightened. "Time, Incorporated; local
 branch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street."

   "A sales center?" Blote inquired. "Or a manufacturing complex?"

   "Both," Dan said. "I'll just nip over and—"

   "That won't be necessary, Dan," Blote said. "I'll accompany you." He
 took the directory, studied it.

   "Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to notice
 it. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from a
 large." He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuel
 cells. "Now, off to gather in the time machine." He took his place in
 the carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. "Come, Dan.
 Get a wiggle on."

   Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to a
 point—but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.
 Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. "Kindly direct
 me, Dan," Blote demanded. "Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe you
 said."

   "I don't know the town very well," Dan said, "but Maple's over that
 way."

   Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky.
 Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Dan
 looked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure.

   "Over there," he said. Blote directed the machine as it swooped
 smoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated.

   "Better let me take over now," Dan suggested. "I want to be sure to
 get us to the right place."

   "Very well, Dan."

   Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimly
 seen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cage
 grew even fainter. "Best we remain unnoticed," he explained.

   The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifying
 landmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barely
 visible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambers
 along both sides of the passage at once.

   "Ah, this must be the assembly area," he exclaimed. "I see the machines
 employ a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers."

   "That's right," Dan said, staring through the haziness. "This is where
 they do time...." He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veered
 left, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulous
 figures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessed
 wrong—

   The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus.
 Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concrete
 walls, the barred door and—

   "You!" a hoarse voice bellowed.

   "Grab him!" someone yelled.

   Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attempt
 to regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at a
 lever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figures
 as the carrier shot away through the cell wall.

   III

   Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in the
 clear, he would have to decide on his next move—fast. There was no
 telling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hide
 the carrier, then—

   A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume.
 Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction.

   The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign of
 mechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulous
 landscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against the
 deafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once.
 If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan worked
 the controls, dropping toward the distant earth.

   The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, brought
 the carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last few
 inches and cut the switch.

   As the glow died, the siren faded into silence.

   Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noise
 was, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestrians
 in the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, why
 hadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or no
 sound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to a
 secluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in,
 reached for the controls—

   There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dials
 before him frosted over. There was a loud

    pop!

   like a flashbulb
 exploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectangle
 which hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, faded
 to blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in a
 tight-fitting white uniform stepped through.

   Dan gaped at the small rounded head, the dark-skinned long-nosed face,
 the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curly
 red-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neat
 pillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-set
 yellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened in
 a smile which showed square yellowish teeth.

   "

    Alors, monsieur

   ," the new-comer said, bending his knees and back in
 a quick bow. "

    Vous ete une indigine, n'est ce pas?

   "

   "No compree," Dan choked out "Uh ... juh no parlay Fransay...."

   "My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn't it? Stupid of me.
 Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Class
 five, Inter-dimensional Monitor Service."

   "That siren," Dan said. "Was that you?"

   Dzhackoon nodded. "For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined to
 stop. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable."

   "What outfit did you say you were with?" Dan asked.

   "The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service."

   "Inter-what?"

   "Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best our
 language coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary."

   "What do you want with me?"

Question and Possible Answers:
What is the author's purpose in providing such detailed descriptions of Blote and Dzhackoon?

 (A) To better familiarize the audience with the setting of the places Dan visited.
 (B) To explain why Dan was so intrigued by these characters.
 (C) To show that people in the future do not look as human as a character like Dan.
 (D) To show that these characters are unlike the human ones on Earth.

Answer:

Output: D


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).

Story:
Pied Piper of Mars

   By FREDERIC ARNOLD KUMMER, Jr.

   Elath Taen made mad music for the men of Mars.

   The red planet lived and would die to the

   soul-tearing tunes of his fiendish piping.

   In all the solar system there is no city quite like Mercis, capital
 of Mars. Solis, on Venus, is perhaps more beautiful, some cities of
 Earth certainly have more drive and dynamitism, but there is a strange
 inscrutable air about Mercis which even terrestials of twenty years'
 residence cannot explain. Outwardly a tourists' mecca, with white
 plastoid buildings, rich gardens, and whispering canals, it has another
 and darker side, ever present, ever hidden. While earthmen work and
 plan, building, repairing, bringing their vast energy and progress
 to decadent Mars, the silent little reddies go their devious ways,
 following ancient laws which no amount of terrestial logic can shake.
 Time-bound ritual, mysterious passions and hates, torturous, devious
 logic ... all these, like dark winding underground streams run beneath
 the tall fair city that brings such thrilled superlatives to the lips
 of the terrestial tourists.

   Steve Ranson, mounting the steps of the old house facing the Han
 canal, was in no mood for the bizarre beauties of Martian scenery. For
 one thing, Mercis was an old story to him; his work with Terrestial
 Intelligence had brought him here often in the past, on other strange
 cases. And for another thing, his mission concerned more vital matters.
 Jared Haller, as head of the state-owned Martian Broadcasting System,
 was next in importance to the august Governor Winship himself. As
 far back as the Hitlerian wars on earth it had been known that he
 who controls propaganda, controls the nation ... or planet. Martian
 Broadcasting was an important factor in controlling the fierce warlike
 little reddies, keeping the terrestial-imposed peace on the red
 planet. And when Jared Haller sent to Earth for one of the Terrestial
 Intelligence, that silent efficient corps of trouble-shooters,
 something was definitely up.

   The house was provided with double doors as protection against the
 sudden fierce sandstorms which so often, in the month of Tol, sweep
 in from the plains of Psidis to engulf Mercis in a red choking haze.
 Ranson passed the conventional electric eye and a polite robot voice
 asked his name. He gave it, and the inner door opened.

   A smiling little Martian butler met him in the hall, showed him into
 Haller's study. The head of M.B.C. stood at one end of the big library,
 the walls of which were lined with vivavox rolls and old-fashioned
 books. As Ranson entered, he swung about, frowning, one hand dropping
 to a pocket that bulged unmistakably.

   "Ranson, Terrestial Intelligence." The special agent offered his card.
 "You sent to Earth a while ago for an operator?"

   Jared Haller nodded. He was a big, rough-featured individual with gray
 leonine hair. A battering-ram of a man, one would think, who hammered
 his way through life by sheer force and drive. But as Ranson looked
 closer, he could see lines of worry, of fear, etched about the strong
 mouth, and a species of terror within the shaggy-browed eyes.

   "Yes," said Jared Haller. "I sent for an operator. You got here
 quickly, Mr. Ranson!"

   "Seven days out of earth on the express-liner

    Arrow

   ." Ranson wondered
 why Haller didn't come to the point. Even Terrestial Intelligence
 headquarters in New York hadn't known why a T.I. man was wanted on
 Mars ... but Haller was one of the few persons sufficiently important
 to have an operator sent without explanation as to why he was wanted.
 Ranson put it directly. "Why did you require the help of T.I., Mr.
 Haller?" he asked.

   "Because we're up against something a little too big for the Mercian
 police force to handle." Jared Haller's strong hands tapped nervously
 upon the desk. "No one has greater respect for our local authorities
 than myself. Captain Maxwell is a personal friend of mine. But I
 understood that T.I. men had the benefit of certain amazing devices,
 remarkable inventions, which make it easy for them to track down
 criminals."

   Ranson nodded. That was true. T.I. didn't allow its secret devices
 to be used by any other agency, for fear they might become known to
 the criminals and outlaws of the solar system. But Haller still hadn't
 told what crime had taken place. This time Ranson applied the spur of
 silence. It worked.

   "Mr. Ranson," Haller leaned forward, his face a gray grim mask,
 "someone, something, is working to gain control of the Martian
 Broadcasting Company! And I don't have to tell you that whoever
 controls M.B.C. controls Mars! Here's the set-up! Our company, although
 state owned, is largely free from red-tape, so long as we stress the
 good work we terrestials are doing on Mars and keep any revolutionary
 propaganda off the air-waves. Except for myself, and half a dozen other
 earthmen in responsible positions, our staff is largely Martian.
 That's in line with our policy of teaching Mars our civilization until
 it's ready for autonomy. Which it isn't yet, by quite some. As you
 know."

   Ranson nodded, eyes intent as the pattern unfolded.

   "All right." Haller snapped. "You see the situation. Remove us ... the
 few terrestials at the top of M.B.C ... and Martian staff would carry
 on until new men came out from Earth to take our places. But suppose
 during that period with no check on their activities, they started
 to dish out nationalist propaganda? One hour's program, with the old
 Martian war-songs being played and some rabble-rouser yelling 'down
 with the terrestial oppressors' and there'd be a revolution. Millions
 of reddies against a few police, a couple of regiments of the Foreign
 Legion. It'd be a cinch."

   "But," ... Ranson frowned ... "this is only an interesting supposition.
 The reddies are civilized, peaceful."

   "Outwardly," Haller snapped. "But what do you or any other earthmen
 know about what goes on in their round red heads? And the proof that
 some revolt is planned lies in what's been happening the past few
 weeks! Look here!" Haller bent forward, the lines about his mouth
 tighter than ever. "Three weeks ago my technical advisor, Rawlins,
 committed suicide. Not a care in the world, but he killed himself. A
 week later Harris, head of the television department, went insane.
 Declared a feud with the whole planet, began shooting at everyone he
 saw. The police rayed him in the struggle. The following week Pegram,
 the musical director, died of a heart attack. Died with the most
 terrorized expression on his face I've ever seen. Fear, causing the
 heart attack, his doctor said. You begin to see the set-up? Three men,
 each a vital power in M.B.C. gone within three weeks! And who's next?
 Who?" Jared Haller's eyes were bright with fear.

   "Suicide, insanity, heart attack." Ranson shrugged. "All perfectly
 normal. Coincidence that they should happen within three weeks. What
 makes you think there's been foul play?"

   For a long brittle moment Jared Haller stared out at the graceful white
 city, wan in the light of the twin moons. When he turned to face
 Ranson again, his eyes were bleak as a lunar plain.

   "One thing," he said slowly. "The music."

   "Music?" Ranson echoed. "Look here, Mr. Haller, you...."

   "It's all right." Jared Haller grinned crookedly. "I'm not insane. Yet.
 Look, Mr. Ranson! There's just one clue to these mysterious deaths!
 And that's the music! In each instance the servants told of hearing,
 very faintly, a strange melody. Music that did queer things to them,
 even though they could hear it only vaguely. Music like none they'd
 ever heard. Like the devil's pipes, playing on their souls, while....
 Almighty God!"

   Jared Haller froze, his face gray as lead, his eyes blue horror. Ranson
 was like a man in a trance, bent forward, lips pressed tight until they
 resembled a livid scar. The room was silent as a tomb; outside, they
 could hear the vague rumbling of the city, with the distant swish of
 canal boats, the staccato roar of rockets as some earth-bound freighter
 leaped from the spaceport. Familiar, homey sounds, these, but beneath
 them, like an undercurrent of madness, ran the macabre melody.

   There was, there had never been, Ranson knew, any music like this.
 It was the pipes of Pan, the chant of robots, the crying of souls in
 torment. It was a cloudy purple haze that engulfed the mind, it was a
 silver knife plucking a cruel obligato on taut nerves, it was a thin
 dark snake writhing its endless coils into the room.

   Neither man moved. Ranson knew all the tricks of visual hypnotism, the
 whirling mirror, the waving hands, the pool of ink ... but this was
 the hypnotism of sound. Louder and clearer the music sounded, in eerie
 overtones, quavering sobbing minors, fierce reverberating bass. Sharp
 shards of sound pierced their ears, deep throbbing underrhythm shook
 them as a cat shakes a mouse.

   "God!" Haller snarled. "What ... what is it?"

   "Don't know." Ranson felt a queer irritation growing within him. He
 strode stiffly to the window, peered out. In the darkness, the broad
 Han canal lay placid; the stars caught in its jet meshes gently
 drifted toward the bank, shattered on the white marble. Along the
 embankment were great fragrant clumps of

    fayeh

   bushes. It was among
 these, he decided, that their unknown serenader lay concealed.

   Suddenly the elfin melody changed. Fierce, harsh, it rose, until Ranson
 felt as though a file were rasping his nerves. He knew that he should
 dash down, seize the invisible musician below ... but logic, facts and
 duty, all were fading from his mind. The music was a spur, goading him
 to wild unreasoning anger. The red mists of hate swirled through his
 brain, a strange unreasoning bloodlust grew with the savage beat of the
 wild music. Berserk rage sounded in each shivering note and Ranson felt
 an insane desire to run amok. To inflict pain, to see red blood flow,
 to kill ... kill! Blindly he whirled, groping for his gun, as the music
 rose in a frenzied death-wail.

   Turning, Ranson found himself face to face with Jared Haller. But the
 tall flinty magnate was now another person. Primitive, atavistic rage
 distorted his features, insane murder lurked in his eyes. The music was
 his master, and it was driving him to frenzy. "Kill!" the weird rhythm
 screamed, "Kill!" And Jared Haller obeyed. He snatched the flame-gun
 from his pocket, levelled it at Ranson.

   Whether it was the deadly melody outside, or the instinct of
 self-preservation, Ranson never knew, but he drove at Haller with grim
 fury. The flame-gun hissed, filling the room with a greenish glare, its
 beam passing so close to Ranson's hair as to singe it. Ranson came up,
 grinning furiously, and in a moment both men were struggling, teeth
 bared in animalistic grins, breath coming in choked gasps, whirling
 in a mad dance of death as the macabre music distilled deadly poison
 within their brains.

   The end came with startling suddenness. Ranson, twisting his opponent's
 arm back, felt the searing blast of the flame-gun past his hand. Jared
 Haller, a ghastly blackened corpse, toppled to the floor.

   At that moment the lethal rhythm outside changed abruptly. From the
 fierce maddening beat of a few minutes before, the chords took on a
 yearning seductive tone. A call, it seemed, irresistible, soft, with
 a thousand promises. This was the song the sirens sang to Ulysses,
 the call of the Pied Piper, the chant of the houris in paradise. It
 conjured up pictures in Ranson's mind ... pictures of fairyland, of
 exquisitely beautiful scenes, of women lovely beyond imagination. All
 of man's hopes, man's dreams, were in that music, and it drew Ranson as
 a moth is drawn to a flame. The piping of Pan, the fragile fantasies of
 childhood, the voices of those beyond life.... Ranson walked stiffly
 toward the source of the music, like a man drugged.

   As he approached the window the melody grew louder. The hypnotism of
 sound, he knew, but he didn't care. It was enthralling, irresistible.
 Like a sleepwalker he climbed to the sill, stood outlined in the tall
 window. Twenty feet to the ground, almost certain death ... but Ranson
 was lost in the golden world that the elfin melody conjured up. He
 straightened his shoulders, was about to step out.

   Then suddenly there was a roar of atomic motors, a flashing of lights.
 A police boat, flinging up clouds of spray, swept up the canal,
 stopped. Ranson shook himself, like a man awakening from a nightmare,
 saw uniformed figures leaping to the bank. From the shadow of the

    fayeh

   bushes a slight form sprang, dodged along the embankment.
 Flame-guns cut the gloom but the slight figure swung to the left,
 disappeared among the twisting narrow streets. Bathed in cold sweat,
 Ranson stepped back into the room, where the still, terrible form of
 Jared Haller lay. Ranson stared at it, as though seeing it for the
 first time. Outside, there were pounding feet; the canal-patrolmen
 raced through the house, toward the study. And then, his brain weary as
 if it had been cudgelled, Ranson slid limply to the floor.

   Headquarters of the Martian Canal-Patrol was brilliantly lighted by a
 dozen big

    astralux

   arcs. Captain Maxwell chewed at his gray mustache,
 staring curiously at Ranson.

   "Then you admit killing Haller?" he demanded.

   "Yes." Ranson nodded sombrely. "In the struggle. Self-defense. But even
 if it hadn't been self-defense, I probably would have fought with him.
 That music was madness, I tell you! Madness! Nobody's responsible when
 under its influence! I...."

   "You killed Haller," Captain Maxwell said. "And you blame it on this
 alleged music. I might believe you, Ranson, but how many other people
 would? Even members of Terrestial Intelligence aren't sacro sanct. I'll
 have to hold you for trial."

   "Hold me for trial?" Ranson leaned forward, his gaunt face intent.
 "While the real killer, the person playing that music, gets away? Look!
 Let me out of here for twelve hours! That's all I ask! And if I don't
 track down whoever was outside Haller's house, you can...."

   "Sorry." Captain Maxwell shook his head. "You know I'd like to, Ranson.
 But this is murder. To let a confessed murderer, even though he is a
 T.I. man, go free, is impossible." The captain drew a deep breath,
 motioned to the two gray-uniformed patrolmen. "Take Mr. Ranson."

   And then Steve Ranson went into action. In one blinding burst of
 speed, he lunged across the desk, tore Captain Maxwell's pistol from
 its holster. Before the captain and the two patrolmen knew what had
 happened, they were staring into the ugly muzzle of the flame-gun.

   "Sorry." Ranson said tightly. "But it had to be done. There's hell
 loose on Mars, the devil's melody! And it's got to be stopped before it
 turns this planet upside down!"

   "You can't get away with this, Ranson!" Captain Maxwell shook his head.
 "It'll only make it tougher for you when we nab you again! Be sensible!
 Put down that gun."

   "No good. Got to work fast." Ranson backed toward the door, gun
 in hand. "Let this mad music go unchecked and it's death to all
 terrestials on Mars! And I'm going to stop it! So long, captain! You
 can try me for murder if you want, after I've done my job here!"

   Ranson took the key from the massive plastic door as he backed
 through the entrance. Once in the hall, he slammed the door shut,
 locked Maxwell and his men in the room. Then, dropping the gun into
 his pocket, he ran swiftly down the corridor to the main entrance of
 headquarters. In the hall a patrolman glanced at him suspiciously,
 halted him, but a wave of Ranson's T.I. card put the man aside.

   Free of headquarters, Ranson began to run. Only a few moments, he
 knew, before Maxwell and his men blasted a way to freedom, set out in
 pursuit. Like a lean gray shadow Ranson ran, twisting, dodging, among
 the narrow streets, heading toward Haller's house. Mercis was a dream
 city in the wan light of the moons. One in either side of the heavens,
 they threw weird double shadows across the rippling canals, the aimless
 streets. Sleek canal-cabs roared along the dark waterways, throwing
 up clouds of spray, and on the embankments, green-eyed, bulge-headed
 little reddies padded, silent, inscrutable, themselves a part of the
 eternal mystery of Mars.

   Haller's house stood dark and brooding beside the canal. Captain
 Maxwell's men had completed their examination and the place was
 deserted. Ranson stepped into the shadow of the clump of fragrant

    fayeh

   bushes, where the unknown musician had stood; there was little
 danger, he felt, of patrolmen hunting for him at Haller's house.
 The captain had little faith in copybook maxims about the murderer
 returning to the scene of the crime.

   Ranson stood motionless for a moment as a canal boat swept by, then
 drew from his pocket a heavy black tube. He tugged, and it extended
 telescopically to a cane some four feet long. The cane was hollow, a
 tube, and the head of it was large as a man's two fists and covered
 with small dials, gauges. This was the T.I.'s most cherished secret,
 the famous "electric bloodhound," by which criminals could be tracked.

   Ranson touched a lever and a tiny electric motor in the head of the
 cane hummed, drawing air up along the tube. He tapped the bank where
 the unknown musician had stood, eyes on the gauges. Molecules of
 matter, left by the mysterious serenader, were sucked up the tube,
 registered on a sensitive plate, just as delicate color shades register
 on the plate of a color camera.

   Ranson tapped the cane carefully upon the ground, avoiding those places
 where he had stood. Few people crossed this overgrown embankment, and
 it was a safe bet that no one other than the strange musician had
 been there recently. The scent was a clear one, and the dials on the
 head of the cane read R-2340-B, the numerical classification of the
 tiny bits of matter left behind by the unknown. The theory behind it
 was quite simple. The T.I. scientists had reasoned that the sense of
 smell is merely the effect of suspended molecules in the air acting
 upon sensitive nerve filaments, and they knew that any normal human
 can follow a trail of some strong odor such as perfumes, or gasoline,
 while animals, possessing more sensitive perceptions, can follow
 less distinct trails. To duplicate this mechanically had proven more
 difficult than an electric eye or artificial hearing device, but in
 the end they had triumphed. Their efforts had resulted in the machine
 Ranson now carried.

   The trial was, at the start, clear. Ranson tapped the long tube on the
 ground like a blind man, eyes on the dial. Along the embankment, into a
 side street, he made his way. There were few abroad in this old quarter
 of the city; from the spaceport came the roar of freighters, the rumble
 of machinery, but here in the narrow winding streets there was only the
 faint murmur of voices behind latticed windows, the rustle of the wind,
 the rattle of sand from the red desert beyond the city.

   As Ranson plunged further into the old Martian quarter, the trail grew
 more and more confused, crossed by scores of other trails left by
 passersby. He was forced to stop, cast about like a bloodhound, tapping
 every square foot of the street before the R-2340-B on the dial showed
 that he had once more picked up the faint elusive scent.

   Deeper and deeper Ranson plunged into the dark slums of Mercis. Smoky
 gambling dens, dives full of drunken spacehands and slim red-skinned
 girls, maudlin singing ... even the yellow glare of the forbidden
 san-rays, as they filtered through drawn windows. Unsteady figures made
 their way along the streets. Mighty-thewed Jovian blasters, languid
 Venusians, boisterous earthmen ... and the little Martians padding
 softly along, wrapped in their loose dust-robes.

   At the end of an alley where the purple shadows lay like stagnant
 pools, Ranson paused. The alley was a cul-de-sac, which meant that
 the person he was trailing must have entered one of the houses. Very
 softly he tapped the long tube on the ground. Again with a hesitant
 swinging of dials, R-2340-B showed up, on the low step in front of one
 of the dilapidated, dome-shaped houses. Ranson's eyes narrowed. So the
 person who had played the mad murder melody had entered that house!
 Might still be there! Quickly he telescoped the "electric bloodhound,"
 dropped it into his pocket, and drew his flame-gun.

   The old house was dark, with an air of morbid deadly calm about
 it. Ranson tried the door, found it locked. A quick spurt from his
 flame-gun melted the lock; he glanced about to make sure no one had
 observed the greenish glare, then stepped inside.

   The hallway was shadowy, its walls hung with ancient Martian tapestries
 which, from their stilted symbolic ideographs must have dated back to
 the days of the Canal-Builders. At the end of the hallway, however,
 light jetted through a half-open door. Ranson moved toward it, silent
 as a phantom, muscles tense. Gripping his flame-gun, he pushed the door
 wide ... and a sudden exclamation broke from his lips.

   Before him lay a gleaming laboratory, lined with vials of strange
 liquids, shining test-tubes, and queer apparatus. Beside a table,
 pouring a black fluid from a beaker into a test-tube, stood a man.
 Half-terrestial, half-Martian, he seemed, with the large hairless head
 of the red planet, and the clean features of an earthman. His eyes,
 behind their glasses, were like green ice, and the hand pouring the
 black fluid did not so much as waver at Ranson's entrance.

   Ranson gasped. The bizarre figure was that of Dr. Elath Taen,
 master-scientist, sought by the T.I. for years, in vain! Elath Taen,
 outlaw and renegade, whose sole desire was the extermination of all
 terrestials on Mars, a revival of the ancient glories of the red
 planet. The tales told about him were fabulous; and this was the man
 behind the unholy music!

   "Good evening, Mr. Ranson," Elath Taen smiled. "Had I known T.I.
 men were on Mars I should have taken infinitely more precautions.
 However...."

   As he spoke, his hand moved suddenly, as though to hurl the test tube
 at Ranson. Quick as he was, the T.I. man was quicker. A spurt of
 flame leapt from his gun, shattering the tube. The dark liquid hissed,
 smoking, on to the floor.

   "Well done, Mr. Ranson." Elath Taen nodded calmly. "Had the acid struck
 you, it would have rendered you blind."

   "That's about enough of your tricks!" Ranson grated. "Come along, Dr.
 Taen! We're going to headquarters!"

   "Since you insist." Elath Taen removed his chemist's smock, began, very
 deliberately, to strip off his rubber gloves.

   "Quit stalling!" Ranson snapped. "Get going! I...." The words faded on
 the T.I. man's lips. Faintly, in the distance, came the strains of
 soft eerie music!

   "Good God!" Ranson's eyes darted about the laboratory. "That ... that's
 the same as Haller and I...."

   "Exactly, Mr. Ranson." Elath Taen smiled thinly. "Listen!"

   The music was a caress, soft as a woman's skin. Slow, drowsy, like
 the hum of bees on a hot summer's afternoon. Soothing, soporific, in
 dreamy, crooning chords. A lullaby, that seemed to hang lead weights
 upon the eyelids. Audible hypnotism, as potent as some drug. Clearer
 with each second, the melody grew, coming nearer and nearer the
 laboratory.

   "Come ... come on," Ranson said thickly. "Got to get out of here."

   But his words held no force, and Elath Taen was nodding sleepily under
 the influence of the weird dream-music. Ranson knew he should act,
 swiftly, while he could; but the movement of a single muscle seemed
 an intolerable effort. His skin felt as though it were being rubbed
 with velvet, a strange purring sensation filled his brain. He tried to
 think, to move, but his will seemed in a padded vise. The music was
 dragging him down, down, into the gray mists of oblivion.

   Across the laboratory Elath Taen had slumped to the floor, a vague
 smile of triumph on his face. Ranson turned to the direction of
 the music, tried to raise his gun, but the weapon slipped from his
 fingers, he fell to his knees. Sleep ... that was all that mattered ...
 sleep. The music was like chloroform, its notes stroked his brain.
 Through half-shut eyes he saw a door at the rear of the laboratory
 open, saw a slim, dark, exotic girl step through into the room. Slung
 about her neck in the manner of an accordian, was a square box, with
 keys studding its top. For a long moment Ranson stared at the dark,
 enigmatic girl, watched her hands dance over the keys to produce the
 soft lulling music. About her head, he noticed, was a queer copper
 helmet, of a type he had never before seen. And then the girl, Elath
 Taen, the laboratory, all faded into a kaleidoscopic whirl. Ranson felt
 himself falling down into the gray mists, and consciousness disappeared.

Question and Possible Answers:
What would best describe the terrestrials' attitudes towards the reddies on Mars?

 (A) The terrestrials want to help the reddies claim their own freedom.
 (B) The terrestrials have complete disdain for the reddies and want to completely eradicate them.
 (C) The terrestrials want to help them be successful on Mars, so they provide motivating propaganda for them.
 (D) The terrestrials want to control the reddies so that the terrestrials can stay in control of Mars.

Answer:

Output: D