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61052_JUGXNC33_7

61052_JUGXNC33_7_0

Text: Spawning Ground By LESTER DEL REY They weren't human. They were something more—and something less—they were, in short, humanity's hopes for survival! The Starship Pandora creaked and groaned as her landing pads settled unevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed to be restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years from the waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoed through her hallways. Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was a big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibility had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his reddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonies were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity. Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as he moved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. "Morning, Bob. You need a shave." "Yeah." He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran a hand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. "Anything new during the night?" "About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the clouds." The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. "And our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back." Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth Question: Why was space exploration so important? (A) it was trendy to live on a different planet (B) there was a lot of interest in life on other planets (C) they were running out of time on Earth (D) people were trying to leave the wars on Earth Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> they were running out of time on Earth<extra_id_1>

61052_JUGXNC33_8

61052_JUGXNC33_8_0

Text: Spawning Ground By LESTER DEL REY They weren't human. They were something more—and something less—they were, in short, humanity's hopes for survival! The Starship Pandora creaked and groaned as her landing pads settled unevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed to be restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years from the waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoed through her hallways. Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was a big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibility had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his reddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonies were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity. Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as he moved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. "Morning, Bob. You need a shave." "Yeah." He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran a hand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. "Anything new during the night?" "About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the clouds." The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. "And our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back." Gway Question: Why was the fuel drained out of Hennessy's ship's tank? (A) Gwayne doesn't know (B) Hennessy drained it so they couldn't leave (C) it was destroyed by creatures from the planet (D) the blobs used it for energy Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> Hennessy drained it so they couldn't leave<extra_id_1>

61052_JUGXNC33_9

61052_JUGXNC33_9_0

Text: Spawning Ground By LESTER DEL REY They weren't human. They were something more—and something less—they were, in short, humanity's hopes for survival! The Starship Pandora creaked and groaned as her landing pads settled unevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed to be restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years from the waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoed through her hallways. Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was a big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibility had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his reddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonies were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity. Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as he moved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. "Morning, Bob. You need a shave." "Yeah." He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran a hand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. "Anything new during the night?" "About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the clouds." The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. "And our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back." Gwayne swore softly Question: Why did Gwayne decide that they all had to stay? (A) to discover all of the secrets on the planet (B) because it was the best chance at human survival (C) because everyone outside the hull is beyond saving (D) to try to save Hennessy and his crew Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> because it was the best chance at human survival<extra_id_1>

61053_LE36BG9H_1

61053_LE36BG9H_1_0

Text: TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His black thatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. "I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I?" he demanded. "Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operating something sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me." The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightened the office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seen through the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dim and rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half a million miles distant. "Try not to be simple—for once!" growled Jeffers. "A little percentage here and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get back to Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it on the estimates." "You asked any of them lately?" Tolliver prodded. "Now, listen! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the mines and the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in the beginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think they don't expect us to make what we can on the side?" Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blue uniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. "You just don't listen to me," he complained. "You know I took this piloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degree back on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something I can't quit." Question: Which word doesn't describe Jeffers? (A) clever (B) persistent (C) hot-headed (D) cocky Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> clever<extra_id_1>

61053_LE36BG9H_2

61053_LE36BG9H_2_0

Text: TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His black thatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. "I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I?" he demanded. "Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operating something sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me." The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightened the office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seen through the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dim and rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half a million miles distant. "Try not to be simple—for once!" growled Jeffers. "A little percentage here and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get back to Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it on the estimates." "You asked any of them lately?" Tolliver prodded. "Now, listen! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the mines and the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in the beginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think they don't expect us to make what we can on the side?" Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blue uniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. "You just don't listen to me," he complained. "You know I took this piloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degree back on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something I can't Question: Which word doesn't describe Tolliver? (A) hot-headed (B) stubborn (C) clever (D) liar Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> hot-headed<extra_id_1>

61053_LE36BG9H_3

61053_LE36BG9H_3_0

Text: TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His black thatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. "I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I?" he demanded. "Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operating something sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me." The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightened the office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seen through the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dim and rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half a million miles distant. "Try not to be simple—for once!" growled Jeffers. "A little percentage here and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get back to Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it on the estimates." "You asked any of them lately?" Tolliver prodded. "Now, listen! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the mines and the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in the beginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think they don't expect us to make what we can on the side?" Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blue uniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. Question: How does Tolliver feel about Betty at first? (A) she's a rich man's daughter deserving of the company (B) she's attractive and someone he should get to know (C) she's an entitled girl that doesn't know what she's getting into (D) she's a fun girl to joke around with while on Ganymede Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> she's an entitled girl that doesn't know what she's getting into<extra_id_1>

61053_LE36BG9H_4

61053_LE36BG9H_4_0

Text: TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His black thatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. "I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I?" he demanded. "Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operating something sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me." The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightened the office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seen through the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dim and rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half a million miles distant. "Try not to be simple—for once!" growled Jeffers. "A little percentage here and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get back to Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it on the estimates." "You asked any of them lately?" Tolliver prodded. "Now, listen! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the mines and the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in the beginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think they don't expect us to make what we can on the side?" Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blue uniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. "You just don't listen to me," he complained. "You know Question: What did Tolliver tell Betty that was actually true? (A) he regularly drives armored vehicles on missions (B) the rock and ice slides kill people often (C) volcanic puffballs pop out through the frozen crust (D) how much he's making to work on Ganymede Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> how much he's making to work on Ganymede<extra_id_1>

61053_LE36BG9H_5

61053_LE36BG9H_5_0

Text: TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His black thatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. "I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I?" he demanded. "Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operating something sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me." The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightened the office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seen through the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dim and rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half a million miles distant. "Try not to be simple—for once!" growled Jeffers. "A little percentage here and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get back to Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it on the estimates." "You asked any of them lately?" Tolliver prodded. "Now, listen! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the mines and the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in the beginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think they don't expect us to make what we can on the side?" Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blue uniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. "You just don't listen to me," he complained. Question: Why had Betty really come to Ganymede? (A) to stay as long as it takes to discover who was behaving illegally (B) to arrest Jeffers for the crimes they knew he committed (C) to study how the business was run (D) to see if the real Betty could handle working there Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> to stay as long as it takes to discover who was behaving illegally<extra_id_1>

20012_1W525LU6_1

20012_1W525LU6_1_0

Text: Krugman's Life of Brian Where it all started: Paul Krugman's "The Legend of Arthur." Letter from John Cassidy Paul Krugman replies to John Cassidy Letter from M. Mitchell Waldrop Paul Krugman replies to M. Mitchell Waldrop Letter from Kenneth J. Arrow Letter from Ted C. Fishman David Warsh's July 3, 1994, Boston Globe Letter from John Cassidy: Paul Krugman loves to berate journalists for their ignorance of economics, particularly his economics, but on this occasion, I fear, his logic is more addled than usual. I am reluctant to dignify his hatchet job with a lengthy reply, but some of his claims are so defamatory that they should be addressed, if only for the record. 1) Krugman claims that my opening sentence--"In a way, Bill Gates's current troubles with the Justice Department grew out of an economics seminar that took place thirteen years ago, at Harvard's John F. Kennedy School of Government"--is "pure fiction." Perhaps so, but in that case somebody should tell this to Joel Klein, the assistant attorney general in charge of the antitrust division. When I interviewed Klein for my piece about the Microsoft case, he singled out Brian Arthur as the economist who has most influenced his thinking about the way in which high-technology markets operate. It was Klein's words, not those of Arthur, that prompted me to use Arthur in the lead of the story. 2) Krugman wrote: "Cassidy's article tells the story of how Stanford Professor Brian Arthur came up with the idea of increasing returns." I wrote no such thing, and Arthur has never, to my knowledge, claimed any such thing. The notion of increasing returns has been around since Adam Smith, and it was written about at length by Alfred Marshall in 1890. What I did say in my article was that increasing returns was largely ignored by mainstream economists for much of the postwar era, a claim that simply isn't controversial. (As Krugman notes, one reason for this was technical, not Question: Who seems to be writing the most falsehoods? (A) M. Mitchell Waldrop (B) John Cassidy (C) Paul Krugman (D) Kenneth J. Arrow Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> Paul Krugman<extra_id_1>

20012_1W525LU6_2

20012_1W525LU6_2_0

Text: Krugman's Life of Brian Where it all started: Paul Krugman's "The Legend of Arthur." Letter from John Cassidy Paul Krugman replies to John Cassidy Letter from M. Mitchell Waldrop Paul Krugman replies to M. Mitchell Waldrop Letter from Kenneth J. Arrow Letter from Ted C. Fishman David Warsh's July 3, 1994, Boston Globe Letter from John Cassidy: Paul Krugman loves to berate journalists for their ignorance of economics, particularly his economics, but on this occasion, I fear, his logic is more addled than usual. I am reluctant to dignify his hatchet job with a lengthy reply, but some of his claims are so defamatory that they should be addressed, if only for the record. 1) Krugman claims that my opening sentence--"In a way, Bill Gates's current troubles with the Justice Department grew out of an economics seminar that took place thirteen years ago, at Harvard's John F. Kennedy School of Government"--is "pure fiction." Perhaps so, but in that case somebody should tell this to Joel Klein, the assistant attorney general in charge of the antitrust division. When I interviewed Klein for my piece about the Microsoft case, he singled out Brian Arthur as the economist who has most influenced his thinking about the way in which high-technology markets operate. It was Klein's words, not those of Arthur, that prompted me to use Arthur in the lead of the story. 2) Krugman wrote: "Cassidy's article tells the story of how Stanford Professor Brian Arthur came up with the idea of increasing returns." I wrote no such thing, and Arthur has never, to my knowledge, claimed any such thing. The notion of increasing returns has been around since Adam Smith, and it was written about at length by Alfred Marshall in 1890. What I did say in my article was Question: Do Cassidy and Arrow feel the same way about Krugman? (A) No - Arrow finds him less offensive than Cassidy (B) Yes - They both think he was misinformed (C) No - Cassidy thinks he's a liar, but Arrow doesn't (D) Yes - They both think he wrote inaccurate statements about people Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> Yes - They both think he wrote inaccurate statements about people<extra_id_1>

20012_1W525LU6_3

20012_1W525LU6_3_0

Text: Krugman's Life of Brian Where it all started: Paul Krugman's "The Legend of Arthur." Letter from John Cassidy Paul Krugman replies to John Cassidy Letter from M. Mitchell Waldrop Paul Krugman replies to M. Mitchell Waldrop Letter from Kenneth J. Arrow Letter from Ted C. Fishman David Warsh's July 3, 1994, Boston Globe Letter from John Cassidy: Paul Krugman loves to berate journalists for their ignorance of economics, particularly his economics, but on this occasion, I fear, his logic is more addled than usual. I am reluctant to dignify his hatchet job with a lengthy reply, but some of his claims are so defamatory that they should be addressed, if only for the record. 1) Krugman claims that my opening sentence--"In a way, Bill Gates's current troubles with the Justice Department grew out of an economics seminar that took place thirteen years ago, at Harvard's John F. Kennedy School of Government"--is "pure fiction." Perhaps so, but in that case somebody should tell this to Joel Klein, the assistant attorney general in charge of the antitrust division. When I interviewed Klein for my piece about the Microsoft case, he singled out Brian Arthur as the economist who has most influenced his thinking about the way in which high-technology markets operate. It was Klein's words, not those of Arthur, that prompted me to use Arthur in the lead of the story. 2) Krugman wrote: "Cassidy's article tells the story of how Stanford Professor Brian Arthur came up with the idea of increasing returns." I wrote no such thing, and Arthur has never, to my knowledge, claimed any such thing. The notion of increasing returns has been around since Adam Smith, and it was written about at length by Alfred Marshall in 1890. What I did say in my article was that increasing returns was largely ignored by mainstream economists for much of the postwar era, a claim that simply isn't controversial. (As Krugman notes, one reason for this was technical, not ideological. Allowing for the possibility of increasing returns Question: Which writer seemed to like Krugman the most? (A) Waldrop (B) Arrow (C) Cassidy (D) Fishman Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> Waldrop<extra_id_1>

20012_1W525LU6_4

20012_1W525LU6_4_0

Text: Krugman's Life of Brian Where it all started: Paul Krugman's "The Legend of Arthur." Letter from John Cassidy Paul Krugman replies to John Cassidy Letter from M. Mitchell Waldrop Paul Krugman replies to M. Mitchell Waldrop Letter from Kenneth J. Arrow Letter from Ted C. Fishman David Warsh's July 3, 1994, Boston Globe Letter from John Cassidy: Paul Krugman loves to berate journalists for their ignorance of economics, particularly his economics, but on this occasion, I fear, his logic is more addled than usual. I am reluctant to dignify his hatchet job with a lengthy reply, but some of his claims are so defamatory that they should be addressed, if only for the record. 1) Krugman claims that my opening sentence--"In a way, Bill Gates's current troubles with the Justice Department grew out of an economics seminar that took place thirteen years ago, at Harvard's John F. Kennedy School of Government"--is "pure fiction." Perhaps so, but in that case somebody should tell this to Joel Klein, the assistant attorney general in charge of the antitrust division. When I interviewed Klein for my piece about the Microsoft case, he singled out Brian Arthur as the economist who has most influenced his thinking about the way in which high-technology markets operate. It was Klein's words, not those of Arthur, that prompted me to use Arthur in the lead of the story. 2) Krugman wrote: "Cassidy's article tells the story of how Stanford Professor Brian Arthur came up with the idea of increasing returns." I wrote no such thing, and Arthur has never, to my knowledge, claimed any such thing. The notion of increasing returns has been around since Adam Smith, and it was written about at length by Alfred Marshall in 1890. What I did say in my article was that increasing returns was largely ignored by mainstream economists for much of the postwar era, a claim that simply isn't controversial. (As Krugman notes, one reason for this was technical, not ideological. Allowing for the possibility of increasing returns Question: Which would Fishman not use to describe Brian Arthur? (A) innovative (B) vain (C) a nice guy (D) intelligent Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> vain<extra_id_1>

20012_1W525LU6_5

20012_1W525LU6_5_0

Text: Krugman's Life of Brian Where it all started: Paul Krugman's "The Legend of Arthur." Letter from John Cassidy Paul Krugman replies to John Cassidy Letter from M. Mitchell Waldrop Paul Krugman replies to M. Mitchell Waldrop Letter from Kenneth J. Arrow Letter from Ted C. Fishman David Warsh's July 3, 1994, Boston Globe Letter from John Cassidy: Paul Krugman loves to berate journalists for their ignorance of economics, particularly his economics, but on this occasion, I fear, his logic is more addled than usual. I am reluctant to dignify his hatchet job with a lengthy reply, but some of his claims are so defamatory that they should be addressed, if only for the record. 1) Krugman claims that my opening sentence--"In a way, Bill Gates's current troubles with the Justice Department grew out of an economics seminar that took place thirteen years ago, at Harvard's John F. Kennedy School of Government"--is "pure fiction." Perhaps so, but in that case somebody should tell this to Joel Klein, the assistant attorney general in charge of the antitrust division. When I interviewed Klein for my piece about the Microsoft case, he singled out Brian Arthur as the economist who has most influenced his thinking about the way in which high-technology markets operate. It was Klein's words, not those of Arthur, that prompted me to use Arthur in the lead of the story. 2) Krugman wrote: "Cassidy's article tells the story of how Stanford Professor Brian Arthur came up with the idea of increasing returns." I wrote no such thing, and Arthur has never, to my knowledge, claimed any such thing. The notion of increasing returns has been around since Adam Smith, and it was written about at length by Alfred Marshall in 1890. What I did say in my article was that increasing returns was largely ignored by mainstream economists for much of the postwar era, a claim that simply isn' Question: What seems to be Krugman's biggest issue with Arthur? (A) Arthur allows too many people to misquote him. (B) Arthur received too much credit for increasing returns. (C) Arthur provided inaccurate information. (D) Arthur didn't do enough research on increasing returns. Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Arthur received too much credit for increasing returns.<extra_id_1>

20012_1W525LU6_6

20012_1W525LU6_6_0

Text: Krugman's Life of Brian Where it all started: Paul Krugman's "The Legend of Arthur." Letter from John Cassidy Paul Krugman replies to John Cassidy Letter from M. Mitchell Waldrop Paul Krugman replies to M. Mitchell Waldrop Letter from Kenneth J. Arrow Letter from Ted C. Fishman David Warsh's July 3, 1994, Boston Globe Letter from John Cassidy: Paul Krugman loves to berate journalists for their ignorance of economics, particularly his economics, but on this occasion, I fear, his logic is more addled than usual. I am reluctant to dignify his hatchet job with a lengthy reply, but some of his claims are so defamatory that they should be addressed, if only for the record. 1) Krugman claims that my opening sentence--"In a way, Bill Gates's current troubles with the Justice Department grew out of an economics seminar that took place thirteen years ago, at Harvard's John F. Kennedy School of Government"--is "pure fiction." Perhaps so, but in that case somebody should tell this to Joel Klein, the assistant attorney general in charge of the antitrust division. When I interviewed Klein for my piece about the Microsoft case, he singled out Brian Arthur as the economist who has most influenced his thinking about the way in which high-technology markets operate. It was Klein's words, not those of Arthur, that prompted me to use Arthur in the lead of the story. 2) Krugman wrote: "Cassidy's article tells the story of how Stanford Professor Brian Arthur came up with the idea of increasing returns." I wrote no such thing, and Arthur has never, to my knowledge, claimed any such thing. The notion of increasing returns has been around since Adam Smith, and it was written about at length by Alfred Marshall in 1890. What I did say in my article was that increasing returns was largely ignored by mainstream economists for much of the postwar era, a claim that simply Question: Which of the following most likely happened to Krugman after these letters? (A) Krugman wrote an official apology to the writers. (B) Krugman wrote another book about increasing returns. (C) Krugman quit writing in newspapers. (D) Krugman lost credibility among his colleagues. Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Krugman lost credibility among his colleagues.<extra_id_1>

20010_SGZEVK7E_1

20010_SGZEVK7E_1_0

Text: The Bell Curve Flattened Charles Murray is a publicity genius, and the publication of his and Richard Herrnstein's book, The Bell Curve: Intelligence and Class Structure in American Life, in the fall of 1994 was his masterpiece. Virtually all ambitious trade hardcover books are preceded by an edition of 100 to 200 flimsy "galley proofs." These are sent out to people who might generate buzz for the book: blurbists, bookers for television talk shows, editors, and--most important--book critics. There is an ethos of letting the chips fall where they may about the sending out of galleys: Now the book will begin to receive uncontrolled reaction. (For example, back in 1991, Murray somehow got hold of the galleys of my own last book, and wrote me heatedly denying that he was working on a book about black genetic intellectual inferiority, as I had asserted. I left the passage in, but softened it.) The Bell Curve was not circulated in galleys before publication. The effect was, first, to increase the allure of the book (There must be something really hot in there!), and second, to ensure that no one inclined to be skeptical would be able to weigh in at the moment of publication. The people who had galley proofs were handpicked by Murray and his publisher. The ordinary routine of neutral reviewers having a month or two to go over the book with care did not occur. Another handpicked group was flown to Washington at the expense of the American Enterprise Institute and given a weekend-long personal briefing on the book's contents by Murray himself (Herrnstein had died very recently), just before publication. The result was what you'd expect: The first wave of publicity was either credulous or angry, but short on evidence, because nobody had had time to digest and evaluate the book Question: Which is the least likely reason for not circulating The Bell Curve in galleys? (A) by the time people could intelligently criticize it, it was nearly too late (B) it made people more excited to read it when it did come out (C) it gave little time for people to check the facts (D) there wasn't enough time between the galley publication and the official publication Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> there wasn't enough time between the galley publication and the official publication<extra_id_1>

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Text: The Bell Curve Flattened Charles Murray is a publicity genius, and the publication of his and Richard Herrnstein's book, The Bell Curve: Intelligence and Class Structure in American Life, in the fall of 1994 was his masterpiece. Virtually all ambitious trade hardcover books are preceded by an edition of 100 to 200 flimsy "galley proofs." These are sent out to people who might generate buzz for the book: blurbists, bookers for television talk shows, editors, and--most important--book critics. There is an ethos of letting the chips fall where they may about the sending out of galleys: Now the book will begin to receive uncontrolled reaction. (For example, back in 1991, Murray somehow got hold of the galleys of my own last book, and wrote me heatedly denying that he was working on a book about black genetic intellectual inferiority, as I had asserted. I left the passage in, but softened it.) The Bell Curve was not circulated in galleys before publication. The effect was, first, to increase the allure of the book (There must be something really hot in there!), and second, to ensure that no one inclined to be skeptical would be able to weigh in at the moment of publication. The people who had galley proofs were handpicked by Murray and his publisher. The ordinary routine of neutral reviewers having a month or two to go over the book with care did not occur. Another handpicked group was flown to Washington at the expense of the American Enterprise Institute and given a weekend-long personal briefing on the book's contents by Murray himself (Herrnstein had died very recently), just before publication. The result was what you'd expect: The first wave of publicity was either credulous or angry, but short on evidence, because nobody had had time to digest and evaluate the book carefully. The Bell Curve isn't a typical work of trade nonfiction Question: What was the basic purpose of The Bell Curve? (A) to show that our government really can't help poor people become more successful (B) to get people to stop believing in IQ tests (C) to explain how to improve peoples' intelligence (D) to help people learn how to improve their social status Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> to show that our government really can't help poor people become more successful<extra_id_1>

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Text: The Bell Curve Flattened Charles Murray is a publicity genius, and the publication of his and Richard Herrnstein's book, The Bell Curve: Intelligence and Class Structure in American Life, in the fall of 1994 was his masterpiece. Virtually all ambitious trade hardcover books are preceded by an edition of 100 to 200 flimsy "galley proofs." These are sent out to people who might generate buzz for the book: blurbists, bookers for television talk shows, editors, and--most important--book critics. There is an ethos of letting the chips fall where they may about the sending out of galleys: Now the book will begin to receive uncontrolled reaction. (For example, back in 1991, Murray somehow got hold of the galleys of my own last book, and wrote me heatedly denying that he was working on a book about black genetic intellectual inferiority, as I had asserted. I left the passage in, but softened it.) The Bell Curve was not circulated in galleys before publication. The effect was, first, to increase the allure of the book (There must be something really hot in there!), and second, to ensure that no one inclined to be skeptical would be able to weigh in at the moment of publication. The people who had galley proofs were handpicked by Murray and his publisher. The ordinary routine of neutral reviewers having a month or two to go over the book with care did not occur. Another handpicked group was flown to Washington at the expense of the American Enterprise Institute and given a weekend-long personal briefing on the book's contents by Murray himself (Herrnstein had died very recently), just before publication. The result was what you'd expect: The first wave of publicity was either credulous or angry, but short on evidence, because nobody had had time to digest and evaluate the book carefully. The Bell Curve isn't a typical work of trade nonfiction. It is gotten up as a work of original scholarly research. Most works containing fresh regression analysis and historical argument from primary sources would be published Question: Which wouldn't the author use to describe Herrnstein and Murray? (A) overgeneralizing (B) strategic (C) manipulative (D) unbiased Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> unbiased<extra_id_1>

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Text: The Bell Curve Flattened Charles Murray is a publicity genius, and the publication of his and Richard Herrnstein's book, The Bell Curve: Intelligence and Class Structure in American Life, in the fall of 1994 was his masterpiece. Virtually all ambitious trade hardcover books are preceded by an edition of 100 to 200 flimsy "galley proofs." These are sent out to people who might generate buzz for the book: blurbists, bookers for television talk shows, editors, and--most important--book critics. There is an ethos of letting the chips fall where they may about the sending out of galleys: Now the book will begin to receive uncontrolled reaction. (For example, back in 1991, Murray somehow got hold of the galleys of my own last book, and wrote me heatedly denying that he was working on a book about black genetic intellectual inferiority, as I had asserted. I left the passage in, but softened it.) The Bell Curve was not circulated in galleys before publication. The effect was, first, to increase the allure of the book (There must be something really hot in there!), and second, to ensure that no one inclined to be skeptical would be able to weigh in at the moment of publication. The people who had galley proofs were handpicked by Murray and his publisher. The ordinary routine of neutral reviewers having a month or two to go over the book with care did not occur. Another handpicked group was flown to Washington at the expense of the American Enterprise Institute and given a weekend-long personal briefing on the book's contents by Murray himself (Herrnstein had died very recently), just before publication. The result was what you'd expect: The first wave of publicity was either credulous or angry, but short on evidence, because nobody had had time to digest and evaluate the book carefully. The Bell Question: What is the problem with using IQ to predict economic success? (A) IQ tests are not aimed at people of all races (B) IQ tests are impacted by the amount of education a person has had (C) IQ tests aren't all the same, so it's not a fair control (D) IQ tests only test inherited intelligence Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> IQ tests are impacted by the amount of education a person has had<extra_id_1>

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Text: The Bell Curve Flattened Charles Murray is a publicity genius, and the publication of his and Richard Herrnstein's book, The Bell Curve: Intelligence and Class Structure in American Life, in the fall of 1994 was his masterpiece. Virtually all ambitious trade hardcover books are preceded by an edition of 100 to 200 flimsy "galley proofs." These are sent out to people who might generate buzz for the book: blurbists, bookers for television talk shows, editors, and--most important--book critics. There is an ethos of letting the chips fall where they may about the sending out of galleys: Now the book will begin to receive uncontrolled reaction. (For example, back in 1991, Murray somehow got hold of the galleys of my own last book, and wrote me heatedly denying that he was working on a book about black genetic intellectual inferiority, as I had asserted. I left the passage in, but softened it.) The Bell Curve was not circulated in galleys before publication. The effect was, first, to increase the allure of the book (There must be something really hot in there!), and second, to ensure that no one inclined to be skeptical would be able to weigh in at the moment of publication. The people who had galley proofs were handpicked by Murray and his publisher. The ordinary routine of neutral reviewers having a month or two to go over the book with care did not occur. Another handpicked group was flown to Washington at the expense of the American Enterprise Institute and given a weekend-long personal briefing on the book's contents by Murray himself (Herrnstein had died very recently), just before publication. The result was what you'd expect: The first wave of publicity was either credulous or angry, but short on evidence, because nobody had had time to digest and evaluate the book carefully. The Bell Curve isn't Question: What do Herrnstein and Murray want you to believe? (A) be happy with your current status - it's where you're going to stay (B) the government should put more money into closing the socio-economic gap (C) people of all races should be treated equally (D) if you work hard enough, you can do anything Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> be happy with your current status - it's where you're going to stay<extra_id_1>

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Text: (B) Beula is Captain Hannah’s pet elephant. The narrator sold her Captain Hannah years ago, leading to a business relationship between the two men. (C) Beula is Captain Hannah’s pet elephant. Her baby belongs to the narrator, linking the captain and the narrator. (D) Beula is the narrator’s pet elephant. Her baby was sold to Captain Hannah, which led to a business relationship between the two men. CAKEWALK TO GLORYANNA BY L. J. STECHER, JR. The job was easy. The profit was enormous. The only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own! Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the Delta Crucis, hobbled across the spaceport to where Beulah and I were waiting to greet him and hit me in the eye. Beulah—that's his elephant, but I have to take care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has to take care of it—kept us apart until we both cooled down a little. Then, although still somewhat dubious about it, she let us go together across the field to the spaceport bar. I didn't ask Captain Hannah why he had socked me. Although he has never been a handsome man, he usually has the weathered and austere dignity that comes from plying the remote reaches among the stars. Call it the Look of Eagles. Captain Hannah had lost the Look of Eagles. His eyes were swollen almost shut; every inch of him that showed was a red mass of welts piled on more welts, as though he had tangled with a hive of misanthropic bees. The gold-braided hat of his trade was not clamped in its usual belligerent position slightly over one eye. It was riding high on his head Question: Who is Beula and what is her connection to the narrator? (A) Beula is the narrator’s pet elephant. Her baby belongs to Captain Hannah, linking the two men even though they don’t like each other. Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Beula is Captain Hannah’s pet elephant. Her baby belongs to the narrator, linking the captain and the narrator.<extra_id_1>

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Text: CAKEWALK TO GLORYANNA BY L. J. STECHER, JR. The job was easy. The profit was enormous. The only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own! Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the Delta Crucis, hobbled across the spaceport to where Beulah and I were waiting to greet him and hit me in the eye. Beulah—that's his elephant, but I have to take care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has to take care of it—kept us apart until we both cooled down a little. Then, although still somewhat dubious about it, she let us go together across the field to the spaceport bar. I didn't ask Captain Hannah why he had socked me. Although he has never been a handsome man, he usually has the weathered and austere dignity that comes from plying the remote reaches among the stars. Call it the Look of Eagles. Captain Hannah had lost the Look of Eagles. His eyes were swollen almost shut; every inch of him that showed was a red mass of welts piled on more welts, as though he had tangled with a hive of misanthropic bees. The gold-braided hat of his trade was not clamped in its usual belligerent position slightly over one eye. It was riding high on his head, apparently held up by more of the ubiquitous swellings. I figured that he figured that I had something to do with the way he looked. "Shipping marocca to Gloryanna III didn't turn out to be a cakewalk after all?" I suggested. He glared at me in silence. "Perhaps you would like a drink first, and then you would be willing to tell me about it?" I decided that his wince was intended for a nod, and ordered rhial Question: In what room does Captain Hannah barricade himself?  (A) The bathroom of the space bar (B) The cockpit of the Delta Crucis (C) The lobby of the Delta Crucis (D) The bathroom of the Delta Crucis  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> The bathroom of the Delta Crucis<extra_id_1>

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Text: CAKEWALK TO GLORYANNA BY L. J. STECHER, JR. The job was easy. The profit was enormous. The only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own! Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the Delta Crucis, hobbled across the spaceport to where Beulah and I were waiting to greet him and hit me in the eye. Beulah—that's his elephant, but I have to take care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has to take care of it—kept us apart until we both cooled down a little. Then, although still somewhat dubious about it, she let us go together across the field to the spaceport bar. I didn't ask Captain Hannah why he had socked Question: What central difference between the planets Gloryanna and Mypore is most important to the story? Why is this significant to Hannah and the narrator? (A) Mypore has outlawed and eradicated the marocca plants, while Gloryanna continues to cultivate them. Hannah and the narrator think they will be able to make an enormous profit by transporting and selling the plants to Mypore.  (B) Gloryanna has outlawed and eradicated the marocca plants, while Mypore continues to to cultivate the plants. Gloryanna’s population is sick of making treks to Mypore just to purchase marocca, so the narrator and Hannah hope to capitalize on their desire by creating a shipping line between Gloryanna and Mypore. (C) Gloryanna has outlawed and eradicated the marocca plants, while Mypore continues to to cultivate them. Gloryanna’s population is sick of Myporians trying to sell marocca on their planet, so the narrator and Hannah hope to capitalize on the issue by bringing them to Gloryanna’s black market. (D) Gloryanna has outlawed and eradicated the marocca plants, while Mypore continues to cultivate the plants. Hannah and the narrator think they will be able to make an enormous profit by transporting and selling the plants to Gloryanna. Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Gloryanna has outlawed and eradicated the marocca plants, while Mypore continues to cultivate the plants. Hannah and the narrator think they will be able to make an enormous profit by transporting and selling the plants to Gloryanna.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Metonymy: “Cake Walk” is a literal attribute/adjunct for the part of the ship Captain Hannah grows the marocca in. (B) Irony: Captain Hannah faces so many trials and tribulations during his time with the plants that his voyage is very much NOT a cakewalk to Gloryanna. (C) Metaphor: Cake walk is a metaphor the narrator uses to describe Captain Hannah’s journey once complete. They were both surprised at the venture’s absurd ease. (D) Euphemism: “Cake walk” is used by the narrator to politely suggest that the plants had their way with Captain Hannah. CAKEWALK TO GLORYANNA BY L. J. STECHER, JR. The job was easy. The profit was enormous. The only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own! Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the Delta Crucis, hobbled across the spaceport to where Beulah and I were waiting to greet him and hit me in the eye. Beulah—that's his elephant, but I have to take care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has to take care of it—kept us apart until we both cooled down a little. Then, although still somewhat dubious about it, she let us go together across the field to the spaceport bar. I didn't ask Captain Hannah why he had socked me. Although he has never been a handsome man, he usually has the weathered and austere dignity that comes from plying the remote reaches among the stars. Call it the Look of Eagles. Captain Hannah had lost the Look of Eagles. His eyes were swollen almost shut; every inch of him that showed was a red mass of welts piled on more welts, as though he had tangled with a hive of misanthropic bees. The gold-braided hat of his trade was not clamped in its usual belligerent position slightly over one eye. It was riding Question: What kind of literary device is being used in the story’s title?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Irony: Captain Hannah faces so many trials and tribulations during his time with the plants that his voyage is very much NOT a cakewalk to Gloryanna.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) After all Captain Hannah suffers through in order to get to the plants to Gloryanna, it turns out that the Gloryannans have stopped all trade lines. He is asked to leave Gloryannan customs and never return. Hannah suffered for nothing. (B) After all Captain Hannah suffers through in order to get to the plants to Gloryanna, it turns out that the Gloryannans absolutely detest the plant, and that it is illegal for good reason. The narrator’s plan to earn a profit by selling marocca where they don’t grow was completely wrong. Hannah suffered for nothing. (C) After all Captain Hannah suffers through in order to get to the plants to Gloryanna, it turns out that the Myporians are the only people in the solar system who eat its fruit, and that virtually everybody else in the universe is pathologically allergic. (D) After all Captain Hannah suffers through in order to get to the plants to Gloryanna, it turns out that the Gloryannans won’t buy any from him because they are scared of their government. Hannah suffered for nothing. CAKEWALK TO GLORYANNA BY L. J. STECHER, JR. The job was easy. The profit was enormous. The only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own! Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the Delta Crucis, hobbled across the spaceport to where Beulah and I were waiting to greet him and hit me in the eye. Beulah—that's his elephant, but I have to take care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has to take care of it—kept us apart until we both cooled down a little. Then, although still somewhat dubious about it, she let us go together across the field to the spaceport bar. I didn't ask Captain Hannah why he had socked me. Although he has never been a handsome man, he usually has the weathered and austere dignity that comes from plying the remote reaches among the stars. Call it the Look of Eagles. Captain Hannah had Question: What is Ironic about Captain Hannah’s time with the marocca plants?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> After all Captain Hannah suffers through in order to get to the plants to Gloryanna, it turns out that the Gloryannans absolutely detest the plant, and that it is illegal for good reason. The narrator’s plan to earn a profit by selling marocca where they don’t grow was completely wrong. Hannah suffered for nothing.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Captain Hannah must simulate proper sun exposure in order to ensure the plants’ vines don’t die. Their death would mean no fruit, symbolizing the way in which Hannah’s failure to keep the vines alive is the last possible way in which the narrator’s plan could fail. (B) Captain Hannah must exterminate all of the spores and bugs before reaching Gloryanna, seeing as the Gloryannans will only accept marocca fruit alone for fear of reinfecting their planet with its spores. It is symbolic that Hannah cannot sell the objects which make the fruit, but only the fruit alone. (C) Captain Hannah must feed the marocca cuttings from their vines, but only after mulching them through an organic processor. His body turns out to be the only processor on board, meaning Captain Hannah must eat and process the vine clippings with his own body. This symbolizes the kind of will the plants’ have over Hannah—they have inconvenienced him to the extent of his own insides. (D) Captain Hannah must feed the carollas to the dingleburys, but only after mulching them through an organic processor. His body turns out to be the only processor on board, meaning Captain Hannah must eat and process the bugs with his own body. This symbolizes the kind of will the carollas have over Hannah—they have inconvenienced him to the extent of his own insides. CAKEWALK TO GLORYANNA BY L. J. STECHER, JR. The job was easy. The profit was enormous. The only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own! Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the Delta Crucis, hobbled across the spaceport to where Beulah and I were waiting to greet him and hit me in the eye. Beulah—that's his elephant, but I have to take care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has to take care of it—kept us apart until we both cooled down a little. Then, although still somewhat dubious about it Question: What is the last step Captain Hannah must conduct in order to deliver successfully fruited plants to Gloryanna. What is the symbolic significance of this?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Captain Hannah must feed the marocca cuttings from their vines, but only after mulching them through an organic processor. His body turns out to be the only processor on board, meaning Captain Hannah must eat and process the vine clippings with his own body. This symbolizes the kind of will the plants’ have  over Hannah—they have inconvenienced him to the extent of his own insides.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) A fire pump (B) The bodies of dead dinglebury bugs (C) He uses a lamp to simulate the sun’s orbit on the planet Mypore (D) His own body CAKEWALK TO GLORYANNA BY L. J. STECHER, JR. The job was easy. The profit was enormous. The only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own! Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the Delta Crucis, hobbled across the spaceport to where Beulah and I were waiting to greet him and hit me in the eye. Beulah—that's his elephant, but I have to take care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has to take care of it—kept us apart until we both cooled down a little. Then, although still somewhat dubious about it, she let us go together across the field to the spaceport bar. I didn't ask Captain Hannah why he had socked me. Although he has never been a handsome man, he usually has the weathered and austere dignity that comes from plying the remote reaches among the stars. Call it the Look of Eagles. Captain Hannah had lost the Look of Eagles. His eyes were swollen almost shut; every inch of him that showed was a red mass of welts piled on more welts, as though he had tangled with a hive of misanthropic bees. The gold-braided hat of his trade was not clamped in its usual belligerent position slightly over one eye. It was riding high on his head, apparently held up by more of the ubiquitous swellings. I figured that he figured that I had something to do with the way he looked. "Shipping marocca to Gloryanna III didn't turn out to be a cakewalk after all?" I suggested. He glared at me in silence. "Perhaps you would like a drink first, and then you would be willing to tell me about it?" I decided that his wince was intended for a nod, and ordered rh Question: What does Captain Hannah use as an organic processor?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> His own body<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) A gardener (B) A good pilot (C) An adequate elephant owner (D) A handsome man CAKEWALK TO GLORYANNA BY L. J. STECHER, JR. The job was easy. The profit was enormous. The only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own! Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the Delta Crucis, hobbled across the spaceport to where Beulah and I were waiting to greet him and hit me in the eye. Beulah—that's his elephant, but I have to take care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has to take care of it—kept us apart until we both cooled down a little. Then, although still somewhat dubious about it, she let us go together across the field to the spaceport bar. I didn't ask Captain Hannah why he had socked me. Although he has never been a handsome man, he usually has the weathered and austere dignity that comes from plying the remote reaches among the stars. Call it the Look of Eagles. Captain Hannah had lost the Look of Eagles. His eyes were swollen almost shut; every inch of him that showed was a red mass of welts piled on more welts, as though he had tangled with a hive of misanthropic bees. The gold-braided hat of his trade was not clamped in its usual belligerent position slightly over one eye. It was riding high on his head, apparently held up by more of the ubiquitous swellings. I figured that he figured that I had something to do with the way he looked. "Shipping marocca to Gloryanna III didn't turn out to be a cakewalk after all?" I suggested. He glared at me in silence. "Perhaps you would like a drink first, and then you would be willing to tell me about it?" I decided that his wince was intended for a nod, and ordered rhial. I only drink rhial when I Question: What does the narrator say Captain Hannah has never been?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> A handsome man<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) His parents broke out when they were much younger than the age he is now, and he is embarrassed by this. (B) His parents want to keep him from breaking out, knowing that the horrors Wayne will face are too much for him. (C) No reason. Wayne is a bad egg and enjoys tormenting them. (D) He feels that they are soft and stupid, that they’ve given up on what life has to offer. THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone." "But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time." "Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough." Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. "We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books." "But he's unhappy." "Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed or we'll be late." Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposeless noises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say. Blab-blab about the Question: Why doesn’t Wayne like his parents?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> He feels that they are soft and stupid, that they’ve given up on what life has to offer.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Coming of age: Wayne must kill one person during the break out test in order to become a functioning member of society. Breaking out is a rite of passage. (B) Boy Meets Girl: When Wayne chases Red and attempts to kill her, he realizes that killing isn’t for him and that the rest of his life should (C) Animal Rights: The story is an exploration of Wayne’s realization that cats and mice should not be subject to violence. (D) Man vs. Nature: The entire story is dedicated to exploring how a society can kill the animalistic natures within a human body and soul. THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone." "But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time." "Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough." Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. "We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books." "But he's unhappy." "Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Question: Which category and description best describes the type of story “The Recruit” is using as its base?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Coming of age: Wayne must kill one person during the break out test in order to become a functioning member of society. Breaking out is a rite of passage.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The idea that Wayne's end of curfew will mean more trips to the armory. More weapons always. (B) The idea of cat and mouse games. From this point on Wayne thinks of his duty in terms of hunting. The end of curfew. From this point on Wayne wants to live the rest of his life without curfew. (C) The fear of ending up a counter boy like the corporal. From this point on Wayne does everything he can not to end up like the corporal. (D) The exciting and scary power of the.38 and the switch blade. From this point on Wayne feels more powerful than ever THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone." "But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time." "Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough." Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. "We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books." "But he's unhappy." "Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What do we know about adolescent trauma and like Question: What idea is introduced during the armory scene that becomes a motif throughout the rest of the story?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> The idea of cat and mouse games. From this point on Wayne thinks of his duty in terms of hunting.  The end of curfew. From this point on Wayne wants to live the rest of his life without curfew.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Requiring that all youths commit one violent act as a rite of passage to adulthood is the only way the city has found to best fight crime. (B) Requiring that all youths commit one violent act as a rite of passage to adulthood is thought to eradicate any violent urges that might occur later in life. (C) Requiring that all youths commit one violent act as a rite of passage to adulthood is thought to show what skillset each teen is most capable of. (D) Requiring that all youths commit one violent act as a rite of passage to adulthood is thought to be the best way to take care of the city’s mouse and cat infestation. THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone." "But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time." "Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough." Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. "We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books." "But he's unhappy." "Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What Question: What is the purpose of “the break out” instituted by the Youth Board?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Requiring that all youths commit one violent act as a rite of passage to adulthood is thought to eradicate any violent urges that might occur later in life.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Gun (B) Cat (C) Punk (D) Red THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone." "But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time." "Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough." Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. "We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books." "But he's unhappy." "Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed or we'll be late." Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposeless noises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say. Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in the same old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all the way to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or with eyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retire into limbo. How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? One thing—when Question: Which word best describe Wayne’s worst fear? Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> Punk<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The fact that Wayne feels bad for the stewbum demonstrates that he feels more for humanity than the Corporal accuses him of. (B) The fact that Wayne laughs during his chase with Red is paradoxical to the way he demonstrates empathy for his father. (C) -The fact that Wayne cannot complete his kill suggests that violence is not necessarily an inherent part of humanity, such as the state claims. (D) The fact that Wayne cannot complete his kills suggests that he will become like how mother, which is the opposite of what he wants for himself. THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone." "But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time." "Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough." Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. "We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books." "But he's unhappy." "Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed or we'll be late." Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened Question: What is the paradox of Wayne’s “breaking out” experience?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> -The fact that Wayne cannot complete his kill suggests that violence is not necessarily an inherent part of humanity, such as the state claims.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) A hefty psycho who drinks too much (B) A hefty psycho who has killed five people (C) A hefty psycho with a cat’s face (D) A hefty psycho who has abducted Red THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone." "But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time." "Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough." Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. "We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books." "But he's unhappy." "Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed or we'll be late." Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposeless noises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say. Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in the same old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all the way to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious Question: Who is with Red when Wayne enters the Four Aces Club?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> A hefty psycho who has killed five people<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It foreshadows that Wayne will not be able to go through with his kill (B) It is symbolic for the inner rage bubbling within Wayne’s teenage brain. (C) It references the rage he feels toward his cowardly and stupid father (D) It foreshadows the violence Wayne will do to Red THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone." "But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time." "Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough." Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. "We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books." "But he's unhappy." "Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed or we'll be late." Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposeless noises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say. Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in the same Question: What is significant about Wayne’s averse reaction to witnessing the stewbum beating?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> It foreshadows that Wayne will not be able to go through with his kill<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) His laughs suggest he enjoys violence, but really they are a cry for help. (B) His real feelings about violence are the opposite of anything comical. He takes his job with the state very seriously. (C) His real feelings about violence are the opposite of what his maniacal laugh suggests. It turns out he isn’t a heartless killer. (D) Wayne’s laughing suggests that he is always in control, when in reality it is actually his mother and Red who know the truth about the world. THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone." "But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time." "Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough." Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. "We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books." "But he's unhappy." "Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed or we'll be late." Wayne Question: What is ironic about Wayne’s laughing in the face of violence?—First when he leaves his parents house and again when he chases Red.  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> His real feelings about violence are the opposite of what his maniacal laugh suggests. It turns out he isn’t a heartless killer.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The Venusians use “Joe” as an idiom, referring to friends and family as Joe, even though that is not their given Venusian name. (B) Terrans use the term “Joe” to refer to each other. The Venusians took the idiom literally and adopted it in earnest as the global name. (C) There is a Venusian hero named Joe, prompting all Venusians to take the name. (D) Venusians are required by Terrans to use the name as a sign of enslavement. A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At least, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get by with gravy. "It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. "Yes, sir," I said. "It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native." I wanted to say, "Then why the hell don't you send a green kid on the job? Why me?" Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with Question: What is the origin of the name Joe on Venus?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Terrans use the term “Joe” to refer to each other. The Venusians took the idiom literally and adopted it in earnest as the global name.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The Major’s senior officer (B) A Venusian who doesn’t like cigarettes (C) The entire population of Venus (D) A Venusian Trader A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At least, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get by with gravy. "It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. "Yes, sir," I said. "It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native." I wanted to say, "Then why the hell don't you send a green kid on the job? Why me?" Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with his fingers. "The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent." He paused, then added, "For a native, that is." I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked the way he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there. Which brought to mind an important point. "I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III Question: Who is Joe?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> The entire population of Venus<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The first Joe who Major Polk meets knows the Terran idiom, “stabbed in the back.” (B) The first Joe who Major Polk meets knows the Terran idiom, “you’ve got the wrong number.” (C) The first Joe who Major Polk meets knows the Terran idiom, “bite the bullet.” (D) The first Joe who Major Polk meets knows the Terran idiom, “Joe,” as a way of causally referring to others. A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At least, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get by with gravy. "It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. "Yes, sir," I said. "It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native." I wanted to say, "Then why the hell don't you send a green kid on the job? Why me?" Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with his fingers. "The man Question: What is the first clue that hints at how Venusian culture has absorbed the name Joe?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> The first Joe who Major Polk meets knows the Terran idiom, “you’ve got the wrong number.”<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Walsh sends Polk on a fools errand in order to trick him into time away from Earth so that Walsh can botch the occupation on Mars once and for all. (B) Walsh sends Major Polk on a fools errand so that he can trick Polk into the Venusian jungle and kill him, serving as revenge for the embarrassment Polk caused him years ago. (C) Walsh sends Polk on a fools errands in order to trick him into a full time job on Venus. (D) Walsh sends Polk on a fools errand in order to trick him into finding trader Joe, who is responsible for some of Walsh’s recent military problems. A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At least, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get by with gravy. "It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. "Yes, sir," I said. "It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native." I wanted Question: What is the significance of the mission Colonel Walsh gives Major Polk?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Walsh sends Major Polk on a fools errand so that he can trick Polk into the Venusian jungle and kill him, serving as revenge for the embarrassment Polk caused him years ago.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The time a friend took him on a journey through the city on his birthday. (B) The time Walsh fell asleep on the job and almost destroyed the barracks. (C) His time in boot camp. (D) The relentless way in which Venusians constantly ask for more cigarettes. A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At least, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get by with gravy. "It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. "Yes, sir," I said. "It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native." I wanted to say, "Then why the hell don't you send a green kid on the job? Why me?" Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with his fingers. "The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent." He paused, then added, "For a native, that is." I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked the Question: Major Polk refers to his long hike through the jungle with guide Joe as being like. . .  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> The time a friend took him on a journey through the city on his birthday.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The name “Joe,” Terran cigarettes, and their fun jokes. (B) The name “Joe,” Terran idioms, and Terran spaceships (C) Terran idioms, Terran cigarettes, and the Terran interest in Venus. (D) The name “Joe,” Terran spaceships, and Terran cigarettes. A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At least, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get by with gravy. "It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. "Yes, sir," I said. "It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native." I wanted to say, "Then why the hell don't you send a green kid on the job? Why me?" Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with his fingers. "The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent." He paused, then added, "For a native, that is." I had never liked Walsh's Question: Which three things do Venusians love about Terrans? Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> The name “Joe,” Terran cigarettes, and their fun jokes.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Colonel Walsh is Major Polk’s senior officer. Their relationship became contentious in boot camp, when Walsh reported Polk for falling asleep on the job. (B) Colonel Walsh is Major Polk’s ex best friend. Their relationship became contentious during the Terran occupation of Mars, when Polk realized Walsh was prejudiced against Martian natives. (C) Colonel Polk is Major Walsh’s ex best friend. Their relationship became contentious in boot camp, when Polk reported Walsh for falling asleep on the job. (D) Colonel Walsh is Major Polk’s senior officer. Their relationship became contentious in boot camp, when Polk reported Walsh for falling asleep on the job. A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At least, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get by with gravy. "It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. "Yes, sir," I said. "It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native." I wanted to say, "Then why the hell don't you send Question: What is the relationship between Polk and Walsh? What is the central complication in their history together? Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Colonel Walsh is Major Polk’s senior officer. Their relationship became contentious in boot camp, when Polk reported Walsh for falling asleep on the job.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Bartender Joe (B) Trader Joe (C) Military Joe (D) Jungle Guide Joe A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At least, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get by with gravy. "It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. "Yes, sir," I said. "It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native." I wanted to say, "Then why the hell don't you send a green kid on the job? Why me?" Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with his fingers. "The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent." He paused, then added, "For a native, that is." I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked the way he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there. Which brought to mind an important point. "I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, Question: Which “Joe” faces the brunt of Colonel Walsh’s racism?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> Jungle Guide Joe<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Bransten (B) Trader Joe (C) Walsh (D) Bartender Joe A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus. He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At least, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get by with gravy. "It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. "Yes, sir," I said. "It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native." I wanted to say, "Then why the hell don't you send a green kid on the job? Why me?" Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with his fingers. "The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent." He paused, then added, "For a native, that is." I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked the way he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there. Which brought to mind an important point. "I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III Question: What is the name of the Captain in charge of briefing the Major when he arrives on Venus?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> Bransten<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It provides the notion that Mr. Taylor is a fun, understanding, and competent professor. (B) It provides the notion that despite Mr. Taylor’s dangerous job, the radioactivity hasn’t aged him a day. (C) It provides a contrast for later in the story, when Mr. Taylor is described as looking aged and wary after the isotope is stolen. (D) It provides a contrast against Mr. Ross, who is described as older and balding. <unk>?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> YOUNG READERS Atom Mystery 11 CHAPTER ONE It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight poking in under the window shade pried his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom door. “You awake, Eddie?” “I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered. “Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and dressed.” 12 “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding football player in his time. Even his glasses and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can find some uranium ore?” Eddie smiled sheepishly. “I—I had a dream,” he said. “Plain as day. It was out on Cedar Point. I was walking along Question: In Chapter one, what is the significance of describing Mr. Taylor as not having aged much?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> It provides a contrast for later in the story, when Mr. Taylor is described as looking aged and wary after the isotope is stolen.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Teena is Eddie’s friend and neighbor. She accompanies Eddie on a hike through the hills behind the college, where he teaches her all about isotopes. (B) Teena is Eddie’s friend and neighbor. She accompanies him on a prospecting hike, where they don’t find any trace of radioactivity but still enjoy a lunch together. (C) Teena is Eddie’s friend and neighbor. She accompanies Eddie to Cedar Point, where they are looking for traces of radioactivity. (D) Teena is Eddie’s friend and neighbor. She accompanies Eddie to Cedar Point, where they eat sandwiches and prospect for radioactivity. <unk>?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> YOUNG READERS Atom Mystery 11 CHAPTER ONE It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight poking in under the window shade pried his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom door. “You awake, Eddie?” “I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered. “Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and dressed.” 12 “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding football player in his time. Even his glasses and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can Question: Who is Teena and what role does she play in Chapter one and chapter two? Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Teena is Eddie’s friend and neighbor. She accompanies him on a prospecting hike, where they don’t find any trace of radioactivity but still enjoy a lunch together.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) A Geiger counter is used to measure radioactivity. Mr. Taylor uses it at Cedar Point. (B) A Geiger counter is used to measure radioactivity. Mr. Taylor uses it to measure the radiation present in the hills behind his college. (C) A Geiger counter is used to measure radioactivity. Eddie uses it to prospect the hills behind the college. (D) A Geiger counter is used to measure radioactivity. Eddie uses it to prospect Cedar Point. <unk>?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> YOUNG READERS Atom Mystery 11 CHAPTER ONE It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight poking in under the window shade pried his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom door. “You awake, Eddie?” “I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered. “Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and dressed.” 12 “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding football player in his time. Even his glasses and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can find some uranium ore?” Eddie smiled sheepishly. “I—I had a dream,” he said. “Plain as day. It was out on Cedar Point. I was walking along over some rocks. Suddenly the Geiger counter began clicking like Question: What is the Geiger counter and how exactly is it used in the present chapters?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> A Geiger counter is used to measure radioactivity. Eddie uses it to prospect the hills behind the college.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Eddie has a dream about prospecting with his father at Cedar point. This dream is what inspires him to find out what happened to the missing isotope by searching the hills behind the college. (B) Eddie has a dream about prospecting with his father’s Geiger counter. The dream is what inspires his hike to Cedar Point. (C) Eddie has a dream about prospecting with his father’s Geiger counter. The dream is what inspires Eddie to go over to Teena’s house and teach her about isotopes. (D) Eddie has a dream about prospecting with his father’s Geiger counter. The dream is what inspires the hike he has with Teena. <unk>?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> YOUNG READERS Atom Mystery 11 CHAPTER ONE It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight poking in under the window shade pried his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom door. “You awake, Eddie?” “I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered. “Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and dressed.” 12 “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding football player in his time. Even his glasses and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can find some uranium ore?” Question: What dream does Eddie have and why is it significant?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Eddie has a dream about prospecting with his father’s Geiger counter. The dream is what inspires the hike he has with Teena.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It causes major holes for the reader when Eddie doesn’t explain his scientific jargon. (B) It provides a basic subject matter for Eddie to use to get closer to Teena. (C) It provides basic subject matter for the story and informs the brunt of Eddie’s characterization. (D) It is used as a way of putting Eddie in contact with the story’s antagonist: Mr. Ross <unk>?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> YOUNG READERS Atom Mystery 11 CHAPTER ONE It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight poking in under the window shade pried his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom door. “You awake, Eddie?” “I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered. “Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and dressed.” 12 “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding football player in his time. Even his glasses and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can find some uranium ore?” Eddie smiled sheepishly. “I—I had a dream,” he said. “Plain as day. It was out on Cedar Point. I was walking along over some rocks. Suddenly the Geiger counter began clicking like everything.” 13 “Cedar Point?” Question: How does Eddie’s interest in radioactivity affect the story’s plot?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> It provides basic subject matter for the story and informs the brunt of Eddie’s characterization.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Eddie doesn’t want Teena to come because there isn’t much time left in the day for prospecting Cedar Point. (B) Eddie has a crush on Teena, and therefore doesn’t want to act too eager and uncool. (C) Eddie doesn’t want Teena to feel like she is obligated to help him fulfill his dream of finding radioactivity at Cedar Point. (D) It is implied that Eddie doesn’t want Teena to feel like he knows a lot more science than she does. Eddie feels this will make Teena not like him. <unk>?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> YOUNG READERS Atom Mystery 11 CHAPTER ONE It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight poking in under the window shade pried his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom door. “You awake, Eddie?” “I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered. “Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and dressed.” 12 “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding football player in his time. Even his glasses and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can find some uranium ore?” Eddie smiled sheepishly. “I—I had a dream,” he said. “Plain as Question: Why doesn’t Eddie act excited about Teena going prospecting with him?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Eddie has a crush on Teena, and therefore doesn’t want to act too eager and uncool.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Eddie forgot to do some of his chores, so she had to do them for him. (B) Mr. Taylor was injured at work. (C) Mr. Taylor’s isotope was stolen (D) Eddie forgot was home earlier than expected, so sinner wasn’t ready yet. <unk>?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> YOUNG READERS Atom Mystery 11 CHAPTER ONE It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight poking in under the window shade pried his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom door. “You awake, Eddie?” “I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered. “Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and dressed.” 12 “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding football player in his time. Even his glasses and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can find some uranium ore?” Eddie smiled sheepishly. “I—I had a dream,” he said. “Plain as day. It was out on Cedar Point. I was walking along over some rocks. Suddenly the Geiger counter began clicking like everything.” 13 “Cedar Point?” his father asked. “I’ve never been out there. But, from what I hear, there are plenty of rock formations. Might Question: Why did Eddie’s mother forget to make dinner?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> Mr. Taylor’s isotope was stolen<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It provides a stark contrast to the stressed Mr. Ross we meet in Chapter Two. It shows the reader that something has gone horribly wrong at Mr. Ross’s job. (B) It demonstrates to the reader that Eddie will be able to get along with him, and therefore share what he knows about radiation. (C) It throws Eddie off the scent of Mr. Ross being a culprit responsible for Mr. Taylor’s missing isotope. (D) It provides a comparison to Mr. Taylor, who is more successful than Mr. Ross and therefore doesn’t have to rely on humor. <unk>?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> YOUNG READERS Atom Mystery 11 CHAPTER ONE It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight poking in under the window shade pried his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom door. “You awake, Eddie?” “I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered. “Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and dressed.” 12 “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding football player in his time. Even his glasses and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can find some uranium ore?” Eddie smiled sheepishly. “I—I had a dream,” he Question: What is the significance of describing Mr. Ross as a funny person?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> It provides a stark contrast to the stressed Mr. Ross we meet in Chapter Two. It shows the reader that something has gone horribly wrong at Mr. Ross’s job.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Three times. Each time concern Eddie’s infatuation with Teena, which is why he makes up excuses like going prospecting at Cedar point. (B) Twice. Both times concern Eddie’s infatuation with Teena, which is why he makes up excuses like going prospecting for uranium. (C) Twice. Both times concern something to do with Eddie’s interest in radioactivity. (D) Three times. Each time concern something to do with Eddie’s interest in radioactivity. <unk>?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> YOUNG READERS Atom Mystery 11 CHAPTER ONE It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight poking in under the window shade pried his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom door. “You awake, Eddie?” “I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered. “Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and dressed.” 12 “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding football player in his time. Even his glasses and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can find some uranium ore?” Eddie smiled sheepishly. “I—I had a dream,” he said. “P Question: How many times does Eddie go over to Teena’s house? What is the common thread, or reason, for Eddie going over there?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Twice. Both times concern something to do with Eddie’s interest in radioactivity.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Eddie teaches her about radioactivity during their hike to Cedar Point. (B) Eddie teaches her about radioactivity while he helps her finish doing the dishes. (C) Eddie teaches her about radioactivity when he is explaining the dream he had about Cedar Point. (D) Eddie teaches Teena and her mother about about radioactivity after the news gets out about Mr. Taylor’s isotope being stolen. <unk>?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> YOUNG READERS Atom Mystery 11 CHAPTER ONE It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight poking in under the window shade pried his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and groped under the bed for his tennis shoes. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom door. “You awake, Eddie?” “I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered. “Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and dressed.” 12 “Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it all right if I use the Geiger counter today?” Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted. Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he had heard about his father being an outstanding football player in his time. Even his glasses and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add much age, although Eddie knew it had been eighteen years since his father had played his last game of college football. “You may use the Geiger counter any time you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as you take good care of it. You figured out where you can find some uranium ore?” Eddie smiled sheepishly. “I—I had a dream,” he said. “Plain as day. It was out on Cedar Point. I was walking along over some rocks. Suddenly the Geiger counter began clicking like everything.” 13 “Cedar Point?” his father asked. “ Question: How does Teena find out about radioactivity?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Eddie teaches Teena and her mother about about radioactivity after the news gets out about Mr. Taylor’s isotope being stolen.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) A zone of silence that is intended to stop Axis economic flow. (B) A zone of silence that is deadly to all who pass through it. (C) A zone of silence that will stop Americans from being able to radio Europe. (D) A zone of silence that stops all radio signals that attempt to penetrate it. SILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all. Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford. The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory. Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his country under Question: What is Androka trying to make?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> A zone of silence that stops all radio signals that attempt to penetrate it.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Nelson is German by ancestry, raised sympathetic to Germany’s cause. (B) Nelson is German by ancestry, but was raised on the side of the American effort. (C) Curtis is prejudiced against people with light hair. (D) Nelson is Czech SILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all. Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford. The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory. Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his country under Question: What is implied when the narrator describes Nelson’s light colored hair?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Nelson is German by ancestry, raised sympathetic to Germany’s cause.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The Carethusia (B) The Sea (C) Germany (D) An alien world SILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all. Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford. The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory. Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his country under the domination of the Nazi gestapo. At other times, the man seemed a genius. Perhaps that was the answer—a mad genius! Curtis opened the door and looked out. Rain whipped against his Question: Where do the creatures from another world come from?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> Germany<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) He is helping the Nazi war effort (B) He is helping the American Navy. (C) He is doing Bob Curtis a favor by helping his ship be the most successful in the Navy. (D) He is planning revenge against the Nazis for harming his family. SILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all. Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford. The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory. Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his country under the do Question: What is Androka’s motivation for using the zone of silence?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> He is helping the Nazi war effort<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Nazis were hiding out there. (B) It will give Curtis and his crew mates shelter while they a stranded. (C) The Americans have outposts everywhere. (D) The Islet is where the zone of silence is to be built. SILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all. Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford. The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory. Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his country under the domination of the Question: What is the significance of the evidence of human lodging on the islet?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Nazis were hiding out there.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) A direct result of the zone of silence (B) Curtis will be killed. (C) The Holland blitzkrieg was a travesty (D) Nazis are on The Comerford. SILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all. Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford. The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory. Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his country under the domination of the Nazi gestapo. At other times, the man seemed a genius Question: The yellow-gray mist indicates which of the following?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Nazis are on The Comerford.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Nelson, Androka, Brandt, Bradford (B) Curtis, Androka, Brandt, Bradford (C) Bradford, Nelson, Androka, Curtis (D) Androka, Curtis, the radioman, Bradford SILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all. Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford. The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory. Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his country under the domination Question: Who are the four to blame for the Comerford’s incident?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> Nelson, Androka, Brandt, Bradford<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Androka’s zone of silence is used as a deadly tool against the Nazi war effort. (B) Androka’s zone of silence is used as a deadly tool against the Comerford’s crew. (C) Androka’s zone of silence is used as a deadly tool, made in the name of revenging the Czech war effort. (D) Androka’s zone of silence is used as a deadly tool, helping the Americans sneak up on a Nazi Islet. SILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all. Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford. The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother Question: To what is the title of the story, “Silence is—Deadly” referring?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Androka’s zone of silence is used as a deadly tool against the Comerford’s crew.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) He is holding the ship ransom as revenge for what American has done to Germany. (B) He is holding the ship ransom for Boarts—black diamonds. (C) He wants to use its zone of silence to apprehend the Carthusia. (D) He wants to use its zone of silence to trick other ships into crashing on the islet. SILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. If you could silence all radio—silence of that sort would be deadly! The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door. Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all. Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford. The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board. Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his lips relaxed in a faint smile. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory. Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist whose mind Question: Why is Brandt interested in The Comerford?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> He wants to use its zone of silence to apprehend the Carthusia.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The Voice (B) Old Sporr (C) The Book (D) The Masters of the Worlds Warrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind, insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. " I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. "How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?" And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked yet again: "Who am I?" The voice had a note of triumph. "You do not know that. It is as well, for this will be a birth and beginning of your destined leadership on Dondromogon." "Destined—leadership—" I began to repeat, and fell silent. I had need to think. The voice was telling me that I had been snatched from Question: Who ordered that the narrator to Dondromogon?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> The Masters of the Worlds<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It shows he is liar. (B) It shows he is not from Dondromogon (C) It shows he is the Conquering Stranger (D) It shows he is not from Earth Warrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind, insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. " I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. "How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?" And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked yet again: "Who am I?" The voice had a note of triumph. "You do not know that. It is as well, for this will be a birth and beginning of your destined leadership on Dondromogon." "Destined—leadership—" I began to repeat Question: What is the significance of the narrator’s height?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> It shows he is not from Dondromogon<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Earth is not something a Dondromogon leader should remember. (B) So he can be birthed on a clean slate as the new Dondromogon leader. (C) So that the Dondromogons will be suspicious of him (D) To better assimilate to Dondromogon culture. Warrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind, insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. " I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. "How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?" And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked yet again: "Who am I?" The voice had a note of triumph. "You do not know that. It is as well, for this will be a birth and beginning of your Question: The purpose for the narrator losing his memory is. . .  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> So he can be birthed on a clean slate as the new Dondromogon leader.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Doriza (B) The Masters of the Worlds (C) The Voice (D) Old Sporr Warrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind, insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. " I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. "How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?" And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked yet again: "Who am I?" The voice had a note of triumph. "You do not know that. It is as well, for this will be a birth and beginning of your destined leadership on Dondromogon." "Destined—leadership—" I began to repeat, and fell silent. I had need to think. The voice was telling me that I had been snatched from world Question: Who first tells the narrator about his destiny?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> The Voice<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It is proof that he is Yandro (B) It is proof that he is from Earth (C) It is proof that he is a Newcomer (D) It is proof that he is a Master of Worlds Warrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind, insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. " I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. "How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?" And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked yet again: "Who am I?" The voice had a note of triumph. "You do not know that. It is as well, for this will be a birth and beginning of your destined leadership on Dondromogon." "Destined—leadership—" Question: What is the significance of the narrator’s thumb print? Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> It is proof that he is Yandro<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) He is a mystic in touch with faith, in charge of the materialization of gods. (B) He is a mystic in touch with the spiritual realm, in charge of prophecies. (C) He is a mystic in touch with the material space, in charge of prophecies. (D) He is a mystic in touch with what is Good, in charge of the rational realm. Warrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind, insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. " I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. "How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?" And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked yet again: "Who am I?" The voice had Question: Who is Sporr and what is his authority in calling the narrator Yandro?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> He is a mystic in touch with the spiritual realm, in charge of prophecies.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It causes its people to develop two vastly different cultures, creating social tension. (B) It causes its people to search for prophets, martyrs, and heroes, symbolizing the schizophrenia of the planet’s inhabitants. (C) It causes its people to live underground, giving the story its setting. (D) It causes its inhabitant groups to fight over what amount of the planet is habitable, the two extremes symbolizing the split between peoples. Warrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind, insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. " I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. "How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?" And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked yet again: "Who am I?" The voice had a note Question: What is the meaning of Dondromogon’s two extreme hemispheres?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> It causes its inhabitant groups to fight over what amount of the planet is habitable, the two extremes symbolizing the split between peoples.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) They have to battle the extreme heat and extreme cold. Because of these intense temperatures people suffer, wars often start out of general agitation. (B) The live deep in the ground. They can only survive above ground for a short period, so they have to find what they need and quickly bring it back underground. (C) The live deep in the ground. They have to find all necessities for life, such as food, deep within the mines they dug to survive. (D) They live in a great temple, exactly on the twilight line between the light and dark side of their planet. They have to find all necessities for life inside. Warrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind, insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. " I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. "How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System Question: How do people live on Dondromogon? What is an example of a repercussion its people suffer as a result of its extreme temperatures?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> The live deep in the ground. They have to find all necessities for life, such as food, deep within the mines they dug to survive.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Yandro is the Conquering Stranger. He is prophesied to conquer Dondromogon. (B) Yandro is the Conquering Stranger. He is prophesied to lead the planet Dondromogon. (C) Yandro is the Conquering Stranger. He killed and conquered the brute Barak. (D) Yandro is the New Prophet. He is said to tell of the destruction of the Newcomers. Warrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind, insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. " I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. "How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?" And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked yet again: "Who am I?" The voice had a note Question: Who is Yandro and what is his relationship to Dandromogon?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Yandro is the Conquering Stranger. He is prophesied to lead the planet Dondromogon.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It shows the reader that Yandro is preparing to fight Barak. (B) It shows the reader that the narrator is going to play the part of Yandro, but not believe in it. (C) It shows the reader that the narrator is becoming Yandro. (D) It shows the reader that all Dondromogon prophecies are true. Warrior of Two Worlds By MANLY WADE WELLMAN He was the man of two planets, drawn through the blackness of space to save a nation from ruthless invaders. He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. My senses came to me slowly and somehow shyly, as if not sure of their way or welcome. I felt first—pressure on my brow and chest, as if I lay face downward; then the tug and buffet of a strong, probing wind, insistent but not cold, upon my naked skin. Closing my hands, I felt them dig into coarse dirt. I turned my face downwind and opened my eyes. There was little to see, so thick was the dust cloud around me. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. " I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. I lifted a hand, and knuckled dust from my eyes. "How did I get here?" I demanded of the speaker. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. Do you remember Earth?" And I did not know whether I remembered or not. Vague matters stirred deep in me, but I could not for certain say they were memories. I asked yet again: "Who am I?" The voice had a note of triumph. "You do not know that. It is as well Question: What is the meaning of the garments given to the narrator?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> It shows the reader that the narrator is becoming Yandro.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It is symbolic for his drive to win the war. (B) It is symbolic for his drive to find shelter. (C) It is symbolic for his drive to return home to his wife. (D) It is symbolic for his drive to cross the Rio Grande. HOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand. The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse, and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to a grassy slope where he hobbled him and left him for the night. In the fading light, he Question: How can the description the protagonist’s eyes as “aflame” be understood as symbolic?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> It is symbolic for his drive to return home to his wife.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) An ex soldier who fought in World War III, looking for his children who have gone missing. (B) An ex soldier who fought in World War II, traveling home to his wife and children. (C) An ex soldier who fought in World War III, traveling home to his wife. (D) An ex soldier who fought in World War III, looking to avenge his wife’s death. HOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand. The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse, and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to Question: Who is the protagonist of the story and what is their main objective?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> An ex soldier who fought in World War III, traveling home to his wife.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) He promised that he would return home after the Americans won the war. (B) He promised that his love is “forever” and that he would return from the war. (C) He promised that his love is “forever” and that he would take her to Europe once the war ended. (D) He promised that he would return the locket she lent him for the war. HOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand. The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse, and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to a grassy Question: Why does the protagonist want to get back to his wife?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> He promised that his love is “forever” and that he would return from the war.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) They end the war but turn the world into a zombie landscape. (B) They end he war and restore peace and harmony, even though there are still some stragglers wandering home from the war. (C) They end the war, but turn it into a semi-apocalyptic landscape. (D) They end the war, but turn the world into tribal groups with strict borders. HOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand. The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse, and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to a grass Question: What effect do the bombs have on the war? Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> They end the war, but turn it into a semi-apocalyptic landscape.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) A conquerer (B) He found them himself (C) A member of his battalion (D) His horse HOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand. The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse, and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to a grassy slope where he hobbled him and left him for the night. In the fading light, he ate the hard beef jerky and drank the scalding coffee. Refreshed and momentarily content, he sat staring into Question: Who shows the protagonist the food and the rifle? Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> His horse<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) She waits at home like they planned, greeting them lovingly. (B) She is transformed into a monster, striking fear in the protagonist. (C) She is killed during the war, her body nowhere to be found. (D) She patiently waits for him at home. HOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand. The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse, and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to a grassy slope where he hobbled him and left him for the night. In the fading light, he Question: How does the war affect the protagonist’s relationship with his wife?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> She is transformed into a monster, striking fear in the protagonist.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It becomes anarchic, with essentially no governments left. (B) It becomes anarchic, with nothing but gangs to officially end what is left of the war. (C) It falls to Russia, becoming a wasteland in the wake of its bombing. (D) It becomes a festering wasteland. All living things dead. HOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand. The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse, and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to a grassy slope where he hobbled him and left him Question: What happens to Europe after the bombs?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> It becomes anarchic, with essentially no governments left.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) At first it is a declaration of everlasting love, but soon shows that its pledge exists past death, becoming a haunting symbol of how love can bleed into death. (B) At first it is a declaration of everlasting love, but soon shows that its pledge exists past death, becoming a haunting symbol what can happen when love isn’t returned home. (C) At first it is a declaration of everlasting marriage, but soon shows that its pledge even exists in war, becoming a symbol of how love can survive death and overcome all trials. (D) At first it is a declaration of commitment, but soon shows that its pledge exists in death, becoming a haunting symbol of how love doesn’t last forever. HOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand. The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse, and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of the coffee he had found in one of Question: How does the meaning of the engraved ring change throughout the story?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> At first it is a declaration of commitment, but soon shows that its pledge exists in death, becoming a haunting symbol of how love doesn’t last forever.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) His war experience. (B) His memory. (C) His heart. (D) His love for his wife. HOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand. The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse, and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to a grassy slope where he hobbled him and left him for the night. In the fading light, he ate the hard beef jerky and drank the scalding coffee. Refreshed and momentarily content, he Question: What part of the narrator is responsible for the story’s exposition?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> His memory.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Forever in marriage; forever after death. (B) Forever in life; forever undead. (C) Forever in life; forever in war. (D) Forever in war; forever after. HOMECOMING BY MIGUEL HIDALGO What lasts forever? Does love? Does death?... Nothing lasts forever.... Not even forever The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand. The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what they sought. The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse, and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water, and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to a grassy slope where he hobbled him and left him for the night. In the fading light, he ate the hard beef jerky and Question: What is the double meaning of the ring’s engraving, “It Is Forever.” Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Forever in marriage; forever after death.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) A chess tournament where the old master, Krakatower, will be present. (B) A chess-playing machine that is able to beat humans. (C) A chess tournament where many chess masters will be present. (D) A chess tournament where for the very first time a machine will be taught to play. THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE by FRITZ LEIBER The machine was not perfect. It could be tricked. It could make mistakes. And—it could learn! Silently, so as not to shock anyone with illusions about well dressed young women, Sandra Lea Grayling cursed the day she had persuaded the Chicago Space Mirror that there would be all sorts of human interest stories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered. Not that there weren't enough humans around, it was the interest that was in doubt. The large hall was crammed with energetic dark-suited men of whom a disproportionately large number were bald, wore glasses, were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had Slavic or Scandinavian features, and talked foreign languages. They yakked interminably. The only ones who didn't were scurrying individuals with the eager-zombie look of officials. Chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational ritual and still smaller folding sets in which the pieces were the tiny magnetized disks used for playing in free-fall. There were signs featuring largely mysterious combinations of letters: FIDE, WBM, USCF, USSF, USSR and UNESCO. Sandra felt fairly sure about the last three. The many clocks, bedside table size, would have struck a familiar note except that they had little red flags and wheels sprinkled over their faces and they were all in pairs, two clocks to a case. That Siamese-twin clocks should be essential to a chess tournament struck Sandra as a particularly maddening circumstance. Question: What is Sandra reporting on?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> A chess-playing machine that is able to beat humans.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) He explains to Sandra that living human personality is key for beating the machine. (B) He shows Sandra around the tournament. (C) He explains to Sandra how the chess machine works and what the significance of each human chess player is. (D) He explains the history of chess scandals to Sandra. THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE by FRITZ LEIBER The machine was not perfect. It could be tricked. It could make mistakes. And—it could learn! Silently, so as not to shock anyone with illusions about well dressed young women, Sandra Lea Grayling cursed the day she had persuaded the Chicago Space Mirror that there would be all sorts of human interest stories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered. Not that there weren't enough humans around, it was the interest that was in doubt. The large hall was crammed with energetic dark-suited men of whom a disproportionately large number were bald, wore glasses, were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had Slavic or Scandinavian features, and talked foreign languages. They yakked interminably. The only ones who didn't were scurrying individuals with the eager-zombie look of officials. Chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational ritual and still smaller folding sets in which the pieces were the tiny magnetized disks used for playing in free-fall. There were signs featuring largely mysterious combinations of letters: FIDE, WBM, USCF, USSF, USSR and UNESCO. Sandra felt fairly sure about the last three. The many clocks, bedside table size, would have struck a familiar note except that they had little red flags and wheels sprinkled over their faces and they were all in pairs, two clocks to a case. That Siamese-twin clocks should be essential to a chess tournament struck Sandra as a particularly maddening circumstance. Her last assignment had been Question: What role does Doc play in conjunction with Sandra?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> He explains to Sandra how the chess machine works and what the significance of each human chess player is.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The players’ names correspond with which countries won World War II (B) The players’ names represent how chess rivals reflect political rivals. (C) The players’ names signify the level of competence each chess master has, with American names being the most competent. (D) The players’ names correspond with what country has the most chess mastery, with Russian names hold the utmost interest. THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE by FRITZ LEIBER The machine was not perfect. It could be tricked. It could make mistakes. And—it could learn! Silently, so as not to shock anyone with illusions about well dressed young women, Sandra Lea Grayling cursed the day she had persuaded the Chicago Space Mirror that there would be all sorts of human interest stories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered. Not that there weren't enough humans around, it was the interest that was in doubt. The large hall was crammed with energetic dark-suited men of whom a disproportionately large number were bald, wore glasses, were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had Slavic or Scandinavian features, and talked foreign languages. They yakked interminably. The only ones who didn't were scurrying individuals with the eager-zombie look of officials. Chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational ritual and still smaller folding sets in which the pieces were the tiny magnetized disks used for playing in free-fall. There were signs featuring largely mysterious combinations of letters: FIDE, WBM, USCF, USSF, USSR and UNESCO. Sandra felt fairly sure about the last three. The many clocks, bedside table size, would have struck a familiar note except that they had little red flags and wheels sprinkled over their faces and they were all in pairs, two clocks to a case. That Siamese-twin clocks should be essential to a Question: What is the significance of the players’ names?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> The players’ names correspond with what country has the most chess mastery, with Russian names hold the utmost interest.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Doc explains that she can use her tournament program to meet whichever player she wishes. (B) Doc tells her their chess history and introduces her to them as they pass by. (C) She uses her female charm to interest each player in an interview. (D) She interviews each player in accordance with who Doc is friends with, save for Dr. Krakatower. THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE by FRITZ LEIBER The machine was not perfect. It could be tricked. It could make mistakes. And—it could learn! Silently, so as not to shock anyone with illusions about well dressed young women, Sandra Lea Grayling cursed the day she had persuaded the Chicago Space Mirror that there would be all sorts of human interest stories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered. Not that there weren't enough humans around, it was the interest that was in doubt. The large hall was crammed with energetic dark-suited men of whom a disproportionately large number were bald, wore glasses, were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had Slavic or Scandinavian features, and talked foreign languages. They yakked interminably. The only ones who didn't were scurrying individuals with the eager-zombie look of officials. Chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational ritual and still smaller folding sets in which the pieces were the tiny magnetized disks used for playing in free-fall. There were signs featuring largely mysterious combinations of letters: FIDE, WBM, USCF, USSF, USSR and UNESCO. Sandra felt fairly sure about the last three. The many clocks, bedside table size, would have struck a familiar note except that they had little red flags and wheels sprinkled over their faces and they were all in pairs, two clocks to a case. That Siamese-twin clocks should be essential to a chess tournament struck Sandra as Question: How does Sandra meet the chess players?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Doc tells her their chess history and introduces her to them as they pass by.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) WBM—to test the efficacy of their machine. (B) Dr. Krakatower—to beat WBM’s chess ma Co own once and for all. (C) WBM—to being down Russia’s chess mastery. (D) WBM—to test the accuracy of their chess machine’s emotional programming. THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE by FRITZ LEIBER The machine was not perfect. It could be tricked. It could make mistakes. And—it could learn! Silently, so as not to shock anyone with illusions about well dressed young women, Sandra Lea Grayling cursed the day she had persuaded the Chicago Space Mirror that there would be all sorts of human interest stories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered. Not that there weren't enough humans around, it was the interest that was in doubt. The large hall was crammed with energetic dark-suited men of whom a disproportionately large number were bald, wore glasses, were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had Slavic or Scandinavian features, and talked foreign languages. They yakked interminably. The only ones who didn't were scurrying individuals with the eager-zombie look of officials. Chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational ritual and still smaller folding sets in which the pieces were the tiny magnetized disks used for playing in free-fall. There were signs featuring largely mysterious combinations of letters: FIDE, WBM, USCF, USSF, USSR and UNESCO. Sandra felt fairly sure about the last three. The many clocks, bedside table size, would have struck a familiar note except that they had little red flags and wheels sprinkled over their faces and they were all in pairs, two clocks to a case. That Siamese-twin clocks should be essential to a chess tournament struck Sandra as a Question: Who is putting on the chess tournament? Why? Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> WBM—to test the efficacy of their machine.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The human interest stories—i.e., Sandra’s interviews—provide the story’s central irony. The fact that humans cannot defeat the machine shows that the real interest is not human, but robotic. (B) The human interest stories provide a structure for the story to sit on. As she watches each player challenge the machine, it becomes more and more apparent that human personality cannot win. (C) -The human interest stories provide a structure for the story to sit on. As Doc introduces her to each chess player, their backstories help to unpack the significance of the chess tournament. (D) The human interest stories—i.e., Sandra’s interviews—provide a red herring for the story’s central goal, which is to hide the fact of Dr. Krakatower’s ability to beat the WBM machine. THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE by FRITZ LEIBER The machine was not perfect. It could be tricked. It could make mistakes. And—it could learn! Silently, so as not to shock anyone with illusions about well dressed young women, Sandra Lea Grayling cursed the day she had persuaded the Chicago Space Mirror that there would be all sorts of human interest stories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered. Not that there weren't enough humans around, it was the interest that was in doubt. The large hall was crammed with energetic dark-suited men of whom a disproportionately large number were bald, wore glasses, were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had Slavic or Scandinavian features, and talked foreign languages. They yakked interminably. The only ones who didn't were scurrying individuals with the eager-zombie look of officials. Chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational ritual and still smaller folding sets in which Question: What is the significance of Sandra persuading her paper into letting her write human interest stories? How does this affect the text’s composition? Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> -The human interest stories provide a structure for the story to sit on. As Doc introduces her to each chess player, their backstories help to unpack the significance of the chess tournament.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The story uses the Doc character to help paint a portrait of what Sandra cannot understand. Namely, the world of chess. (B) The story uses the chess player characters to help paint a portrait of what Sandra cannot understand. Namely, chess. (C) The story uses Doc to hide the presence of Dr. Krakatower, the Frenchman responsible for defeating the WBM machines. (D) The story uses the machine’s astonishing capabilities to distract from the true interest of the story: the human intellect’s ability to conquer computers. THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE by FRITZ LEIBER The machine was not perfect. It could be tricked. It could make mistakes. And—it could learn! Silently, so as not to shock anyone with illusions about well dressed young women, Sandra Lea Grayling cursed the day she had persuaded the Chicago Space Mirror that there would be all sorts of human interest stories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered. Not that there weren't enough humans around, it was the interest that was in doubt. The large hall was crammed with energetic dark-suited men of whom a disproportionately large number were bald, wore glasses, were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had Slavic or Scandinavian features, and talked foreign languages. They yakked interminably. The only ones who didn't were scurrying individuals with the eager-zombie look of officials. Chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational ritual and still smaller folding sets in which the pieces were the tiny magnetized disks used for playing in free-fall. There were signs featuring largely mysterious combinations of letters: FIDE, WBM, USCF, USSF, USSR and UNESCO. Sandra felt fairly sure about the last three. The many clocks, bedside table size, would have struck a familiar note except that they had little red flags and wheels sprinkled Question: Which mode of exposition affects the story’s plot? Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> The story uses the Doc character to help paint a portrait of what Sandra cannot understand. Namely, the world of chess.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Doc and Sandra. (B) Ambrose Bierce and Edgar Allen Poe. (C) Sandra and Dr. Krakatower. (D) Edgar Allen Poe and Sandra. THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE by FRITZ LEIBER The machine was not perfect. It could be tricked. It could make mistakes. And—it could learn! Silently, so as not to shock anyone with illusions about well dressed young women, Sandra Lea Grayling cursed the day she had persuaded the Chicago Space Mirror that there would be all sorts of human interest stories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered. Not that there weren't enough humans around, it was the interest that was in doubt. The large hall was crammed with energetic dark-suited men of whom a disproportionately large number were bald, wore glasses, were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had Slavic or Scandinavian features, and talked foreign languages. They yakked interminably. The only ones who didn't were scurrying individuals with the eager-zombie look of officials. Chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational ritual and still smaller folding sets in which the pieces were the tiny magnetized disks used for playing in free-fall. There were signs featuring largely mysterious combinations of letters: FIDE, WBM, USCF, USSF, USSR and UNESCO. Sandra felt fairly sure about the last three. The many clocks, bedside table size, would have struck a familiar note except that they had little red flags and wheels sprinkled over their faces and they were all in pairs, two clocks to a case. That Siamese-twin clocks should be essential to a chess tournament struck Sandra as a particularly maddening circumstance. Her last assignment had been to interview the pilot pair riding the first American manned circum-lunar satellite—and the five alternate pairs Question: According to the story, which famous writers have written about chess in the past?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Ambrose Bierce and Edgar Allen Poe.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) To make him use his senses. (B) To make him feel at home. (C) To make him use his space suit. (D) To make him feel confused. THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prison cell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no business in it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jump from Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCray was ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there were any, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightings were made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuth angles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beacon stars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed the locking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he had done it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigel and Saiph... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with a collection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapes and a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over something that rocked under his feet and fell against something that clattered hollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelled dangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, right through his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touched it. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Not quite utter silence. Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was something like a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He Question: What is the purpose of the strange objects in Herrell’s cell?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> To make him feel at home.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) The Old Ones have captured one of their probers. (B) The Old Ones are not happy with the kind of science Hatcher is conducting. (C) The Old Ones need Hatcher’s data on the human specimen. (D) The Old Ones must be given a human tribute soon. THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prison cell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no business in it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jump from Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCray was ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there were any, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightings were made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuth angles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beacon stars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed the locking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he had done it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigel and Saiph... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with a collection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapes and a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over something that rocked under his feet and fell against something that clattered hollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelled dangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, right through his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touched it. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Not quite utter silence. Somewhere, just at the Question: Why is the supervising council worried about the Old Ones? Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> The Old Ones have captured one of their probers.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) No, Humans lack the organs that make Hatcher’s race smarter. (B) No, Hatcher’s race is far more intelligent. (C) Yes, but their intelligences operate differently. (D) Yes, but humans absorb intelligence through concepts while Hatcher’s race absorbs intelligence through light. THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prison cell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no business in it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jump from Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCray was ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there were any, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightings were made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuth angles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beacon stars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed the locking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he had done it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigel and Saiph... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with a collection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapes and a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over something that rocked under his feet and fell against something that clattered hollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelled dangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, right through his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touched it. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Not quite utter silence. Somewhere, Question: Is Herrell as intelligent as Hatcher? Why or why not? Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Yes, but their intelligences operate differently.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) It distresses him to the point of leaving the cell in order to find the woman. (B) It distresses him to the point of risking what wearing the space suit will do to him. (C) It distresses him to the point of breaking out of the cell. (D) The woman’s distress inspires him to break out of the cell. THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prison cell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no business in it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jump from Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCray was ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there were any, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightings were made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuth angles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beacon stars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed the locking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he had done it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigel and Saiph... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with a collection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapes and a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over something that rocked under his feet and fell against something that clattered hollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelled dangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, right through his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touched it. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Not quite Question: What effect does Stage Two have on Herrell?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> It distresses him to the point of breaking out of the cell.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) Because the radio transmits faster than the speed of light, the lag indicates Herrell is nearly 400 lightyears away from his ship. (B) Because the radio transmits faster than the speed of light, the lag indicates Herrell is too far from his ship to ever be rescued. (C) Because the radio transmits faster than the speed of light, the lag indicates Herrell is nearly 500 light years away from his ship. (D) Because the radio transmits only a bit slower than the speed of light, the lag indicates Herrell is only 500 light years away from his ship. THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prison cell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no business in it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jump from Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCray was ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there were any, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightings were made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuth angles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beacon stars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed the locking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he had done it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigel and Saiph... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with a collection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapes and a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over something that rocked under his feet and fell against something that clattered hollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelled dangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched Question: What is the meaning of the lag between Herell’s radio and the Jodrell Bank?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> Because the radio transmits faster than the speed of light, the lag indicates Herrell is nearly 500 light years away from his ship.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) To speak (B) To sigh (C) To panic (D) To breathe THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prison cell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no business in it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jump from Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCray was ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there were any, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightings were made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuth angles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beacon stars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed the locking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he had done it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigel and Saiph... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with a collection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapes and a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over something that rocked under his feet and fell against something that clattered hollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelled dangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, right through his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touched it. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Not quite utter silence. Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was something like a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He s Question: What does hatcher mean when he says, “to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organs in his breathing passage.”  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> To speak<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) To trust mathematics and instrument readings for the greater good of exploring the cosmos. (B) To have a quick wit sharp enough to parse the problem of becoming a captive. (C) To trust mathematics and instrument readings more than common sense. (D) To have a quick wit fast enough to escape the deadly trials of Hatcher’s Stage Two. THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prison cell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no business in it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jump from Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCray was ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there were any, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightings were made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuth angles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beacon stars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed the locking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he had done it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigel and Saiph... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with a collection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapes and a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over something that rocked under his feet and fell against something that clattered hollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelled dangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, right through his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touched it. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No Question: What does it mean to be a navigator?  Answer:<extra_id_0>

<extra_id_0> To trust mathematics and instrument readings more than common sense.<extra_id_1>

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Text: (A) A human female (B) Hatcher’s specimen (C) The Jordell Bank (D) A human male THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prison cell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no business in it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jump from Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCray was ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there were any, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightings were made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuth angles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beacon stars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed the locking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he had done it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigel and Saiph... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with a collection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapes and a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over something that rocked under his feet and fell against something that clattered hollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelled dangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, right through his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touched it. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Not quite utter silence. Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was something like a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat as still as he Question: What is the image Hatcher’s team sees on the viewing consul?  Answer:<extra_id_0>.

<extra_id_0> A human female<extra_id_1>