The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town. He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom. Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill. When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?" One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth. Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door. "Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." Question: Marlin felt like: Options: - The farmers were intelligent - not enough information - He is too old to look for Kraamer - The whiskey was bad === The correct answer is
He is too old to look for Kraamer

Out of boredom, two scientists from the New Contagious Diseases Research Centre devised themselves a new game. One day, as a result of the suspension of a research project dealing with a dynamically mutating vaccine following the pattern of the eyesocket flu bacillus, they had absolutely nothing to do until the end of the day, because the boss didn't order them to wash test-tubes. They decided to play a game of hockey under the microscope. For a puck they used one of the millions of experimental bacillus, and one-arm pincettes, which as it happened also resembled hockey sticks, served as sticks. The bacillus was not happy with it at all. It wanted to rest after an exhausting task involving vaccine discouragement, and these whitecoats here planned to put it to work yet again. And this time the work was much more labor-intensive and even more exhausting than before, but the condition and health of the tired bacillus not as good as in the times of youth, about two hours ago. The scientists got excited. On a microscope slide they etched a hockey rink with laser, agreed on the rules, connected the microscope's camera to the big screen display and played until the morning. They had to change pucks several times, but that was fine, they had millions of them in stock. The next day they didn't have anything to do either and they continued to play. They even invited other colleagues and the popularity of the game was so huge they could afford to play it in a championship system. Soon, the games were joined by the guys from the car-repair garage next door. They were tough opponents and even tougher fans - they took from the lab and carried away with them several flasks and some equipment, as it turned out - to set up their own game station in pit number 5. Question: Who played hockey? Options: - not enough information - The microscope - Their boss - The scientists === The correct answer is
The scientists

Marnie Sleightholme was well chuffed when she got the chance to be carnival queen, and she couldn't give a shit if it was true what folk were saying about her only getting picked because she'd had her right arm ripped off. Ever since the accident, Deborah Bullock had been using twice as much make-up to disguise her rage. Marnie being picked as carnival queen had only made her pile it on even thicker. Deborah Bullock told anyone who would listen how it was a complete piss-take to give the job to a cripple. 'Imagine getting a wedding cake covered in frosty decorations and shit like that, but it's already got a big chunk bitten out of it. Well, that's exactly how it is.' Deborah Bullock had dreamed of being carnival queen since more or less the start of primary school. She used to tear their pictures out of the newspaper and dress up to look like them, and tell Marnie she never could because she was too fat and ugly even to pretend. It was Deborah Bullock's on-off boyfriend who'd been driving the car Marnie had been sitting in when it veered off the road and crashed into a tree halfway down Back South Lane. It was pointless trying to hide the truth. There was only one reason anybody went down Back South Lane at that time of night, and the flashing blue lights illuminated the exact location for the whole town to see. When Marnie came round in a hospital bed, the first face she saw was Deborah Bullock's. She felt an ache in her side and blinked her eyes. The room was bare and cold. There was an empty chair in the corner. Deborah Bullock slapped some cheap flowers down on the bed and leaned in. She smelled of talcum powder and nicotine. 'Do you want the good news or the bad news? The good news is you've finally lost some weight. The bad news is, they've chopped your right arm off. So you're still a fat bitch.' Question: Marnie was probably disliked by Deborah for: Options: - many years - few hours - not enough information - few minutes === The correct answer is
many years