Question:
Allan crouched over his desk once more, pen in hand and mind blank. He contemplated a story, an outline he had laboriously constructed some time ago. He had filled his pen and raised it, the nib descending towards the paper, before the sound came: the gentle, persistent tapping of the gnarled, primeval willow touching the window with long, insistent fingers. His eyes awoke with a passionate, determined flame, though the only light came from the glutted moon. Allan filled page after page, the words escaping from his mind onto the paper. Where before they had marched in regiments, practiced in ranks and followed their leaders' commands, the words now escaped in their true forms, unhindered by any stricture. He continued long into the night, until the eldritch orb had sunk into the waiting hands of the willow, raised perpetually skyward. Arthur looked up from the results of a night's frenzied labors and looked Allan in the eye. "What is this?" he queried, indicating the pages he held in his left hand. "I decided that since I wasn't having much success with more traditional stories, I might see what sort of work I produced if I let my imagination go freely," Allan replied, somewhat less self-assured than he had been the previous night. "What in G-d's name could have possessed you to do such a thing," cried Arthur, nearly raising his voice. "After all I said the day before, why have you abandoned centuries of literary progress for some self-indulgent fantasy?" He shook the papers at Allan, raising them like a belt above the head of a disobedient son. "This is nothing but a glorified Grimm's tale, a miscarried child of Stoker, a creation less fit to be published than to be told around an open fire at the hovel of some peasant!" He spoke the last word with such heavy intonation that Allan shrank back before the physical wave of sound emanating from Arthur's throat. "Do you hate the modern system of literature? Do you personally despise the works the Enlightenment or the progress made since Shakespeare?" For a moment, Allan could hardly do more than shake his head. "No, of course not I " "Then why," Arthur barreled on, "do you disregard them all and return to this superstitious babble, this morbid, paganistic drivel? After reading the above, is "5" the correct answer to the question "How many authors' surnames did Arthur mention?"? OPTIONS:
- no
- yes

Answer:
no

Input: He continued to lie in place, still breathing heavily. I tried to keep myself calm. Then, with a sigh, he said, "I have need of a certain stone that I once possessed. It would allow me to leave this bed, despite my current illness. My problem is that it was not made in this realm, but by a human, and only a human may handle it. The herb vendor will tell you where you can find it. If you would fetch me this stone, I would tell you what I can." "Of course we will fetch you the stone," Nepthys assured him. "You have our thanks." Outside, the thing at the herb cart nodded when we mentioned the stone. He told Nepthys the name of a woman who lived on a certain street, and we set off. When we reached the street, I expected some sort of temple, or a row of antiquaries, or at least a sleazy, black-market relics merchant. Instead, it looked like we were in the red-light district: women who probably wanted more than our money eyed us from the alleys. Nepthys didn't need to warn me not to speak to them. He took us to the door of a building like a short pagoda that had a sign hanging over it showing a face with hands uplifted, like a saint under G d's light, and handcuffed. Inside, the entrance room was hung with bright silks and scattered with velvet cushions. Sails of obscene orange and a green that insulted springtime hung draped across reds that might have been sensual elsewhere but here were only offensive. A large woman, similarly decorated, quickly drifted up to us. "Good evening, gentlemen," she said. "May I invite you to have a cup of tea?" "No, thank you," said Nepthys, "we regret that we cannot take up your kind offer. Are you the proprietor of this shop?" "Yes," answered the woman. "I am Madame Entera, at your service.
"Who is Madame Entera?" is "The woman in the alley"?

OPTIONS:
- no
- yes
Output: no

Input: American Airlines Flight 11: FAA Awareness. Although the Boston Center air traffic controller realized at an early stage that there was something wrong with American 11, he did not immediately interpret the plane's failure to respond as a sign that it had been hijacked. At 8:14, when the flight failed to heed his instruction to climb to 35,000 feet, the controller repeatedly tried to raise the flight. He reached out to the pilot on the emergency frequency. Though there was no response, he kept trying to contact the aircraft. At 8:21, American 11 turned off its transponder, immediately degrading the information available about the aircraft. The controller told his supervisor that he thought something was seriously wrong with the plane, although neither suspected a hijacking. The supervisor instructed the controller to follow standard procedures for handling a "no radio" aircraft. The controller checked to see if American Airlines could establish communication with American 11. He became even more concerned as its route changed, moving into another sector's airspace. Controllers immediately began to move aircraft out of its path, and asked other aircraft in the vicinity to look for American 11. At 8:24:38, the following transmission came from American 11: American 11: We have some planes. Just stay quiet, and you'll be okay. We are returning to the airport. The controller only heard something unintelligible; he did not hear the specific words "we have some planes." The next transmission came seconds later: American 11: Nobody move. Everything will be okay. If you try to make any moves, you'll endanger yourself and the airplane.

Does the response "Ordered all other plans to land" correctly answer the question "What did Controllers do after Flight 11 changed route?"?

OPTIONS:
- no
- yes
***
Output: no

Question:
Howland talked but little on their way back to camp. The scene that he had just witnessed affected him strangely; it stirred once more within him all of his old ambition, all of his old enthusiasm, and yet neither found voice in words. He was glad when the dinner was over at Thorne's, and with the going of the mail sledge and the senior engineer there came over him a still deeper sense of joy. Now _he_ was in charge, it was _his_ road from that hour on. He crushed MacDonald's hand in a grip that meant more than words when they parted. In his own cabin he threw off his coat and hat, lighted his pipe, and tried to realize just what this all meant for him. He was in charge--in charge of the greatest railroad building job on earth--_he_, Jack Howland, who less than twenty years ago was a barefooted, half-starved urchin peddling papers in the streets where he was now famous! And now what was this black thing that had come up to threaten his chances just as he had about won his great fight? He clenched his hands as he thought again of what had already happened--the cowardly attempt on his life, the warnings, and his blood boiled to fever heat. That night--after he had seen Meleese--he would know what to do. But he would not be driven away, as Gregson and Thorne had been driven. He was determined on that. After reading the above, is "Howland" the correct answer to the question "Who had an attempt made on his life?"? OPTIONS:
- no
- yes

Answer:
yes