For three weeks, Dr. Hallowell had stared at the sonar readouts of the Mariana Trench as if they were a personal insult. She rarely spoke to the rest of the crew, opting instead to take her meals at the navigation console, her fork hovering mid-air while her eyes tracked the green sweeps of the screen. As her research assistant, my duties were simple: calibrate the hydrophones, log the salinity levels, and stay out of her line of sight.
It was easy to mistake her silence for coldness, as the ship's cook often did, complaining that Hallowell lacked a human touch. But I had seen the ledger she kept under her bunk—pages filled not with cold coordinates, but with meticulous, almost poetic descriptions of the bioluminescent species we had cataloged. She wrote of the *bathylychnus* as if it were a misplaced star, a fragment of light trying to find its way home in the absolute dark. Her distance wasn't a rejection of the world, but a fierce, protective concentration. She knew that the university board was looking for any excuse to pull our funding, and any deviation from her strict protocol would give them the leverage they needed to recall the vessel. So she wore her severity like armor, guarding the quiet sanctuary of our research against the impatient demands of administrators back on land.
Which of the following best characterizes the narrator's point of view regarding Dr. Hallowell?
- A first-person observer who respects Dr. Hallowell's dedication and recognizes that her severity is a means of protecting their research.Cevap
- BThe author of the passage, who expresses frustration at the rigid academic protocols imposed by university administrators.
- CA disgruntled assistant who interprets Dr. Hallowell's silence as a sign of professional incompetence.
- DA detached observer who believes Dr. Hallowell's poetic writing style distracts her from necessary oceanographic work.