Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
, mind you—gold. Back in those days, to be a colonist meant to be a rugged individual. And to be a rugged individual meant to not give a damn one way or another. And to not give a damn one way or another meant to make one hell of a mess on the placid face of Mars. There had not been any gold found, of course, and now, for the most part, the mining shacks so hastily thrown up were only fever scars were still occupied, like the one into which the Martian boy had just disappeared. So his instead, of something quite astonishing: How had it been possible for her to teach, and for him to whistle? All Martians are as tone-deaf as a bucket of lead. I answered: "As a matter of fact, I don't want to see didn't know you lived here and I don't know who you are. I'm not even interested in who you are. It's the little boy who just went in here that I was interested in. The little Martian boy, I mean." Her eyes spread as though somebody had put fingers on her lids at the outside corners and then cruelly jerked them apart. been bright, moist marbles glued above her cheeks. She said one word only: "Well?" "Nothing," I answered. "Except that Martians are supposed to be tone-deaf, aren't they? It's something lacking in their sense of perhaps, and more simply, it was her attitude in general. But whatever it was, I suddenly felt that, nosy or not, I was being treated shabbily. "I would like to speak to the Martian lady," I said. "There isn't any Martian lady." "There has and at the same time curiously defiant—as though she would dare me to tumbled to what she meant. Her eyes were telling me that the little Martian boy wasn't a little marriages. Or at least I had thought there weren't. Physically, spiritually, mentally, or by any other standard you can think of, compared to a human male the Martian isn't anything you'd want around the house. I finally said: "So that is why he is able to whistle." inside her. "There isn't anything to be ashamed of," I said gently. "Back on Earth I stopped. I wanted to ask her if she was starving by slow degrees and needed help. Lord knows the careworn look about her didn't show it was luxurious living she was doing—at least not lately. "Look," I said suddenly. "Would you like to go home to Earth? I could fix—" to rifle through pictures. I didn't find the woman, but I did find the man. "Wanted, isn't he?" He nodded. "But a lot of good that'll do. He's holed up somewhere back on Earth." something which struck me as somewhat more than odd. I had idly listened to a little half-breed Martian boy whistling part of the William Tell Overture, and it had led me to a wanted killer I spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to get a lead on him and got nowhere. If he was hiding in any of the places I went to, then he was doing it with mirrors, for on Mars an Authority Card is the big stick than which there is no bigger. Not solely is it a warrant, it is a commandeer of help from anyone to whom it is presented more than a ghoul, you don't. Not finding him wasn't especially alarming. What was alarming, though, was not finding the Earthwoman and her little half-breed Martian son when I went back to the tumbledown shack where they lived. It was empty. She had moved fast. She hadn't even left me a note saying good-by. That night I went into the Great Northern desert to the Haremheb Reservation, where the Martians still try to act like Martians. It was Festival night, and when I got there they were doing the dance to the two moons. At times like this you want to leave the Martians alone. With that thought in mind, I pinned my Authority Card to my Martians dig a huge circular trench and fill it with dried roots of the belu the sinuously undulating movements, and I thought, as I have often thought before, that this is the one thing the Martians can still do beautifully. Which, in a sad sort of way, is a commentary on the way things have gone since the first rocket-blasting ship set down on these prefer—of the old, old pumps whose shafts go so tirelessly down into the planet for such pitifully thin streams of water. "I'm looking for an Earthwoman," I said. "This particular Earthwoman took a Martian for a husband." "That is impossible," he grunted bitterly. "I would have said so, too," I agreed. "Until this afternoon, that is." went in a hurry—a very great hurry." That one he didn't answer, either. "I would like to know where she is." "Why?" His whisper was brittle. "She's not in trouble," I told him quickly. "She's not wanted. Nor her "Why?" I nodded. "For murder." "Murder." He spat the word. "But not for the murder of a Martian, eh? Martians are not that important any more." His old eyes hated me with an intensity I didn't relish. He said at last: "I do not know where the woman is. Nor the child." only bores a Martian. I got up and went out of the tent. The woman never heard me approach. Her eyes were toward the flaming I ignored that. "Why did you pull out of that shack? I told you you had nothing to fear from me." She didn't answer. "I'm looking for the man you saw me talking with this morning," I went on. "Lady, he's wanted. And this thing, on my lapel is an Authority Card. Assuming you know what it means, I'm asking you where he is." "What man?" Her words were flat. If that meant anything to her, I couldn't tell. In the flickering light from the fires, subtle changes in expression weren't easily detected. "Why should I care about an Earthman? My husband was a Martian. And he's dead, see? Dead. Just a Martian. Not fit for anything, like all Martians. Just a bum who fell in love with an Earthwoman and had the guts to marry her. Do you understand? So somebody murdered him for it. Ain't that pretty? Ain't that something to make you throw back your Or, simply, it was the face of a woman who wanted to kill the killer of her man. And I knew then the reason for old Wahanhk's bitterness when he had said to me, "But not for the murder of a Martian, eh? Martians are not that important any more." What I said then probably sounded as weak as it really was: "I'm sorry, She didn't answer. She didn't have to answer. My guesses can be as good as anybody's. After a long while she looked up into my eyes. "His name was Tahily," she said. "He had the secret. He knew where the gold vein was. And soon, in a couple of years maybe, when all the prospectors were gone and he knew it would be safe, he was going to stake a claim and go after it. For us. For the three of us." I sighed. There wasn't, isn't, never will be any gold on this planet. But who in the name of God could have the heart to ruin a dream like that? choice. And I thought I knew the reason for his going. Several times in the past, there have been men who, bitten with the fever of an idea that somewhere on this red planet there must be gold, have done prospecting among the ruins of the old temples. He had probably heard that there were men there now, and he was carrying out sand-worn path. The temple stones stood out barren and dry-looking, like breast bones from the desiccated carcass of an animal. For a

<question>:
Why doesn’t the woman want to go back to Earth?

<options>:
A She doesn't have a way of getting back to Earth.
B She wants to find her husband’s killer.
C She can't afford to go back to Earth.
D She wants to look for gold on Mars.

<answer>:

B