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

<passage>:
shrieking with a message. The next it was gone. But it left tailings, like the echo of a death cry slowly floating back over the dead body of Every boy should be able to whistle, except, couldn't be sure if he were carrying it, or it carrying him . He came whistling. All little boys whistle. To little boys, whistling The first was that he was a Martian little boy. You could be very sure do not—and he most certainly didn't. The second was the tune he whistled—a somehow familiar tune, but one which I should have thought not very appealing to a little boy. He stopped whistling and he stopped walking, both at the same time, as though he had pulled a switch or turned a tap that shut them off. Then he lifted his little head and stared up into my eyes. "The what "My mother taught me." I blinked at him. He didn't blink back. His round little face still held no expression, but if it had, I knew it would have matched the title of the tune he whistled. He nodded grave agreement. "Been after butterflies, I see. I'll bet you didn't get any. This is the wrong season." The light in his eyes snapped off. "Well, good-by," he said abruptly and very relevantly. they had left off. I mean the note he resumed on was the note which followed the one interrupted mechanical little boy. When he was almost out of sight, I took off after him, wondering. The house he went into was over in that crumbling section which forms a curving boundary line, marking the limits of those frantic and ugly original mine-workings made many years ago by the early colonists. It disappeared. So his mother had taught him the William Tell Overture, had she? wasn't young any more, either. "Well? And what did I do now?" at all. I 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 to somewhere else in the house. Nowhere did I see the little boy. I looked once again at the woman. "What about him?" she whispered. Her eyes were still startled. I smiled reassuringly. "Nothing, lady, nothing. I'm sorry I upset you. I was just being nosy is all, and that's the truth of it. You see, the little boy went by me a while ago and he was whistling. He whistles remarkably well. I asked him what the name of the tune was and he told when he told me his mother had taught him—" I shrugged and laughed a little. "Like I said before, I guess I got just plain nosy." "There has to be, doesn't there?" I said it with little sharp prickers on the words. But she did, too: " Does there? " Martian boy at all, that he was cross-breed, a little chap who had a the house. I finally said: "So that is why he is able to whistle." somewhere and intermarried plenty since." She nodded. Somehow her eyes didn't look defiant any more. "Where's his father?" I asked. "H-he's dead." "I'm sorry. Are you all right? I mean do you get along okay and everything, now that...?" "I—" he said. I cocked a frown of my own at him. "Well, so long, mate," he grunted, and spun around and dug his toes in the sand and was away. I stood there staring at his rapidly disappearing form for a few moments and then looked back once more at "So?" he said. "Wanted, isn't he?" He nodded. "But a lot of good that'll do. He's holed up somewhere back on Earth." "No," I said. "He's right here. I just saw him." I'm not especially fussy which. Just get him!" I nodded and took the card. As I left the office, I was thinking of 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 ever lived so long—and doubtless none after him will, either. His leathery, almost purple-black skin was rough and had a charred look He didn't reply to that. "And I don't give a damn about it," I added distinctly. "I would have said so, too," I agreed. "Until this afternoon, that is." His old, dried lips began to purse and wrinkle. "I met her little son," I went on. "A little semi-human boy with Martian features. Or, if you want to turn it around and look at the other side, a little Martian boy who whistles." I nodded and smiled. "You know who I'm talking about." For a long long while he didn't answer. His eyes remained unblinking on mine and if, earlier in the day, I had thought the little boy's face was expressionless, then I didn't completely appreciate the meaning of "They disappeared from the shack they were living in," I said. "They went in a hurry—a very great hurry." That one he didn't answer, either. "She's not in trouble," I told him quickly. "She's not wanted. Nor her child, either. It's just that I have to talk to her." "This one is wanted "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. "You said that, old man, not I." 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. could still hear her quiet sobbing, and I could see the heaving of the small, thin shoulders. 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, kid. But look, just staking out in that old shack of yours and trying mean there wasn't much sense in that, now was there?" I put an arm around her shoulders. "He must have been a pretty nice figurines on the strings of a puppeteer gone mad. I looked down again at the woman. "Your little boy and his butterfly net," I said softly. "In a season when no butterflies can be found. What was that for? Was he part of the plan, too, and the net just the But who in the name of God could have the heart to ruin a dream like that? Next day I followed the little boy. He left the reservation in a cheery frame of mind, his whistle sounding loud and clear on the thin morning air. He didn't go in the direction of town, but the other way—toward him without his knowledge and I knew it. I also knew that before long he'd know it, too. And he did—but he didn't let me know he did until probably heard that there were men there now, and he was carrying out with the thoroughness of his precise little mind the job he had set himself of finding the killer of his daddy. sand-worn path. The temple stones stood out barren and dry-looking, like breast bones from the desiccated carcass of an animal. For a moment I stopped and stared down at the ruins. I didn't see the boy. He And then the whistle broke off short. One instant it was in the air,

<question>:
What is not true about the crossbreed boy?

<options>:
A He has not caught any butterflies
B He can whistle well
C His kind is common
D He misses his dad

<answer>:

C