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

<passage>:
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] There were two pinkish, bipedal fishermen on the tiny islet. In order to make Izaak Walton's sport complete, there must be an angler, a fish, and some bait. All three existed on Arz but there was a question as to which was which. Marco Four's of drowsy, pastoral peace. Navigator Arthur Farrell—it was his turn to stand watch—was sitting at an open-side port with a magnoscanner ready but in spite of his vigilance he had not exposed a film when the offshore, their blank triangular faces turned stolidly toward the beach. "They're at it again," Farrell called, and dropped to the mossy turf outside. "Roll out on the double! I'm going to magnofilm this!" Stryker and Gibson came out of their sleeping cubicles reluctantly, climate. Stryker blinked and yawned as he let himself through the port, his fringe of white hair tousled and his naked paunch sweating. He looked, Farrell thought for the thousandth time, more like a retired cook than like the veteran commander of a Terran Colonies expedition. Gibson followed, stretching his powerfully-muscled body like a wrestler to throw off the effects of sleep. Gibson was linguist-ethnologist of the crew, a blocky man in his early thirties with thick black hair and heavy brows that shaded a square, humorless face. "They won't show up until the dragons come," Farrell said. He adjusted water. "You know I can't do that, Arthur. These Arzians may turn out to tampering with what may be a basic culture-pattern would amount to armed invasion. We'll have to crack that cackle-and-grunt language of theirs and learn something of their mores before we can interfere." Farrell turned an irritable stare on the incurious group of Arzians gathering, nets and fishing spears in hand, at the edge of the sheltering bramble forest. "What stumps me is their motivation," he said. "Why do the fools go out to that islet every night, when they must know damned well what will happen next morning?" beyond them by a million years." Stryker and Farrell traded baffled looks. The city had become something of a fixation with Gibson, and his dogged insistence—coupled with an irritating habit of being right—had worn their patience thin. Gibson stiffened resentfully, but Farrell's voice cut his protest short. uprushing of black, octopoid shapes. "The squids," Stryker grunted. "Right on schedule. Two seconds too late, as usual, to stop the slaughter." stubbornly. "But it's here somewhere, and I'm going to find it. Will either of you be using the scouter today?" Stryker threw up his hands. "I've a mountain of data to collate, and Arthur is off duty after standing watch last night. Help yourself, but a vague sense of something overlooked prodded irritatingly at the back of his completed itself with automatic logic, almost rousing Farrell out of his doze. "I'll be damned," he muttered. "No boats, and they don't swim. "Gibson found his lost city yet?" Farrell asked, and grinned when understand how dangerous to our assignment an obsession of that sort can be." Farrell shrugged. "I'd agree with you offhand if it weren't for Gib's bullheaded habit of being right. I hope he finds it soon, if it's here. I'll probably be standing his watch until he's satisfied." Stryker looked relieved. "Would you mind taking it tonight? I'm Later he remembered that Stryker dissolved a tablet in his glass, but at the moment it meant nothing. In a matter of minutes the older man's Farrell lit his pipe and turned to the inconsistencies he had uncovered. startled. Why two? Why not three or four, or only one? He stepped out through the open lock and paced restlessly up and down on the springy turf, feeling the ocean breeze soft on his face. Three days of dull routine logwork had built up a need for physical action that chafed his temper he was intrigued and at the same time annoyed by the That is, he thought wryly, if Terran colonists could stomach the weird custom pursued by its natives of committing suicide in pairs. He went over again the improbable drama of the past three mornings, and found it not too unnatural until he came to the motivation and the means night-birds or scurrying rodents. He had worked his way close to the center of the island without further discovery and was on the point of turning back, disgusted, when something bulky and powerful seized him lassitude swept him into a darkness deeper than the Arzian night. His last conscious thought was not of his own danger, but of Stryker—asleep and unprotected behind the Marco's For a moment he was totally disoriented then from the corner of an eye but for some seconds his shuttling mind was too busy to consider the danger of predicament. Whatever brought me here anesthetized me first , he thought. That sting in my shoulder was like a hypo needle. Panic seized him again when he remembered the green flying-lizards more seconds passed before he gained control of himself, sweating with the belt and call Stryker.... He bent every ounce of his will toward raising his right hand, and failed. Marco Four returned with the scouter. He grew aware then that sensation was returning to him slowly, that the against the inner curve of his elbow. He bent his will again toward motion this time the arm tensed a little, enough to send hope flaring through him. If he could put pressure enough against the stud.... !" The audicom hummed gently, without answer. He gathered himself for another shout, and recalled with a chill of horror the tablet Stryker had mixed into his nightcap the night before. Worn out by his work, Stryker had made certain that he would not be easily disturbed. "Farrell! What the devil are you doing on that butcher's block?" Farrell fought down an insane desire to laugh. "Never mind that—get with shock-born lucidity: I wanted a backstage look at this show, and now I'm one of the cast . Farrell had a last dizzy glimpse of the islet against the rush of green of the octopods were swimming strongly for shore, holding the rigid Arzian native carefully above water between them. ." Farrell forced himself to relax, more relieved than alarmed by the Marco Four drinks around, leaving Farrell comfortably relaxed in the padded control chair. The paralysis was still wearing off slowly, easing Farrell's fear men or by a manlike race, judging from the architecture—and was submerged later by a sinking of land masses that killed off the original took over then, and from all appearances they've developed a culture of their own." fishers—" "Are cattle, or less," Gibson finished. "The octopods are the dominant race, and they're so far above Fifth Order that we're completely out of a couple of victims for this morning's show, that carried you off last night." "Behold a familiar pattern shaping up," Stryker said. He laughed world, Arthur, don't you see? And like most civilized peoples, they're sportsmen. The flying-lizards are the game they hunt, and they raise the pink fishers for—" deliberately, like worms on a hook—angling in reverse! No wonder I couldn't spot their motivation!" the octopods get curious enough about us to make trouble. Do you feel up to the acceleration, Arthur?" Farrell and Stryker looked at each other, grinning. Farrell said: "You don't think I want to stick here and be used for bait again, do you?" He and Stryker were still grinning over it when Gibson, unamused, blasted the Marco Four

<question>:
Of the following options, which traits best describe Arthur Farrell?

<options>:
A witty and considerate
B smart and reckless
C stubborn and talkative
D calculated and cautious

<answer>:

B