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

<passage>:
They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of the crashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But they didn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-feared raider in the System. In that was his only advantage. Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, and started to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quite young, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather, and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. "All right," the boy said quietly. "What is it?" even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his hands silent figure. It was over in a minute. The boy whirled as he came up, warned by "Are you all right?" hair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and a humorous wide mouth. He was still panting. culcha , he it was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and even friendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It was the culcha , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morning were always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, and it was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall, "Lissen," said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped, in its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of their delicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilk after them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glow of culcha inside him. Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms, right it was big. had tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated a bloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapid Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identical on his sleek, tigerish head. Syme's smile was not tigerish now it was carefully, studiedly mild. For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should not "This is native territory we're coming to, Harold," he said. "Better "Why. Are they really dangerous?" "They're unpredictable," Syme told him. "They're built differently, and they think differently. They breathe like us, down in their caverns where there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen that eat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off the deserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line to xopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they never come near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial. their crazy language. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen different "So you think they might attack us?" Tate asked again, nervously. sliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down again on the other side. Tate peered through the steelite nose of the car. "Follow, I guess," again and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. "Very ingenious," he said. "But head. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of their Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tate said, "I guess we walk from here on." Then he looked up again and caught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gully toward them. The natives, like all Martian fauna, were multi-legged. Also like all Martian fauna, they moved so fast that you couldn't see how many legs a valve arrangement from the stomach and feeding directly into the bloodstream. Their faces were vaguely canine, but the foreheads were high, and the or, conversely, the black could be expanded to cover the white, which Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but he and Tate followed him. "What do you think they'll—" he began, and then stopped himself. "I know. They're unpredictable." into the near-vacuum outside, and he and Tate stepped out. and more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about nine "There's air here," he said to Tate. "I can see dust motes in it." He He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy face was expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. "Yes, you're Tate looked interested. "But why this—this gigantic masquerade?" Tate frowned, then flushed. "You mean you avoided revealing yourselves Tate thought again. "But—" "No," the Martian interrupted him, "revealing the extent of our civilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yours is an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether you thought you were taking it from equals or not." must have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood, holding himself in check with an effort. "Will you tell us why?" Tate asked. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparently "I think I see," Tate said thoughtfully. "That's been the ultimate aim one." "Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not a separate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not our ancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors." our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies to the new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problem was an evasion they remained static. Our answer was the true one, for its slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. "You see," he finished gently, "our deception has caused a natural confusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we." "And yet," Tate mused, "you are being destroyed by contact with Tate stood up, his face very white. "Tell me one thing," he begged. "Will our two races ever live together in amity?" The Martian lowered his head. "That is for unborn generations." He looked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. "You are a brave man," he said. "I am sorry." Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down the sights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage in swift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Every muscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged with Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like the trapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithely all the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths, seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes, dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top of his powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed down Only then did he turn, to see Tate flattened against the wall behind him, his hands empty at his sides. "I'm sorry," Tate said miserably. "I to save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us." Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. He He led the way, wordlessly, back to the wrecked sand car. Tate followed him with a hangdog, beaten air, as though he had just found something that shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, and didn't know what to do about it. Still silently, Syme refilled his oxygen tank, watched Tate do the suitcase and handed one of the tanks to Tate. Then he stumped around

<question>:
Of the following options, which best describe Harold Tate?

<options>:
A brave and calculated
B kind and generous
C curious and timid
D greedy and brave

<answer>:

C