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

<passage>:
Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns to give him the key to the ancient city of Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of robots that made desires instant commands. didn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-feared Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, and young, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather, and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw. "I don't understand," Syme said. Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyes even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his hands on it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite, glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not be the transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into the overhead. Syme looked up, after his first appraising glance about the away. Except for him, the platform was empty. Syme loosened his slim, some slight sound, or by the breath of Syme's passage in the still instinctive gesture. But the blow never landed. Syme's pistol spat its Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it into little and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Gritting his teeth, he brought the magnificent muscles of his arm into Wordlessly, the man clasped thin fingers around his wrist. The other pulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managed Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. His hair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and a humorous wide mouth. He was still panting. cafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had just , he took it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. There 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 , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morning he'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, there were always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, and "Sure," said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AG delicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilk after them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glow of Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense, a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something big was coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector. Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms, he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had been right it was big. Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remaining city of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, had risen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines, the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectly preserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how many scientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed it from every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robots that still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then they and what is more, he had found a force that would break it down. hours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to Syme Rector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand credits 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 "They're unpredictable," Syme told him. "They're built differently, and way." "Yes, I've heard about that," Tate said. "Iron oxide—very interesting Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuous deserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line to their crazy language. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen different things, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some, "They might Syme stopped the car abruptly as a deep, winding channel appeared he offered. "It seems to go more or less where we're going, and if we cross it we'll only come to a couple dozen more." again and the cable reeled in. Tate had been watching with interest. "Very ingenious," he said. "But "Most of these gullies peter out gradually," said Syme, "but if we want almost-black sky visible from the floor of the gully, and shook his 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 caught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gully toward them. "My God!" he said. "What are those?" Syme looked. "Those," he said bitterly, "are Martians." Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but he "Come on," Syme said grimly. He rose and reached for a pressure suit, and more solid. Finally, when Syme estimated they were about nine phosphorescent gleam from fungus along the walls, but Syme couldn't Syme swore amazedly. "I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial," Tate said. Syme several thousand years." 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 right," he said. "The language you and your fellows struggled to learn is a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you." Tate looked interested. "But why this—this gigantic masquerade?" "Never mind that," Syme broke in impatiently. "What do you want with It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yet must have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood, holding himself in check with an effort. of justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish to know." Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side of 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 we progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science they remained its slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. "You see," he finished gently, "our deception has caused a natural "Will our two races ever live together in amity?" Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down the Martian. It was like tangling with a draft horse. The Martian was astonishingly strong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn't 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 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. the rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then dropped the weapon from blistered fingers. Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. He 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

<question>:
Of the following options, which best describe Syme Rector?

<options>:
A Strong and nice
B Bold and calculated
C Bold and kind
D Impressive and lucky

<answer>:

B