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

<passage>:
There were two pinkish, bipedal fishermen on the tiny was a question as to which was which. planet was a repetition of the two before it, a nine-hour intermission 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 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. wish you'd let me break up the show this time with a dis-beam. This butchery gets on my nerves." 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 "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?" Gibson answered him with an older problem, his square face puzzled. "For that matter, what became of the city I saw when we came in through the stratosphere? It must be a tremendous thing, yet we've searched the 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. "There never was a city here, Gib," Stryker said. "You dozed off while we were making planetfall, that's all." Gibson stiffened resentfully, but Farrell's voice cut his protest short. "Get set! Here they come!" forest, ignoring the Earthmen, and lined the casting ledges along the beach to begin their day's fishing. "Nothing we've seen yet could have built that city," Gibson said stubbornly. "But it's here somewhere, and I'm going to find it. Will something overlooked prodded irritatingly at the back of his consciousness, but it was not until drowsiness had finally overtaken him that the discrepancy assumed definite form. He recalled then that on the first day of the completed itself with automatic logic, almost rousing Farrell out of his doze. " cubicle and broke a packaged meal from the food locker. The visicom over the control board hummed softly, its screen blank on open channel. "Gibson found his lost city yet?" Farrell asked, and grinned when Stryker snorted. He's got that phantom city on the brain, and he lacks the imagination to 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." snoring drifted to him, a sound faintly irritating against the velvety hush outside. Farrell lit his pipe and turned to the inconsistencies he had uncovered. It occurred to him then that there had been two of the pink fishers on 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 of transportation that placed the Arzians in pairs on the islet, when his whole fabric of speculation fell into a tangled snarl of inconsistencies. He gave it up finally how could any Earthman rationalize the outlandish compulsions that actuated so alien a race? his restlessness. He made his decision abruptly, laying aside the "Damn Terran Regulations," he muttered. "I've got to know ." but for some seconds his shuttling mind was too busy to consider the danger of predicament. , he thought. That sting in my shoulder was like a hypo needle. Panic seized him again when he remembered the green flying-lizards more and the empty carrier rack in the bow told him that Gibson had not yet returned with the scouter. He grew aware then that sensation was returning to him slowly, that the Worn out by his work, Stryker had made certain that he would not be easily disturbed. Gibson's. "Farrell! What the devil are you doing on that butcher's block?" Farrell fought down an insane desire to laugh. "Never mind that—get here fast, Gib! The flying-lizards—" with shock-born lucidity: I wanted a backstage look at this show, and now I'm one of the cast instantly he heard the shrilling blast of its emergency bow jets as Gibson met the lizard swarm head on. Gibson's voice came tinnily from the audicom. "Scattered them for the moment, Arthur—blinded the whole crew with the exhaust, I think. Stand fast, now. I'm going to pick you up." The scouter settled on the outcrop beside Farrell, so close that the hot wash of its exhaust gases scorched his bare legs. Gibson put out thick brown arms and hauled him inside like a straw man, ignoring the native. The scouter darted for shore with Farrell lying across Gibson's knees in of the octopods were swimming strongly for shore, holding the rigid "Gib," Farrell croaked. "Gib, can you risk a look back? I think I've gone mad." The scouter swerved briefly as Gibson looked back. "You're all right, Arthur. Just hang on tight. I'll explain everything when we get you safe in the ." Farrell forced himself to relax, more relieved than alarmed by the painful pricking of returning sensation. "I might have known it, damn you," he said. "You found your lost city, didn't you?" Gibson sounded a little disgusted, as if he were still angry with himself over some private stupidity. "I'd have found it sooner if I'd Marco Four , Gibson routed Stryker out of his cubicle and mixed drinks around, leaving Farrell comfortably relaxed in the padded control chair. The paralysis was still wearing off slowly, easing Farrell's fear of being permanently disabled. "Are cattle, or less," Gibson finished. "The octopods are the dominant deliberately, like worms on a hook—angling in reverse! No wonder I couldn't spot their motivation!" Gibson got up and sealed the port, shutting out the soft morning breeze. "Colonization being out of the question, we may as well move on before 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>:
Based on the reading, of the three main characters who should you want to go on an expedition with the least, and why?

<options>:
A Gibson. He's so independent that he's not one for teamwork and it teamwork makes adventures more fun.
B Farrell. He's a useful crew member, but he doesn't think things through to a dangerous degree.
C Stryker. He's the captain and he knows a lot, but he's fairly rude to his subordinates.
D Gibson. He's a know it all; though he may be right often, it's a frustrating personality trait to deal with.

<answer>:

B