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

<passage>:
When everything is either restricted, confidential or top-secret, a Reader is a very bad security risk. the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] , whispered the antique clock on the first There was no sound save for the ticking—and for the pounding of He stood alone in his upstairs bedroom. His slender-boned, eight-year-old body trembling, perspiration glittering on his white wanted to sink into its deep silence, to become one with it, to escape He bit his lip hard, shook his head. No. No matter what Dad might do, it wasn't right to wish— were like a web of taut-drawn wires. please don't tell Daddy what I did. There was a droning, indistinct murmur. what ?" when Dad was coming home. And Dad, handsome in his night-black, skin-tight Pentagon uniform, had become a hostile stranger with narrowed eyes of black fire. "Is it true, Ronnie?" asked Dad. "Were you really—really reading a book?" "Tell me all about it, son. Where did you get the book? Who taught you to read?" Ronnie tried to keep his legs from shaking. "It was—Daddy, you won't offer him a job. Why, the whole town knows he's a Reader!" You promised you wouldn't get angry." "You went to that A moment of silence. "Go on," said Dad sternly. "And I—and Mr. Davis said he'd teach me to read them if I promised not to tell anybody. So he taught me a little every day after school—oh, Dad, books are fun to read. They tell you things you can't see on the video or hear on the tapes." words were as ominous as the low growl of thunder: "Maybe I've never really explained things to you, Ronnie. You see, you won't always be a boy. Someday you'll have to find a way of making a living. You've only two choices: You work for the government, like I do, or for a corporation." Ronnie blinked. "Mr. Davis doesn't work for the gover'ment or for a corpor-ation." "Mr. Davis isn't normal," Dad snapped. "He's a hermit. No decent family would let him in their house. He grows his own food and sometimes he takes care of gardens for people. I want you to have more than that. I want you to have a nice home and be respected by people." "And you can't get ahead if people know you've been a Reader. That's something you can't live down. No matter how hard you try, people always stumble upon the truth." Dad cleared his throat. "You see, when you get a job, all the information you handle will have a classification. It'll be Restricted, Low-Confidential, Confidential, High-Confidential, Secret, Top-Secret. And all this information will be in writing. No matter what you do, you'll have access to some of this information at one time or another." "B—but why do these things have to be so secret?" Ronnie asked. "Because of competitors, in the case of corporations—or because of enemy nations in the case of government work. The written material you might have access to could describe secret weapons and new processes or plans for next year's advertising—maybe even a scheme for, er, liquidation of a rival. If all facts and policies were made public, there might be criticism, controversy, opposition by certain groups. The less people know about things, the better. So we have to keep all these things secret." Ronnie scowled. "But if things are written down, someone has to read them, don't they?" "Sure, son. One person in ten thousand might reach the point where his corporation or bureau will teach him to read. But you prove your ability and loyalty first. By the time you're 35 or 40, they might want you to learn to read. But for young people and children—well, it just isn't done. Why, the President himself wasn't trusted to learn till he was nearly fifty!" Dad straightened his shoulders. "Look at me. I'm only 30, but I've been a messenger for Secret material already. In a few years, if things go well, I should be handling Top -Secret stuff. And who knows? Maybe by the time I'm 50 I'll be giving orders instead of carrying them. Then I'll learn to read, too. That's the right way to do it." Ronnie shifted uncomfortably on the hassock. "But can't a Reader get a job that's not so important. Like a barber or a plumber or—" "Don't you understand? The barber and plumbing equipment corporations set up their stores and hire men to work for them. You think they'd hire a Reader? People'd say you were a spy or a subversive or that you're crazy like old man Davis." and—" at school. Ronnie, don't you realize I'd lose my job if people knew I had a Reader for a son?" "B—but, Daddy—" Please—" this. I thought maybe Ronnie could have a few private psychiatric treatments. They can do wonderful things now—permi-hypnosis, creations of artificial psychic blocks. A memory-wash would mean that Ronnie'd have the mind of a six-year-old child again. He'd have to start to can't keep a two-year memory-wash a secret. I never thought of that before. Why, that alone would mean the end of my promotions." Silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the ticking of the antique clock. All movement seemed frozen, as if the room lay at the psychiatrist or maybe a psychoneurologist. A few short treatments—" Dad interrupted: "But he'd remember how to read, unconsciously anyway. Even permi-hypnosis would wear off in time. The boy can't keep going to psychiatrists for the rest of his life." Thoughtfully he laced his fingers together. "Edith, what kind of a book was he reading?" A tremor passed through Mom's slender body. "There were three books on his bed. I'm not sure which one he was actually reading." "No, dear, not yet." "Why not?" "I don't know. Ronnie seemed to like them so much. I thought that maybe tonight, after you d seen them—" "Get them, damn it. Let's burn the filthy things." "Edith, I think I know why Ronnie wanted to read, why he fell into the trap so easily." That clock of your great-great-grandmother's. Those old prints on the wall. That stamp collection you started for Ronnie—stamps dated way back to the 1940's." "You've interested Ronnie in old things. To a child in its formative things. It was natural for him to be attracted by books. And we were He seized one of the books on the hassock. "Edith," he said crisply, "just what was Ronnie reading? What's the name of this book?" Tarzan of The Apes. "Who's the author?" The Wizard of Oz. " "Who wrote it?" you can read !" read a book, haven't even looked at one since we were married. I've Mom continued, "I—I learned when I was just a girl. I was young like did you want to read, Edith? Why? " "I wanted to read," she said, her voice firm and proud, "because, as Ronnie said, it's fun. The video's nice, with its dancers and lovers and Indians and spacemen—but sometimes you want more than that. Her words echoed in the room until absorbed by the ceaseless, ticking At last he said, "Get out." "Get out. Both of you. You can send for your things later. I never want "I said !" They came to a small, rough-boarded house in the deep shadow of an

<question>:
Under what circumstances were people allowed to read?

<options>:
A If they were wealthy enough
B When they reached an old enough age
C Reading religious material was permitted
D If they were employed by the government

<answer>:

B