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

<passage>:
Fiction January 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence Marco Four's Sunrise brought him alert with a jerk, frowning at sight of two pinkish, outside. "Roll out on the double! I'm going to magnofilm this!" Stryker and Gibson came out of their sleeping cubicles reluctantly, belting on the loose shorts which all three wore in the balmy Arzian 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 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." 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!" feet in length and a glistening chlorophyll green in the early light. "The squids," Stryker grunted. "Right on schedule. Two seconds too late, behind three of their number who disappeared under the surface like harpooned seals. No trace remained of the two Arzian natives. "A neat example of dog eat dog," Farrell said, snapping off the 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 either of you be using the scouter today?" He recalled then that on the first day of the Marco's had all but drowned before his fellows pulled him out with extended Then how " 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. bullheaded habit of being right. I hope he finds it soon, if it's here. the moment it meant nothing. In a matter of minutes the older man's startled. Why two? Why not three or four, or only one? he was intrigued and at the same time annoyed by the enigmatic relation that linked the Arzian fishers to the dragons and inconsistencies. He gave it up finally his restlessness. He made his decision abruptly, laying aside the know ." from behind. A sharp sting burned his shoulder, wasp-like, and a sudden overwhelming lassitude swept him into a darkness deeper than the Arzian night. His Marco's , he thought. That sting in my shoulder was like a hypo needle. Panic seized him again when he remembered the green flying-lizards more belt and call Stryker.... He bent every ounce of his will toward raising his right hand, and resting between thorn forest and beach, its silvered sides glistening with dew. The port was still open, 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 Stryker !" The audicom crackled. The voice that answered was not Stryker's, but 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 He broke off, seeing for the first time the octopods that ringed the 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 the cockpit, his head hanging half overside. "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 Marco ." 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 had any brains. It was under water, of course." In the 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. enough," Gibson said. "I realized that finally, remembering how they used high-altitude blimps during the First Wars to spot submarines, and when I took the scouter up far enough there it was, at the ocean buildings?" "None," Gibson said. "I think the city must have been built ages ago—by 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 their own." "I don't see it," Stryker complained, shaking his head. "The pink 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 couldn't we share the planet?" "Because the octopods own the islands too, and keep them policed," Gibson said patiently. "They even own the pink fishers. It was one of the squid-people, making a dry-land canvass of his preserve here to pick a couple of victims for this morning's show, that carried you off last 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 the octopods get curious enough about us to make trouble. Do you feel up 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 free of Arz.

<question>:
Who is the oldest character?

<options>:
A Farrell
B Stryker
C Pink anglers
D Gibson

<answer>:

B