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

<passage>:
The Anglers of Arz By Roger Dee Illustrated by BOB MARTIN islet. In order to make Izaak Walton's sport complete, there must be an angler, a fish, and some bait. All three existed on Arz but there was a question as to which was which. stand watch—was sitting at an open-side port with a magnoscanner ready but in spite of his vigilance he had not exposed a film when the Sunrise brought him alert with a jerk, frowning at sight of two pinkish, bipedal Arzian fishermen posted on the tiny coral islet a quarter-mile offshore, their blank triangular faces turned stolidly toward the beach. "They're at it again," Farrell called, and dropped to the mossy turf outside. "Roll out on the double! I'm going to magnofilm this!" "Any sign of the squids yet?" he asked. "They won't show up until the dragons come," Farrell said. He adjusted and learn something of their mores before we can interfere." Farrell turned an irritable stare on the incurious group of Arzians gathering, nets and fishing spears in hand, at the edge of the sheltering bramble forest. "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 of a fixation with Gibson, and his dogged insistence—coupled with an irritating habit of being right—had worn their patience thin. 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. They stooped like hawks upon the islet offshore, burying the two Arzian fishers instantly under their snapping, threshing bodies. Then around the outcrop the sea boiled whitely, churned to foam by a sudden "The squids," Stryker grunted. "Right on schedule. Two seconds too late, as usual, to stop the slaughter." A barrage of barbed tentacles lashed out of the foam and drove into the melee of winged lizards. The lizards took the air at once, leaving behind three of their number who disappeared under the surface like forest, ignoring the Earthmen, and lined the casting ledges along the beach to begin their day's fishing. Arthur is off duty after standing watch last night. Help yourself, but something overlooked prodded irritatingly at the back of his Marco's planetfall one of the pink fishers had fallen from a casting ledge into the water, and had all but drowned before his fellows pulled him out with extended spear-shafts. Which meant that the fishers could not swim, else some would surely have gone in after him. And the Marco's crew had explored Arz exhaustively without finding any completed itself with automatic logic, almost rousing Farrell out of his "I'll be damned," he muttered. "No boats, and they don't swim. Then how the devil do they get out to that islet? Farrell shrugged. "I'd agree with you offhand if it weren't for Gib's Farrell lit his pipe and turned to the inconsistencies he had uncovered. the springy turf, feeling the ocean breeze soft on his face. Three days 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 enigmatic relation that linked the Arzian fishers to the dragons and squids, and his desire to understand that relation was aggravated 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 found it not too unnatural until he came to the motivation and the means of transportation that placed the Arzians in pairs on the islet, when his whole fabric of speculation fell into a tangled snarl of his restlessness. He made his decision abruptly, laying aside the night-birds or scurrying rodents. He had worked his way close to the center of the island without further discovery and was on the point of turning back, disgusted, when something bulky and powerful seized him 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 then from the corner of an eye he caught the pinkish blur of an Arzian fisher standing beside him, and cried out hoarsely in sudden panic when he tried to turn his head and could not. He was on the coral outcropping offshore, and except for the involuntary muscles of balance and respiration his body was paralyzed. he thought. That sting in my shoulder was like a hypo needle. Panic seized him again when he remembered the green flying-lizards more failed. His arm was like a limb of lead, its inertia too great to budge. He "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—" He broke off, seeing for the first time the octopods that ringed the outcrop just under the surface of the water, waiting with barbed tentacles spread and yellow eyes studying him glassily. He heard the unmistakable flapping of wings behind and above him then, and thought 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 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 water below, and felt his shaky laugh of relief stick in his throat. Two of the octopods were swimming strongly for shore, holding the rigid Arzian native carefully above water between them. "Gib," Farrell croaked. "Gib, can you risk a look back? I think I've gone mad." Farrell forced himself to relax, more relieved than alarmed by the drinks around, leaving Farrell comfortably relaxed in the padded control chair. The paralysis was still wearing off slowly, easing Farrell's fear builders and left Arz nothing but an oversized archipelago. The squids "Invasion of a squid world?" Farrell protested, baffled. "Why should couldn't we share the planet?" "Because the octopods own the islands too, and keep them policed," suddenly, a great irrepressible bellow of sound. "Arz is a squid's world, Arthur, don't you see? And like most civilized peoples, they're sportsmen. The flying-lizards are the game they hunt, and they raise the pink fishers for—" Farrell swore in astonishment. "Then those poor devils are put out there 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. 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>:
How was Farrell discouraged from interfering with the angers and squid?

<options>:
A There were rules that prohibited interfering with their culture
B His fellow crew would leave him if he did
C The squid had nearly eaten him in the past
D The anglers threatened him

<answer>:

A