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

<passage>:
“Normality” is a myth we're all a little neurotic, and the vanished, leaving only the stillness of the dusk and the lonely cry of shore birds. phonograph playing in one of the summer cabins with names like Polly Ann Roost and Patches and Seventh Heaven, but to Kimmy it was the hated cry of the Father of Therns calling the dreadful Plant Men to their feast of Kimball tried to see him in the black gloom. He hadn’t been asleep. It He swung his feet to the bare boards and sat for a moment, wishing he hadn’t had to give up smoking. He could almost imagine the textured taste of the cigaret on his tongue. Oddly enough, he wasn’t tired. He wasn’t excited, either. And that was Then he stopped smiling and turned away from the window. It hadn’t been an easy path and what was coming up now was the hardest part. The goddam psychs were the toughest, always wanting him to bug out on the deal because of their brainwave graphs and word association tests and their Rorschach blots. “You’re a lonely man, Colonel Kimball——” “Too much imagination could be bad for this job.” How could you sit there with pentothal in your veins and wires running out of your head and tell them about the still waters of Korus, or the Kimball snapped on a light and looked at his watch. 0310. Zero minus one could never cope with a Plant Man with a sword alone. The certainty of coming battle made him smile a little, the way John Carter would smile if he were here in the Valley Dor ready to That would be Matai Shang, the Father of Holy Therns—spreading his arms to the sunset and standing safely on his high balcony in the Golden Kimball stood now in the bright glare of the briefing shack, a strange They were thinking: Why him? Out of all the scores of applicants—because there are always applicants for a sure-death job—and all the qualified pilots, why this one? Kimball listened, only half aware of what was being said. He watched the of the night before in the Officers’ Club. They are wondering how I feel, he was thinking. And asking themselves why I want to go. On the dais nearby, listening to the PRO, but watching Kimball, sat Steinhart, the team analyst. Kimball returned his steady gaze thinking: They start out burning with desire to cure the human mind and end with the shadow of the images. The words become the fact, the therapy the aim. What could Steinhart know of longing? No, he thought, I’m not being fair. Steinhart was only doing his job. Kimball looked around the room at the pale faces, the open mouths. What command car with Kimball. Chance or design? Kimball wondered. The Kimball thought: He’s pale skinned and very blond. What is it that he reminds me of? Shouldn’t there be a diadem on his forehead? He smiled vaguely into the rumbling night. That’s what it was. Odd that he should have forgotten. How many rocket pilots, he wondered, were weaned on “We’ve done as well as could be expected,” he said. Kimball had had to give them up because of the flight. Kimball caught “I didn’t try to kill the assignment for you, Kim,” the “It doesn’t matter now.” “No, I suppose not.” Kimball said: “I talked too much.” “You were married, Kim. What happened?” Kimball shrugged. “It didn’t work. She was a fine girl—but she expect——?” Kimball, swathed in plastic, a fantastic figure not of earth, watched “In two years,” the plastic figure said. Didn’t he know that it didn’t matter? course. You know there’s no such thing as a normal human being. We all have tendencies toward one or more types of psychoses. In your case the symptoms are an overly active imagination and in some cases an inability to distinguish reality from—well, fancy.” Kimball turned to regard the psych “What’s reality, Steinhart? Do you know?” The analyst flushed. “No.” “I didn’t think so.” “You lived pretty much in your mind when you were a child,” Steinhart went on doggedly. “You were a solitary, a lonely child.” [120] Kimball was watching the sky again. “You’re glad to be leaving, aren’t you—” Steinhart said Kimball nodded absently, wishing the man would be quiet. Mars, a dull He stood very still, listening to his sisters talking, letting their voices carry down to where he hid from the dangers of the Valley Dor. “Where is that little brat, anyway?” “He always wanders off just at dinnertime and then we have to find him——” “Playing with that old faucet—” Mimicry. “‘My “Kimmmm—eeee Mom’s going to be mad at you! Answer us!” He walked slowly out of the willows, stumbling a little over the rocks. He lay like an embryo in the viscera of the ship, protected and quite alone. The plastic sac contained him, fed him and the rocket, silent now, coursed through the airless deep like a questing thought. Time was measured by the ticking of the telemeters and the timers, but Kimball slept insulated and complete. And he dreamed. He dreamed of that summer when the river lay still and deep under the hanging willows. He dreamed of his sisters, thin and angular creatures as he remembered them through the eyes of a nine-year-old—— cottage and saying exasperatedly: “ Why do you run off by yourself, Kimmy? I worry about you so—— ” And his sisters: “ Playing with his wooden swords and his radium pistol and never wanting to take his nose out of those awful books—— ” He dreamed of the low, beamed ceiling of the cottage, sweltering in the heat of the summer nights and the thick longing in his throat for red hills and a sky that burned deep blue through the long, long days and canals, clear and still. A land that he knew somehow never was, but which lived, for him, through some alchemy of the mind. He dreamed of Mars. And Steinhart: “ What is reality, Kimmy? ” The hours stretched into days, the days into months. Time wasn’t. Time was a deep night and a starshot void. And dreams. He awoke seldom. His tasks were simple. The plastic sac and the tender care of the ship were more real than the routine jobs of telemetering information back to the Base across the empty miles, across the rim of the world. He dreamed of his wife. “ You don’t live here, Kim. ” She was right, of course. He [122] wasn’t of earth. Never had been. My love is in the sky, he thought, filled with an immense satisfaction. And time slipped by, the weeks into months the sun dwindled and earth was gone. All around him lay the stunning star-dusted night. He lay curled in the plastic womb when the ship turned. He awoke Kimball stood in the control room, his heart pounding. Slowly, the ports unreal, a painting of unworldly quiet and desolation. What is reality, Kimmy? Steinhart was right, he thought vaguely. A tear streaked his cheek. He had never been so alone. scrambled down through the ship, past the empty fuel tanks and the lashed supplies. His hands were clawing desperately at the dogs of the He dropped to one knee and sucked at the thin, frigid air. His vision was cloudy and his head felt light. But there was fantastic dream—— He dropped to the sand and dug his hands into the dry powdery soil. He could scarcely see now, for blackness was flickering at the edges of his vision and his failing heart and lungs were near collapse. Kimmm-eee! [123] Kimmmm-eeeee! The voice was thin and distant on the icy wind. Kimball knew that voice.

<question>:
Is Kimball happy?

<options>:
A No, he wishes he never left.
B No, he is terribly lonely.
C Yes, he gets to travel all over.
D Yes, he loves losing himself in imagination.

<answer>:

B