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 sign read: It added, as an afterthought, in shaky, inexpert lettering: We Fix Anything. Mr. Oliver Meek stared owlishly at the sign, which hung from an arm attached to a metal standard sunk in solid rock. A second sign was wired to the standard just below the metal arm, but its legend was faint, almost illegible. Meek blinked at it through thick-lensed spectacles, finally deciphered its scrawl: the sign-post and gravely regarded the settlement. On the chart it was indicated by a fairly sizeable dot, but that was merely a matter of The other, according to the crudely painted legend smeared above its cumbersome spacesuit all tangled up. The gravity was slight, next to non-existent, and one who wasn't used to it had to take things easy and remember where he was. with angry, bright green patches. To right and left glinted the whirling, twisting, tumbling rocks that made up the Inner Ring, while arcing above the horizon opposed to Saturn were the spangled glistening rainbows of the other rings. "Like dewdrops in the black of space," Meek mumbled to himself. But he immediately felt ashamed of himself for growing poetic. This sector of space, he knew, was not in the least poetic. It was hard and savage and with a firmer tread that almost upset him. After that, he tried to think of nothing except keeping his two feet under him. desk, a greasy cap pushed back on his head. stuck out in uncombed tufts in a dozen directions. His skin was pale. His blue eyes looked watery behind the thick lenses that rode his nose. Even the bulky spacesuit failed to hide his stooped shoulders and slight frame. The mechanic said nothing. dust, really, but the screen couldn't stop it all." Meek cleared his throat uneasily. "I'm afraid it's more than a puncture. A pebble got into the instruments. Washed out some of them." "That doesn't make sense," protested Meek. rheumatism bothers him, to pick up a bundle of papers. Subscribes to a daily paper, he does. Only man out here that does any reading. But all he reads is the sports section. Nuts about sports, Gus is." his chin in an outspread palm. His face wore a melancholy, hang-dog worth it, either. Just ring-rats, that's all they are." anything so low it didn't yearn for betterment. "But those terrible feuds," she protested. "Fighting just because they live in different parts of the Ring. It's natural they might feel some rivalry, but all this killing! Surely they don't enjoy getting killed." "Sure they enjoy it," declared Moe. "Not being killed, maybe ... although they're willing to take a chance on that. Not many of them get killed, in fact. Just a few that get sort of careless. But even if "But they could fight with something besides guns," said the welfare lady, a-smirk with righteousness. "That's why I'm here. To try to get them to turn their natural feelings of rivalry into less deadly and disturbing channels. Direct their energies into other activities." "Athletic events," said Miss Perkins. She missed the sarcasm. "Or spelling contests," she said. "Them fellow can't spell," insisted Moe. "Games of some sort, then. Competitive games." "Now you're talking," Moe enthused. "They take to games. Seven-toed He glared at Moe. "What in tarnation is all this foolishness?" he demanded. "Got your message, I did, and here I am. But it better be important." him, keeping out of reach. "Have some trouble?" he asked, trying to be casual. "Trouble! Hell, yes!" blustered Gus. "But I ain't the only one that's will fit." He took a jolt of liquor. "Yes, sir, I sure aim to crucify him." His eyes lighted on Miss Henrietta Perkins. "Nope. From the welfare outfit. Aims to help you fellows out. Says there ain't no sense in you boys in Twenty-three all the time fighting with the gang from Thirty-seven." down. You're aiming on going over right now and pulverizing Bud. It won't do you any good." "I'll get a heap of satisfaction out of it," insisted Gus. "And, into it." "You shut your trap," snapped Gus. "She wants us to play games, don't society." "It wouldn't be no nice, respectable game the way you fellows would play it," predicted Moe. "It would turn into mass murder. Wouldn't be "Of course we wouldn't," declared Gus, solemn as an owl. "And that ain't all," said Moe, warming to the subject. "Those crates this man here. We'll ask his opinion of it." hair and dominated by a pair of outsize spectacles. "My opinion, sir," said Oliver Meek, "seldom amounts to much." "All we want to know," Gus told him, "is what you think of space polo." "Space polo," declared Meek, "is a noble game. It requires expert piloting, a fine sense of timing and...." "But," protested Meek, "but ... but." Drove me out of house and home, they did. They're dippy over metal. Any kind of metal, but alloys especially. Eat the stuff. They'll tromp you "Well, a spacesuit's metal and...." stone that jutted from the surface. the pages, he stared, frowning, at the diagrams that covered them. None of the diagrams made sense. They showed the patterns of three even a purpose or a problem, let alone a solution or a point. The whole thing was squirrely. But, Meek told himself, it fitted in. it would grow nowhere else but here on the Inner Ring, men squatted on the crazy swirl of spacial boulders that made up the ring. Men rickety spacecraft flared, who went mad with nothing to do, with the mockery of space before them. Meek shrugged his shoulders, almost upsetting himself. Oliver Meek shut his eyes and groaned. "Gus will give me hell for this," he told himself. Gus shook the small wooden box thoughtfully, listening to the frantic thick, too, about how we should settle down and behave ourselves and all that. Otherwise Bud never would have given her that injector." He shook his head dolefully. "This here Ring ain't ever going to be the same again. If we don't watch out, we'll find ourselves being polite to one another." "That would be awful," agreed Meek. "Wouldn't it, though," declared Gus. Meek squinted his eyes and pounced on the floor, scrabbling on hands and knees after a scurrying thing that twinkled in the lamplight. inside. "That makes twenty-eight of them," said Meek. into solid metal and pull the hole in after them, seems like. Sneakiest cusses in the whole dang system. Just like chiggers back on Earth." The syrupy, chamber of commerce voice of the announcer was shaky with excitement and pride. "Next week," he said, "the annual Martian-Earth football game will be tonight another story has pushed even that famous classic of the sporting world down into secondary place." He paused and took a deep breath and his voice practically yodeled with delight. "The sporting event, ladies and gentlemen, that is being talked up and down the streets of Earth tonight, is one that will be played here it was. "But they're going to play it. The men who ride those bucking rocks that make up the Inner Ring will go out into space in their rickety ships and fight it out. And ladies and gentlemen, when I say fight it of tournament, the final battle in a feud that has been going on in feud is taken up again. But that is at an end now. In a few days the

<question>:
What is the overall tone of the article?

<options>:
A Peaceful
B Scary
C Intense
D Lighthearted

<answer>:

D