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 MOONS OF MARS like the echo of a death cry slowly floating back over the dead body of the creature that uttered it. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] of course, Martians. But this one did! him . The first was that he was a Martian little boy. You could be very sure of that, for Earth little boys have earlobes while Martian little boys do not—and he most certainly didn't. The second was the tune he whistled—a somehow familiar tune, but one "The what That pleased him. His eyes lit up and an almost-smile flirted with the "Been after butterflies, I see. I'll bet you didn't get any. This is the wrong season." pure , mind Back in those days, to be a colonist meant to be a rugged individual. And to be a rugged individual meant to not give a damn one way or hell of a mess on the placid face of Mars. were still occupied, like the one into which the Martian boy had just disappeared. So his mother had taught him the William Tell Overture, had she? That tickling thought made me chuckle as I stood before the ramshackle instead, of something quite astonishing: How had it been possible for her to teach, and for him to whistle? All Martians are as tone-deaf as a bucket of lead. you at all. I that I was interested in. The little Martian boy, I mean." "Nothing," I answered. "Except that Martians are supposed to be hearing. So when I heard this little boy, and saw he was a Martian, and mother had taught him—" I shrugged and laughed a little. "Like I said before, I guess I got just plain nosy." She nodded. "We agree on that last part." Perhaps it was her eyes. Or perhaps it was the tone of her voice. Or perhaps, and more simply, it was her attitude in general. But whatever it was, I suddenly felt that, nosy or not, I was being treated shabbily. "I would like to speak to the Martian lady," I said. "There isn't any Martian lady." "There has to be, doesn't there?" I said it with little sharp prickers on the words. But she did, too: " Does there? whistle. And then—after what seemed to me a very long while—I slowly tumbled to what she meant. Her eyes were telling me that the little Martian boy wasn't a little Martian boy at all, that he was cross-breed, a little chap who had a Martian father and a human, Earthwoman mother. It was a startling thought, for there just aren't any such mixed marriages. Or at least I had thought there weren't. Physically, spiritually, mentally, or by any other standard you can think of, compared to a human male the Martian isn't anything you'd want around the house. I finally said: "So that is why he is able to whistle." inside her. "There isn't anything to be ashamed of," I said gently. "Back on Earth there's a lot of mixtures, you know. Some people even claim there's no such thing as a pure race. I don't know, but I guess we all started somewhere and intermarried plenty since." "I'm sorry. Are you all right? I mean do you get along okay and everything, now that...?" I stopped. I wanted to ask her if she was starving by slow degrees and needed help. Lord knows the careworn look about her didn't show it was fix—" But that was the wrong approach. Her eyes snapped and her shoulders stiffened angrily and the words that ripped out of her mouth were not coated with honey. "Get the hell out of here, you fool!" way it goes," I muttered disgustedly to myself. Thinking to be helpful with the firewood problem, you give a woman a nice sharp axe and she His chuckle was a lewd thing, a thing usually reserved—if it ever was reserved at all—for the mens' rooms of some of the lower class complainingly: "Regular little spitfire, ain't she? I ask you now, wouldn't you think a gal which had got herself in a little jam, so to speak, would be more reasonable—" His words chopped short and he almost choked on the final unuttered "Wanted, isn't he?" " What? I'm not especially fussy which. Just get him!" I had idly listened to a little half-breed Martian boy whistling part was not finding the Earthwoman and her little half-breed Martian son Reservation, where the Martians still try to act like Martians. to the two moons. At times like this you want to leave the Martians Martians dig a huge circular trench and fill it with dried roots of the The dancers were both men and women and they were as naked as Martians thought before, that this is the one thing the Martians can still do beautifully. Which, in a sad sort of way, is a commentary on the way things have gone since the first rocket-blasting ship set down on these The Martian turned, went away from the half-light of the circle. He led Wahanhk is an old Martian. I don't think any Martian before him has the appearance of being done deliberately by a Martian sand-artist. "Power sign of the Earthmen," he muttered. "Not necessarily," I said. "I'm not here for trouble. I know as well as you do that, before tonight is finished, more than half of your men moderated in tempo. It was like the throbbing—or sobbing, if you prefer—of the old, old pumps whose shafts go so tirelessly down into took a Martian for a husband." Martian features. Or, if you want to turn it around and look at the other side, a little Martian boy who whistles." "This one is wanted ?" His old, broken tones went up slightly on the last word. I nodded. "For murder." "Murder." He spat the word. "But not for the murder of a Martian, eh? Martians are not that important any more." His old eyes hated me with an intensity I didn't relish. "You said that, old man, not I." It was a clear, clean sound, a merry, bright, happy sound, as sharp and as precise as the thrust of a razor through a piece of soft yellow cheese. "In your teeth, Wahanhk! Right in your teeth!" only bores a Martian. against the bole of a belu "That's considered bad luck," I said. Her head jerked around with my words, reflected flames from the circle fire still flickering in her eyes. "Would it make any difference?" She spoke softly, but the words came to me above the drums and the shouts of the dancers. "How much bad luck can you have in one lifetime, anyway?" I ignored that. "Why did you pull out of that shack? I told you you had from the fires, subtle changes in expression weren't easily detected. "Why should I care about an Earthman? My husband was a Martian. And he's dead, see? Dead. Just a Martian. Not fit for anything, like all Martians. Just a bum who fell in love with an Earthwoman and had the guts to marry her. Do you understand? So somebody murdered him for it. Ain't that pretty? Ain't that something to make you throw back your hate like a ladle of molten steel splashing down on bare, white flesh. Or, simply, it was the face of a woman who wanted to kill the killer of her man. could still hear her quiet sobbing, and I could see the heaving of the small, thin shoulders. And I knew then the reason for old Wahanhk's bitterness when he had said to me, "But not for the murder of a Martian, eh? Martians are not that important any more." What I said then probably sounded as weak as it really was: "I'm sorry, of speed and savagery combined and those who moved to its frenetic a whistle, sure, but a warning one. I stopped in my tracks from the shock of it. Yes, I knew from whom it

<question>:
How do the Martians likely feel about the protagonist and his role?

<options>:
A Confusion
B Pride
C Attraction
D Resentment

<answer>:

D