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 study of neurosis has been able to classify the general types of disturbance which are most common. And some types (providing the subject is not suffering so extreme a case as to have crossed the border into psychosis) can be not only useful, but perhaps necessary for certain kinds of work.... victims borne into [116] this Valley Dor by the mysterious Iss. Kimball tried to see him in the black gloom. He hadn’t been asleep. It russet-colored against the sable sky. He smiled, remembering again. So long a road, he thought, from then to now. 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 pennons flying from the twin towers of Greater Helium or the way the Kimball snapped on a light and looked at his watch. 0310. Zero minus one The radium pistol’s weight made his wrist ache, but he clung to it tightly, knowing that he [117] the Warlord, and all the beautiful brave people. The phonograph sang with Vallee’s voice: “Cradle me where southern skies can watch me with a million eyes——” brought to this cursed valley. “Sing me to sleep, lullaby of the leaves”—the phonograph Kimball stood now in the bright glare of the briefing shack, a strange been handed the mimeographed releases by the PRO and now they sat in silence, studying the red figure of the man who was to ride the rocket. 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 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 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 wore yellow wings and a circlet of gold with some fantastic jewel on their forehead? Kimball had had to give them up because of the flight. Kimball caught Kimball said: “I talked too much.” Kimball shrugged. “It didn’t work. She was a fine girl—but she what did she Kimball, swathed in plastic, a fantastic figure not of earth, watched them wheel across the clear, deep night. clinically. Natural under the circumstances? Or neurosis building up already? “Our tests showed you to be a schizoid—well-compensated, of 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 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. Steinhart felt futile and out of his depth. “We know so little about the psychology of space-flight, Kim——” Silence. The rumble of the tires on the packed sand of the road, the murmur of the command car’s engine, spinning oilily, and lit by tiny Kimball nodded absently, wishing the man would be quiet. Mars, a dull “Kimm-eeeee—” They were calling him. In the deepening dusk their voices carried far the awful Plant Men approaching. He shivered with delicious horror. 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 “Cracked—just cracked. Oh, where IS he, anyway? Kimmm-eee, you AN-swer!” shifting light of the two moons. [121] “Kimmmm—eeee Mom’s going to be mad at you! Answer us!” clashing—— “He’s up there in that clump of willows—hiding!” alone. The plastic sac contained him, fed him and the rocket, silent now, coursed through the airless deep like a questing thought. Time was 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—— which lived, for him, through some alchemy of the mind. He dreamed of Mars. And Steinhart: “ 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. “ 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 He lay curled in the plastic womb when the ship turned. He awoke sluggishly and dragged himself into awareness. “I’ve changed,” he thought aloud. “My face is younger I feel different.” The keening sound of air over the wings brought a thrill. Below him, a great curving disk of reds and browns and yellows. He could see dust storms raging and the heavy, darkened lines of the canals. Kimball stood in the control room, his heart pounding. Slowly, the ports scrambled down through the ship, past the empty fuel tanks and the lashed supplies. His hands were clawing desperately at the dogs of the A shadowy cavalcade. Strange monstrous men on fantastic war-mounts, long spears and fluttering pennons. Huge golden chariots with scythes flashing on the circling hubs and armored giants, the figments of a long remembered dream—— vision and his failing heart and lungs were near collapse. Kimmm-eee! [123] The voice was thin and distant on the icy wind. Kimball knew that voice.

<question>:
What is wrong with Kimball?

<options>:
A He is neurotic.
B He is completely psychotic.
C There is nothing wrong with him.
D His schizoid tendencies are amplified by space travel.

<answer>:

D