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 shrieking with a message. The next it was gone. But it left tailings, the creature that uttered it. Illustrated by WILLER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that like the echo of a death cry slowly floating back over the dead body of of course, Martians. But this one did! By DEAN EVANS 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 which I should have thought not very appealing to a little boy. "Hi, there," I said when he came near enough. "What's that you're "'The Calm'," he said in a sober, little-boy voice. "The what ?" I asked. held no expression, but if it had, I knew it would have matched the title of the tune he whistled. That pleased him. His eyes lit up and an almost-smile flirted with the corners of his small mouth. He nodded grave agreement. "Been after butterflies, I see. I'll bet you didn't get any. This is the wrong season." mechanical little boy. 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 another. And to not give a damn one way or another meant to make one hell of a mess on the placid face of Mars. were still occupied, like the one into which the Martian boy had just mother had taught him the William Tell Overture, had she? That tickling thought made me chuckle as I stood before the ramshackle 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. that I was interested in. The little Martian boy, I mean." remarkably well. I asked him what the name of the tune was and he told me it was the 'Calm' from William Tell. He also told me his mother had taught him." "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 "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? " 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. compared to a human male the Martian isn't anything you'd want around somewhere and intermarried plenty since." "H-he's dead." "Get the hell out of here, you fool!" with the firewood problem, you give a woman a nice sharp axe and she immediately puts it to use—on you. I looked up just in time to avoid running into a spread-legged man who a gal which had got herself in a little jam, so to speak, would be more sand-blown window. That seemed to mean the woman had been watching. I to rifle through pictures. I didn't find the woman, but I did find the He was a killer named Harry Smythe. " What? in the files—" He cut me off. His hand darted into his desk drawer and pulled out an Authority Card. He shoved the card at me. He growled: "Kill or capture, I'm not especially fussy which. Just get him!" I had idly listened to a little half-breed Martian boy whistling part of the William Tell Overture, and it had led me to a wanted killer named Harry Smythe. Understandably, Mr. Smythe did not produce himself on a silver platter. I spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to get a lead on him and was doing it with mirrors, for on Mars an Authority Card is the big quite to penetrate. You don't look into those. Not if you're anything more than a ghoul, you don't. Not finding him wasn't especially alarming. What was alarming, though, 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 The Martian turned, went away from the half-light of the circle. He led pointed. "Wahanhk," he said. Wahanhk is an old Martian. I don't think any Martian before him has ever lived so long—and doubtless none after him will, either. His the appearance of being done deliberately by a Martian sand-artist. "I'm looking for an Earthwoman," I said. "This particular Earthwoman 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." that word. Wahanhk's face was more than expressionless it was simply blank. That one he didn't answer, either. "Why?" I pulled out the file photo of Harry Smythe and handed it across to had. The point is that he knows the woman. It follows, naturally, that "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 rolling out a lively tempo now, a tempo you could put music to. He said at last: "I do not know where the woman is. Nor the child." 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. on. "Lady, he's wanted. And this thing, on my lapel is an Authority Card. Assuming you know what it means, I'm asking you where he is." "What man?" Her words were flat. "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 head and be proud about? Well, ain't it? And let me tell you, Mister, whoever it was, I'll get him. I'll get him! " Or, simply, it was the face of a woman who wanted to kill the killer of her man. said to me, "But not for the murder of a Martian, eh? Martians are not that important any more." of speed and savagery combined and those who moved to its frenetic jabberings were not dancers any more, but only frenzied, jerking She didn't answer. She didn't have to answer. My guesses can be as good as anybody's. After a long while she looked up into my eyes. "His name was Tahily," she said. "He had the secret. He knew where the gold vein was. And soon, in a couple of years maybe, when all the prospectors were gone But who in the name of God could have the heart to ruin a dream like probably heard that there were men there now, and he was carrying out with the thoroughness of his precise little mind the job he had set himself of finding the killer of his daddy. I stopped in my tracks from the shock of it. Yes, I knew from whom it

<question>:
Who likely killed the woman's Martian husband?

<options>:
A Wahanhk
B The narrator
C Harry Smythe
D Tahily

<answer>:

C