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

<passage>:
They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of the crashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But they didn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-feared raider in the System. In that was his only advantage. He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street and Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, and started to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quite "I don't understand," Syme said. "The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble?" Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyes Syme stooped over him swiftly, found a thick wallet and thrust it into little and Syme's fingers slipped a little with each motion. Fraction by slow fraction of an inch, it came up. Syme could feel the pulled, with much puffing and panting, and with his help Syme managed Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. His "I'm not hurt," Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in his cafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had just were always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, and it was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone. after them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glow of Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms, he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had been the present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knew anything about them or about Kal-Jmar. In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earth from every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robots that still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then they had tried everything they knew to pierce the wall. Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated a bloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapid dwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had stepped in and forbidden any further experiments hours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to Syme Syme's smile was not tigerish now "Why. Are they really dangerous?" "They're unpredictable," Syme told him. "They're built differently, and they think differently. They breathe like us, down in their caverns eat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off the deserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line to xopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they never come near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial. When the first colonists came here, they had to learn their crazy language. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen different things, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some, but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same." "So you think they might attack us?" Tate asked again, nervously. "They might was in and would bear the car's weight, and Syme started the car over incline, unreeling the cable behind them, and starting minor landslides as they descended. head. Neither Syme nor Tate ever had a chance to test the efficiency of their Syme was cursing slowly and steadily with a deep, seething anger. Tate caught a glimpse of the horde of beasts that were rushing up the gully toward them. "My God!" he said. "What are those?" Syme looked. "Those," he said bitterly, "are Martians." they were mostly black. The natives slowed down and spread out to surround the wrecked sand car, and it could be seen that most of them were armed with spears, Martians. Syme stopped cursing and watched tensely. Tate said nothing, but he and Tate followed him. "What do you think they'll—" he began, and then stopped himself. "I know. They're unpredictable." The Martian leader looked at them enigmatically, then turned and started off. The other natives closed in on them, and they all bounded along under the weak gravity. ," he began haltingly, " Syme swore amazedly. "I thought you said they didn't speak Terrestrial," Tate said. Syme was expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. "Yes, you're "Never mind that," Syme broke in impatiently. "What do you want with It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yet the Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martian must have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood, holding himself in check with an effort. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side of from them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not to all along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, then we'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out. You couldn't have that, of course." one." "Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not a separate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not our ancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors." "Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to make into cities like Kal-Jmar our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies to the new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problem was an evasion they remained its slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. "You see," he finished gently, "our deception has caused a natural confusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we." "And yet," Tate mused, "you are being destroyed by contact with an—inferior—culture." "We hope to win yet," the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. "Tell me one thing," he begged. "Will our two races ever live together in amity?" The Martian lowered his head. "That is for unborn generations." He Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down the him exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, before he knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into the Martian. strong. Syme scrambled desperately for the gun, got it, but couldn't feel the Martian's telepathic call for help surging out. He heard the swift pad of his followers coming across the cavern. He put everything he had into one mighty, murderous effort. Every muscle fiber in his superbly trained body crackled and surged with He clubbed the prostrate leader with it instantly, then reversed the weapon and snapped a shot at the nearest Martian. The creature dropped swerved to cut down on him. Still rolling, he fired at the holder of the weapon. The gun dropped and winked out on the floor. Syme jumped to his feet and faced his enemies, snarling like the trapped tiger he was. Another ray slashed at him, and he bent lithely all the while he was mowing down the massed natives in great swaths, seeking out the ones armed with Bensons in swift, terrible slashes, dodging spears and other missiles in midair, and roaring at the top of his powerful lungs. At last there were none with guns left to oppose him. He scythed down the rest in two terrible, lightning sweeps of his ray, then dropped the weapon from blistered fingers. could have grabbed a spear or something, but—I just couldn't, not even to save my own life. I—I halfway hoped they'd kill both of us." Syme glared at him and spat, too enraged to think of diplomacy. He that shattered all his previous concepts of the verities in life, and didn't know what to do about it.

<question>:
How would you describe Syme's and Harold's relationship?

<options>:
A It's a genuinely friendly relationship
B It's a beautiful relationship
C It's a relationship of necessity
D They quickly become enemies

<answer>:

C