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

<passage>:
Infield turned his soft blue eyes to the black and tan oxfords with the Morgan said, "You can't do it, Henry. You're crossing the line. The people we treat are on one side of the line and we're on the other. If Infield whirled and stalked to the desk. "That's the answer! The whole along. Do you know that what we are doing is really the most primitive medicine in the world? We are treating the symptoms and not the disease. One cannibal walking another with sleeping sickness doesn't to talk like that. We psychiatrists can't turn back the clock. There just aren't enough of us or enough time to give that old-fashioned therapy to all the sick people." Infield leaned on the desk and glared. "I called myself a psychiatrist once. But now I know we're semi-mechanics, semi-engineers, semi-inventors, semi lots of other things, but certainly not even semi-psychiatrists. A psychiatrist wouldn't give a foetic gyro to a man with claustrophobia." into the circle and feel safe. Steel-impervium alloy could resist even everything all right?" Infield asked intensely. "Suppose Morgan's face stiffened. "You know as well as I do that those voices with that insidious voice drumming in his head night and day, do you mean to say that man's senses will only be impaired 23 per cent? Why, he'll turn violently schizophrenic sooner or later—and you know it. The only cure we have for that is still a strait jacket, a padded cell or one of those inhuman lobotomies." Morgan shrugged helplessly. "You're an idealist." The cool air of the street was a relief. Infield stepped into the main He walked along, buffeted by the crowd, carried along in this direction, shoved back in that direction. Most people in the crowd seemed to be Normals, but you couldn't tell. Many "Cures" were not readily apparent. A young man with black glasses and a radar headset (a photophobe) was unable to keep from being pushed against Infield. He sounded out the for anything. He had been one of those condemned Normals, more to be scorned than pitied. Perhaps he could really get to understand these Suddenly something else was pushing against Infield, forcing the magnetic suction dart dropped away from Infield like a thing that had care about other people's feelings. This is official ." "What did you mean by that punch being official?" Infield asked while Infield's pulse raced, trying to get ahead of his thoughts, and losing Infield shifted around, trying to see that side of his benefactor, cleared his throat, noticing the affectation of it. "My name's Infield." Infield supposed it was a Cure, although he had never issued one like more interesting than what he was saying. "It drives a needle into my temple and kills me." The psychiatrist felt cold fury rising in him. The Cures were supposed to save lives, not endanger them. "What kind of irresponsible idiot could have issued such a device?" he Impervium-shielded, you see." himself, Infield knew. The threat of death would keep him constantly shocked sane. Men hide in the comforts of insanity, but when faced with death, they are often forced back to reality. A man can't move his legs sanity. But sometimes the withdrawal was—or could become—too complete. "We're here." Infield looked up self-consciously and noticed that they had crossed Infield wondered why cheap bars and restaurants always used red-checked Of course he didn't, Infield knew. Why should he? It was useless to do you really think of the Incompletes?" The psychiatrist felt his face frown. "Who?" "I forgot. You haven't been one of us long. The Incompletes is a truer name for the so-called Normals. Have you ever thought of just how dangerous these people are, Mr. Infield?" "Frankly, no," Infield said, realizing it was not the right thing to say but tiring of constant pretense. "You don't understand. Everyone has some little phobia or fixation. Maybe everyone didn't have one once, but after being told they did have them for generations, everyone who didn't have one developed a defense mechanism and an aberration so they would be normal. If that phobia isn't brought to the surface and Cured, it may arise any time and endanger other people. The only safe, good sound citizens are Cured. Those lacking Cures—the Incompletes— must be dealt with ." Infield's throat went dry. "And you're the one to deal with them?" likable, impassioned with his cause, and convinced that it was his divine destiny. He was a psychopathic egotist and a dangerous man. Doubly dangerous to Infield because, even though he was one of the few "How are we going to deal with the Incompletes?" Infield asked. visibly thinking that he shouldn't run that routine into the ground. "We'll Cure them whether they want to be Cured or not—for their own good." Infield felt cold inside. After a time, he found that the roaring was imposed upon many ill minds. He could picture an entirely Cured world and he didn't like the view. Every Cure cut down on the mental and physical abilities of the patient as it was, whether Morgan and the others admitted it or not. But if everyone had a crutch to lean on for one phobia, he would develop secondary symptoms. the hopeless. Enforced Cures would be a curse for the individual and the race. But Infield let himself relax. How could anyone force a mechanical and suave, draped clothes. In this den of the Cured, Infield thought half-humorously, it was surprising to see a Normal—an "Incomplete." The girl turned to Infield. "You're one of us, but you're new, so you Infield." psychiatrists are sensitive about wearing Cures themselves, but it is a mark of honor of the completely sane man. You should be proud of your Cure and eager to Cure others. Very eager." Cure is not even thought of—hypochondria. Hundreds of people come to your office for a Cure and you turn them away. Suppose you and the other Cured psychiatrists give everybody who comes to you a Cure?" Infield gestured vaguely. "A psychiatrist wouldn't hand out Cures unless they were absolutely necessary." "You'll feel differently after you've been Cured for a while yourself. Other psychiatrists have." Before Infield could speak, a stubble-faced, barrel-chested man moved Infield in the street. Infield hit the big man behind the ear. He dropped the bottle and fell looked up at Infield. Nonsense, Infield told himself. Eyes can't register emotion. Infield wasn't a large man, but he had pressed two hundred and fifty "I'll do it if you cause more trouble." Infield sat down and rubbed his "No. No, you aren't." Infield felt an excitement pounding through him, different. I'd be a hopeless drunk without the Cure. Besides, no one They were all looking at Infield. Somehow he felt this represented a critical point in history. It was up to him which turn the world took, the world as represented by these four Cured people. "I'm afraid I'm for less It was his problem. Infield usually solved other people's problems, but said INFIELD &amp "Mr. Morgan, your partner, Mr. Infield, he—" "Mr. Infield went out without his Cure in a storm and was struck by Morgan stared into his bright desk light without blinking. "This is Morgan exhaled. Poor Infield. But it wasn't the lightning that killed him, of course. Morgan adjusted the soundproofing plugs in his ears, The thunder, naturally, was what had killed Infield. Loud noise—any

<question>:
What separate Infield and Morgan from the Normals?

<options>:
A The Normals are cannibalistic
B The Normals are uncured
C The Normals are socially repulsive
D The Normals are delusional

<answer>:

B