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

<passage>:
Not while I am alive, it won't! It surely was all right for me to let myself do it now. I couldn't have been more safe. In the window of the radio store a color television set was enjoying a quiz by itself and creased in my pocket was the newspaper account of the failure of a monumental human adventure in the ex-Army, Lions Club member, beefy, respectable, well-intentioned, not a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus stop. He was like anybody you might talk to on the street. I knew what he would say if I cued him with "baseball" or "Russia" instead of the key words I had used. wasn't an import, just a Crosley. I went in, the brass handle making me conscious of the sweat on my palm. The old man sat behind a fortress of magazines and books, treacherously reading the funnies in a newspaper. His bald head swiveled on the hunched shoulders of his sweater which was azuring toward white. He American Tradition. All of it lying here to rot. The old man snickered. "I know what you want. Indeed I do. This way." I followed his spidering hand and sure enough, there they were. Stacks upon stacks of air-war pulp magazines. "Fifteen cents for ones in good condition," the old man pronounced the ritual, "a dime for ones with incomplete covers, three for a quarter, of my piloting. "What have you done to my mind?" "We've been trying to get it to grow back up," Sergeant said memories. You remember only those things out of the past you have to, reasonably. "Think of this. Fountain of Youth. Immortality. damned thing all over again. We use synapse-shift to switch your upper conscious memories to your id and super-ego, leaving room for new The Lone Eagle , all of them. The old man was watching me. He skittered back across the floor and snatched up a magazine. It was a copy of Sky Fighters . You shouldn't have waited until you were so old, so very old. We used the very oldest sets and mock-ups we had for Reluctantly he handed over the magazine, waited a moment, then left me. I stared at the stacks of flying story magazines and I felt the slow run of the drop of sweat down my nose. My sickness was terrible. It is as bad to be nostalgic for things you have never known as for an orphan who has never had a home to be homesick. Living in the past, that was always me. I never watched anything on TV made later than 1935. I was in love with Garbo, Ginger Rogers, Dolores del Rio. My favorite stars were Richard Dix, Chester Morris and Richard Arlen. The music I listened to was Gershwin and Arlen and Chicago jazz. And my reading was the pulp literature harking back to the First World War. This was the biggest part of it all, I think. But the identification I felt with the pilots in air-war stories was plainly ridiculous. I'd been daydreaming again. I shouldn't forget things were getting different lately. It was becoming dangerous. I gathered up an armload of air-war magazines at random. Leaning across the table, I noticed the curtain in back for the first reflecting an image from the roof of the cabinet where the actual picture tube lay flat. There was an old movie on the channel. An old, old movie. Lon Chaney, Sr., in a western as a badman. He was protecting a doll-faced blonde falls. I had seen movies like that before. When I was a kid, I had seen Flicker Flashbacks between chapters of Flash Gordon and Johnny Mack Brown westerns. I looked at old movies and heard the oily voice making fun of them. But hadn't I also seen these pictures with the sound of piano playing and low conversation? I had seen these pictures before the war. The war had made a lot of difference in my life. Comic books were cut down to half their size, from 64 to 32 pages, and prices had gone up to where you had to pay $17 for a pair of shoes, so Morgan? And at school I had bought Defense—War—Savings—Security—Liberty—Freedom—I had bought stamps at school. I never did get enough to trade in for a bond, but Mama had taken my book and traded parts of it in for coffee. She could never get enough coffee.... "Nobody would look at my magazines," the old man chuckled, "if I put it out front. My boy got me that. He runs a radio and Victrola store. A good boy. His name's in the fishbowl." I just wanted to get away from back then—I mean back there ." I looked up a little bit and saw an ugly, battered hand thumbing across a stack of half a dozen magazines like a giant deck of cards. "Why don't you take up detective stories?" he asked me. I never heard the squad car drive away. not have been an aviator in World War One. I was in my mid-twenties anybody could tell that by looking at me. The time was the late 'Fifties anybody could tell that from the blank-faced Motorola in the corner, the new Edsels on the street. Memories of air combat in Spads and Nieuports stirred in me by old magazines, Quentin Reynolds, and re-runs of Dawn Patrol on television were mere hallucinations. Neither could I remember drinking bootleg hooch in speak-easies, hearing Floyd Gibbons announce the Dempsey-Tunney fight, or paying $3.80 to get into the first run of . Only ... I probably had seen GWTW. Hadn't I gone with my mother to a matinee? Didn't she pay 90¢ for me? So how could I remember taking a I struck up a new cigarette. The thing I must remember, I told myself, was that my recollections were false and unreliable. It would do me no good to keep following these false memories in a closed curve. true. They were a small boy's bad dream about symbolized authority. They were keeping me from re-entering the past where I belonged, punishing me to make me stay in my trap of the present. "I feel," I said, "that I am caught up in some kind of time travel." "I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?" "Some. I read a lot. All kinds of books. Tolstoi, Twain, Hemingway, Luke Short, John D. MacDonald, Huxley." "You should the past. Think of the future." "How did you know I keep slipping back into the past?" I asked. Sergeant's hands were more expressive than his face. "You mentioned time travel...." "But not to the past or to the future," I said. "But you did, Mr. Turner. You told me all about thinking you could go into the past by visiting a book store where they sold old magazines. You told me how the intrusion of the past got worse with every visit." I blinked. "I did? I did?" My fingers clawed at the backs of his hands and my nails dragged off ugly strips of some theatrical stuff—collodion, I think—that had covered the scrapes and bruises he had taken hammering away at me and my belt buckle. By the way he moved, I knew he was used to physical combat, but you can't win them all, and I had been in a lot of scraps when I had been fourteenth, I remembered. I had seen it done in movies all my life. Harold Lloyd, Douglas Fairbanks, Buster Keaton were always doing it for some reason or other. I had a good reason. I unlatched the window and climbed out into the dry, crisp breeze. The movies didn't know much about convection. The updraft nearly lifted Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant.

<question>:
Why was the main character daydreaming about being a war-time pilot?

<options>:
A He was obsessed with magazines about the subject
B He was triggered by the old shopkeeper asking him about it
C He was actually there and the memories were real
D He kept seeing old movies about World War One

<answer>:

C