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

<passage>:
"Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best our language coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary." "What do you want with me?" with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shouldered in a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane's the florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like something that needed oiling. "Something about important information regarding safeguarding my paintings." "That's right, Mr. Snithian," Dan said. "I believe I can be of great help to you." here—the papers are full of it—" I'd have no concern for my paintings today!" "Two hundred and twenty-five," Kelly snapped. "—but no one at all in the vault with the paintings," Slane finished. "Of course not," Snithian shrilled. "Why should I post a man in the man in that vault." "Another idiotic scheme to waste my money," Snithian snapped. "I've made you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no more nonsense. And throw this nincompoop out!" Snithian turned and stalked away, his cloak flapping at his knees. "I'll work cheap," Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. "I'm an art lover." "Never mind that," Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. He turned in at an office and closed the door. "Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. If those pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad. Just how cheap would you work?" "A hundred dollars a week," Dan said promptly. "Plus expenses," he It wasn't fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone off without a hitch. Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearing from closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It was obvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of large canvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards—and leaving the locks undamaged. Snithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. With such a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in the vault—day and night—waiting—he would see for himself how they operated. He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one of the brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the package, he of the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from the night-light over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give him a momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He groped there'd be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at—whatever his discovery might mean to him. "Plenty. Fifteen minutes anyway." The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting. "Ah, magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period." Manny shuffled through the other pictures in the stack. popular with the sparrows." "Manny, sometimes I think your aspirations—" "Whatta ya talkin? I use a roll-on." Manny, turning to place a painting Fiorello. "Listen, I figured out—" "Pretty clever!" Kelly's voice barked. "Inside job. But it takes more aimed it at Manny. "You stay here, Manny! I'm going with Fiorello in the time machine." Hastily he reversed the control. Operating a time machine was tricky business. One little slip, and the Slane molecules would be squeezing in among brick and mortar particles.... But this was no time to be cautious. Things hadn't turned out just the way he'd planned, but after all, this was what he'd wanted—in a way. The time machine was his to command. And if he gave up now and crawled back into the vault, Kelly would gather him in and pin every art theft of the past decade on him. It couldn't be too hard. He'd take it slowly, figure out the knife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance of something thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, it worked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in the usual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be here cage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off with an acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for the "How ... what...?" "The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below a critical value," the voice said. "A necessary measure to discourage went for help," Dan finished lamely. "Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one's anonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps at present. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings?" to catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busily at work studying the ceiling. The beachball head leaned forward interestedly. "Clue me, Dan. What's a time machine?" "Well, it's what you use to travel through time." The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. "Apparently I've loused up my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no idea you were capable of that sort of thing." The immense head leaned back, the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. "And to think I've been spinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art!" "But—don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one?" "That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your time yellow cylinder lying on the desk. "Until the carrier is fueled, I'm afraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd best introduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader Fourth Class, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to develop new sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entire Secondary Quadrant." to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could just materialize out of thin air like that." shouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel, that everyone has. Now—" Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper—"I'll make a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in good condition for me. And in return—" " I'm supposed to supply you with a time machine?" Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. "I dislike pointing it out, desk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan. "Whereas, on the other hand," Blote's bass voice went on, "you and me got the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you up with an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, I should say. What about it, Dan?" "Ah, let me see," Dan temporized. "Time machine. Time machine—" "A sales center?" Blote inquired. "Or a manufacturing complex?" "Both," Dan said. "I'll just nip over and—" "That won't be necessary, Dan," Blote said. "I'll accompany you." He took the directory, studied it. "Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to notice it. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from a large." He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuel "That's right," Dan said, staring through the haziness. "This is where they do time...." He tugged at a lever suddenly the machine veered Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concrete Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attempt secluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in, reached for the controls—

<question>:
Why does Blote collect so much art?

<options>:
A The vaults where they are kept are the easiest to break into.
B His job is to source unique items from his sector of the universe.
C He is influenced by human artwork in his own paintings.
D He uses it to trade for rare items.

<answer>:

B