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

<passage>:
I guessed I had to run. There didn't seem much else to do. newspaper account of the failure of a monumental human adventure in the a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus stop. crumbling stone. A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, "Listen to me! These people, they're conspiring against me, trying to drive me insane! Two men, a girl—" 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. skeleton supporting the shell of a human being and two-thirds of a two-trouser suit. Cartons, bottles, what looked like the skin of a dehydrated human being—obviously, on second thought, only the discarded skin of one of The old man sat behind a fortress of magazines and books, treacherously And which he had reading the funnies in a newspaper. His bald head swiveled on the hunched shoulders of his sweater which was azuring toward white. He grinned, toothless. answered. parents, children, grandparents, the caption: Vodka is a Part of the American Tradition. All of it lying here to rot. Something made me look away from that terrible trash. "You aren't, not without help," I told him in disgust. "Spunky, aren't you? I meant mental toughness. That's the one thing we can never judge. I think you could have taken the shock right from the start. Of course, you would still have needed the conditioning to integrate properly." rolling off the end of their nose. I've hardly got the heart to throw 'em out." "We've been trying to get it to grow back up," Sergeant said reasonably. "Think of this. Fountain of Youth. Immortality. "Fifteen cents for ones in good condition," the old man pronounced the ritual, "a dime for ones with incomplete covers, three for a quarter, Rejuvenation. This is it. Never mind how it works. Most minds can't check 'em at the desk when you go." stand being young and knowing they will have to go through the same upon stacks of air-war pulp magazines. conscious memories to your id and super-ego, leaving room for new memories. You remember only those things out of the past you have to, to retain your identity." "Identity," I repeated. "I have no identity. My identity is a dream. I have two identities—one of them years beyond the other." Sergeant tilted his head and his eyes at me and slapped me across the face. "Don't go back on me now. We gave you the best we could. The Rejuvenation Service couldn't help it if you were too old for a beta Reluctantly he handed over the magazine, waited a moment, then left me. 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 , and I didn't know, or think that I would ever know. You identify with the hero of any story if it's well enough written. But the identification I felt with the pilots in air-war stories was plainly ridiculous. tail, into the blind spot. Where am I? Where am I? from the rest of the gang, standing them off from a grove of rocks. The the posse. Tom makes a try with the knife, the girl screams, and Chaney turns the blade back on him. It goes through his neck, all the way through. The blonde is running toward Farnum as he polishes off the rest of the gang and dismounts, her blouse shredded, revealing one breast—is aims his six-shooter. No, no, say the girl's lips. "No!" "No!" says the subtitle. Farnum fires. Swimming in blood, Chaney smiles sadly and I dodged in front of a horse-drawn garbage wagon and behind an electric Carl shrugged. "What will we do with him?" The two policemen exchanged glances. "What were you running from?" the driver asked. How could I tell him that? Before I even got a chance to try, he said: "What did you do?" "I didn't do anything!" "Out." "You know about the laws governing pornography, Turner." "Those aren't pornography and they are my property!" I reached for them and Carl pulled them back, grinning. "You don't want to read these. They aren't good for you. We're confiscating them." "Look here, I'm a citizen! You can't—" "Stay away from that neighborhood and stay out of trouble," Sarge's "Why don't you take up detective stories?" he asked me. I never heard the squad car drive away. The solution was obvious. 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 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. I touched my navel area and flinched. The beating, I was confident, had been real. But it had been a nightmare. Those cops couldn't have been 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 rolled over on my face and pushed it into the upholstery. That was the worst part of it. False memories, feelings of persecution, that was one thing. Believing that you are actively caught up in a mixture of the past with the present, a Daliesque viscosity of reality, was something else. one at random, for no particular reason. Dr. Ernest G. Rickenbacker. "I won't hear of it." I could have pulled loose from him, but somehow I felt that if I did try to pull away, the grip would tighten and I would never get away. travel...." "Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?" "No." "Then how can there be any such thing? It can't be real." "I know that! I want to be cured of imagining it." "The first step is to utterly renounce the idea. Stop thinking about the past. Think of the future." "How did you know I keep slipping back into the past?" I asked. damned thing all over again. We use synapse-shift to switch your upper There was something about them that wasn't so. They might have been the hands of a corpse, or a doll.... I closed with him. 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 younger. (Hadn't I?) have any money or identification or a gun. He had a handkerchief and a ballpoint pen. indisputably the second policeman, put his head out of the window Death. A sleep, a reawakening, a lie. It's nothing like that. It's nothing. The end of everything you ever were or ever could be. Reality was all over me in patches. I showed through as a line drawing, crudely done, a cartoon. Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant.

<question>:
What conclusion does the protagonist come to after his encounter with the police?

<options>:
A He must pursue his nostalgic urges and return to the book store to replace the magazines.
B The police officers are also time travelers from WW1.
C He needs to avoid carrying around pornography
D His memories are untrue and cannot be trusted

<answer>:

D