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

<passage>:
by Alfred Coppel we're all a little neurotic, and the study of neurosis has been able to classify the general types of kinds of work.... The river ran still and deep, green and gray in the eddies with the warm smell of late summer rising out of the slow water. Madrone and birch and willow, limp in the evening quiet, and the taste of It wasn’t the Russian River. It was the Sacred Iss. The sun had touched the gem-encrusted cliffs by the shores of the Lost Sea of Korus and had vanished, leaving only the stillness of the dusk and the lonely cry of From downstream came the faint sounds of music. It might have been a phonograph playing in one of the summer cabins with names like Polly Ann Roost and Patches and Seventh Heaven, but to Kimmy it was the hated cry of the Father of Therns calling the dreadful Plant Men to their feast of [116] up-stream, away from the sound of the phonograph, toward the shallows in the river that would permit him to cross and continue his search along He swung his feet to the bare boards and sat for a moment, wishing he hadn’t had to give up smoking. He could almost imagine the textured taste of the cigaret on his tongue. psychs were the toughest, always wanting him to bug out on the deal because of their brainwave graphs and word association tests and their How could you sit there with pentothal in your veins and wires running pennons flying from the twin towers of Greater Helium or the way the The water swirled warm and velvety around his ankles. There, behind stillness of the river was closing in around him. Even the music from the phonograph was very, very faint. Above him, the great vault of the He paused in midstream, letting the warm water riffle around his feet. Looking up at the green beacon of his home planet, he thought: I’ve left all that behind me. It was never really what I wanted. Mars is where I belong. With my friends, Tars Tarkas the great Green Jeddak, and Carter, the Warlord, and all the beautiful brave people. The phonograph sang with Vallee’s voice: “Cradle me where southern skies can watch me with a million eyes——” Kimmy’s eyes narrowed and he waded stealthily across the sacred river. That would be Matai Shang, the Father of Holy Therns—spreading his arms to the sunset and standing safely on his high balcony in the Golden Cliffs while the Plant Men gathered to attack the poor pilgrims Iss had brought to this cursed valley. “Sing me to sleep, lullaby of the leaves”—the phonograph through. There wasn’t much time left. been handed the mimeographed releases by the PRO and now they sat in They were thinking: Why him? Out of all the scores of applicants—because there are always applicants for a sure-death The Public Relations Officer was speaking now, reading from the mimeoed information given them straight without his help, given grudgingly and feel, he was thinking. And asking themselves why I want to go. They start out burning with desire to cure the human mind and end with casting laced shadows across the burning white expanses of observed in a quiet voice. vaguely into the rumbling night. That’s what it was. Odd that he should “You had to.” “I’d like to know. This is for me.” finally told me it was no go. ‘You don’t live here’ was the way she put it.” what did she They rode in silence, across the dark Base, between the concrete sheds and the wooden barracks. Overhead, the stars like dust across the sky. that.” gulf. “What will you do?” comes.” clinically. Natural under the circumstances? Or neurosis building up . child.” [120] Silence. The rumble of the tires on the packed sand of the road, the murmur of the command car’s engine, spinning oilily, and lit by tiny the launching site. The rocket towered, winged and monstrously checkered could hear the rustling sound of the Plant Men as the evening breeze came up. “Kimm-eeeee—” They were calling him. In the deepening dusk their voices carried far down the river. “Kimmmmm—eeeeeeeeee—” He knew he should answer them, but he did not. Behind him he could hear He stood very still, listening to his sisters talking, letting their voices carry down to where he hid from the dangers of the Valley Dor. “Where is that little brat, anyway?” “Playing with that old faucet—” Mimicry. “‘My “Cracked—just cracked. Oh, where IS he, anyway? Kimmm-eee, you Carter and Tars Tarkas had fought them many times, piling their bodies for barricades and weaving a flashing pattern of skillful swords in the shifting light of the two moons. [121] “Kimmmm—eeee Mom’s going to be mad at you! Answer us!” sandy, river-worn banks. The faucet felt heavy in his grimy hand. He He walked slowly out of the willows, stumbling a little over the rocks. He lay like an embryo in the viscera of the ship, protected and quite alone. The plastic sac contained him, fed him and the rocket, silent now, coursed through the airless deep like a questing thought. Time was measured by the ticking of the telemeters and the timers, but Kimball He dreamed of that summer when the river lay still and deep under the hanging willows. He dreamed of his sisters, thin and angular creatures as he remembered them through the eyes of a nine-year-old—— And his mother, tall and shadowy, standing on the porch of the rented cottage and saying exasperatedly: “ ” He dreamed of the low, beamed ceiling of the cottage, sweltering in the heat of the summer nights and the thick longing in his throat for red hills and a sky that burned deep blue through the long, long days and canals, clear and still. A land that he knew somehow never was, but which lived, for him, through some alchemy of the mind. He dreamed of Mars. And Steinhart: “ What is reality, Kimmy? ” The hours stretched into days, the days into months. Time wasn’t. Time was a deep night and a starshot void. And dreams. He awoke seldom. His tasks were simple. The plastic sac and the tender care of the ship were more real than the routine jobs of telemetering information back to the Base across the empty miles, across the rim of He dreamed of his wife. “ You don’t live here, Kim. ” She was right, of course. He [122] wasn’t of earth. Never had been. My love the sun dwindled and earth The keening sound of air over the wings brought a thrill. Below him, a great curving disk of reds and browns and yellows. He could see dust storms raging and the heavy, darkened lines of the canals. the tricky task of landing. It took all of his talent, all of his training. Ponderously, the ship settled into the iron sand slowly, the internal fires died. unreal, a painting of unworldly quiet and desolation. What is reality, Kimmy? scrambled down through the ship, past the empty fuel tanks and the he gasped at the icy air, his lungs laboring to breathe. was fluttering pennons. Huge golden chariots with scythes flashing on the dream—— Kimmm-eee! Kimmmm-eeeee! The voice was thin and distant on the icy wind. Kimball knew that voice. He knew it from long ago in the Valley Dor, from the shores of the Lost Sea of Korus where the tideless waters lay black and deep—— He began stumbling across the empty, lifeless plain. He knew the voice, or die. They were the hills of home. Transcriber’s Note and Errata

<question>:
Where was the music from the phonograph coming from?

<options>:
A The bottom of the Valley Dor
B Kimmy was imagining the music
C Dr. Steinhart was playing it to study Kimmy's reaction
D Matai Shang's house

<answer>:

B