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

<passage>:
the shoulders and a skeptical growl. Just the same, he ducked his head His Coadjutor, equally invisible and negatively massed, chewed that over. "Mature by his length and mass. Artificial plumage neither overly gaudy nor utterly drab—indicating median social level, which is confirmed by the size of his bachelor nest. Inward maps of his environment not fantastically inaccurate. Feelings reasonably meshed—at least neither volcanic nor frozen. Thoughts and values in reasonable order. Yes, I agree, a satisfactory test subject. Except...." "Except what?" and were the best of friends. "Well, how many Gifts would you suggest for the test?" (or do they on this planet?) and I'm a sort of snake. If he fails the What Little Gifts would you suggest?" Ernie Meeker—of Chicago, Illinois, U.S. of A., Occident, Terra, Sol, packet he'd placed on the coin-whitened glass between them. He gave a suspicious look, as if the customer had palmed them. "There they are," he said, dropping a coin beside them. Ernie Meeker went home and shaved. Five days—and shaves—later, he Maybe, he thought, he'd still had one of the blades from the last packet and shuffled it into this series. Or maybe—although the manufacturers undoubtedly had inspectors to prevent it from happening—he'd got a decent blade for once. Two or three shaves later, it still seemed as sharp as ever, or almost unremarkable face, there was something chilly in his feelings that he studied the bright metal wafer, then flipped it closed with an irritated shrug. As he shaved, it occurred to him that a good detective-story murder Next morning, he was still using the freak blade, but with a persistent though very slight uneasiness. Things should behave as you expected them to, in accordance with their flimsy souls, he told himself at the The third morning, face lathered, he flipped open the razor and lifted before of getting bum shaves by trying to save a penny by pretending to myself that a wornout blade was still sharp enough, when it obviously couldn't be. Or maybe—" he grinned a little wryly—"maybe I'd almost porcupine quills. No, thanks." So Ernie Meeker pushed through the little slot beside the mirror and heard tinkle faintly down and away the first of the Little Gifts, the wonderingly, from tentacle to impatient tentacle. it was the Thuringer sausage he'd eaten at lunch. He hurried up to the soda, preparatory to plunging the spoon into it, it seemed to him that the porcelain finish of the washbowl as he laid it down. He held the box firmly in both hands and studied it. Size, shape, materials, blue color, closure, etc., were exactly as they abandoned the notion and even refrained from sniffing the stuff—after all, the human body is mostly water. After reducing the quantity several times, he gingerly dumped at most shaking it out, and looked. There was nothing to see. He reached out to He cautiously explored the boundaries of the heat. It became noticeable at it softly. It shimmied gracefully, but not, he thought, as much as the flame of a match or candle. It had character. apologetic than peremptory, but he jumped, of course. lunch." things, especially calculations involving the distance between his car and the house and the length of the garden hose. In desperation, as the white hours accumulated and his thoughts began to squirm, he grabbed up the detective story he'd bought at the corner newsstand. He He selected the thickest book on the shelf, an overpoweringly dull Ernie Meeker had discovered, inside the birthday box that was himself, the first of the Big Gifts. churning in it, vividly clear, along with the first chapters of the new detective story. If he kept on absorbing information that fast, he'd have to be revising all his opinions and beliefs every couple of days at least—maybe every couple of hours. It seemed a dreadful, literally maddening prospect—his mind would he was staring at, which imitated the grain of wood, had in an instant become so fully part of his consciousness that he felt he could turn his back on it right now and draw a picture of it correct to the tiniest detail. But who would ever want to do such a thing, or want to himself, generated by the excitement of the crazy discovery he'd made in the bathroom. Like the thoughts of a drowning man, riffling an on the verge of visualizing the whole universe, having its ultimate secrets patter down into the palm of his outstretched hand—just before Ernie Meeker was not a drinking man, then. A pint had stood a week on wasn't as it ideally should be in an ambitious man's mind, was at least darn comfortable. He had not rejected the Big Gift of Page-at-a-Glance Reading. Not and was relieved to find it still empty. He wished fervently, not for sighed, squared his shoulders a little, and lifted the box out of his with some friend who knew more than himself about motors (he hadn't decided anyway who that would be). It would be just too silly to approach anyone he knew with a more-than-wild story and featureless blue box. Quickly he dipped up a little of the white powder on the edge of a His neighbor's gate was open and Mr. Jones stood open-mouthed a few The first things he watered were the bottoms of Mr. Jones's pants legs. Mr. Jones voiced no complaint. He backed off several steps, stared "Ernie! Come on in and have breakfast!" He heeded his sister's call, telling himself it would be a good idea "to give the stuff time to mix" before testing the engine. He had divined her question and was ready with an answer. turned the key in the starter—it forced him to be calm and collected, though he didn't feel exactly right about exposing her to the danger spoiled, but a few minutes of silence brought it back. He thought of surprise and embarrassment. "That's one of the oldest swindles. or something and demonstrated it once with a pail of water and then concocted—by Russia, I imagine—to weaken your faith in American Industry, like the everlasting battery or the razor blade that never To tell the truth, Ernie wasn't feeling as elated about today's his finger on the reason: It was the completely ... well, arbitrary way in which the white powder had come into his possession. If he'd concocted it himself, or been given it by a shady promoter, or he'd have felt more able to do something And how? His mind shied away from the problem, rather decisively. From that moment, the fuel-powder became a trial to Ernie rather than a secret glory. He'd wake in the middle of the night doubting that he had ever really read the mind-dizzying lettering, ever really tested the stuff—perhaps he'd bring from sleep the chilling notion that in the ideas away, but they kept coming back. And yet he did no more bathroom testing. the morning for the act, but nevertheless as he was returning indoors He couldn't decide on a safe place to keep the box and took to carrying it around with him day and night. Bill spotted it once down at the troubled stomach. Ernie explained on the spur of the moment that he was Meanwhile, besides the problem of the white powder, Ernie was having total strangers struck up conversations almost every morning and afternoon. asking her to lunch, but he was prodding himself. place and then put up with his clumsy babblings on subsequent mornings was a mystery to him. He finally asked her about it in what he hoped deficient, it's clear from your manners, but in the earlier ones—not

<question>:
What did Meeker do with his first present?

<options>:
A Gave it away to his uncle
B Threw it away
C Let his coworkers borrow it to see if it was only him that noticed it’s specialties
D Studied it carefully and hatched plans to replicate it

<answer>:

B