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

<passage>:
moved? Maybe they had only switched scenery on me while I was caught inside, listening to the phony hum, seeing the flashing lights. Either 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 Get help? Not this old lady and her daughter. Not this Neanderthal sailor on his way to a bar and a blonde. Not the bookkeeper. Maybe the car salesman, 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. "I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." newspaper account of the failure of a monumental human adventure in the to stretch back, ever further away from the glossy fronts into the crumbling stone. A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, carrying a briefcase. And, reassuringly, he was in a hurry. drive me insane! Two men, a girl—" My footsteps carried me on down the block. A little car spurted on past me. One of those foreign jobs, I decided. Only it wasn't. I fixed the silhouette in my mind's eye and identified it. A Henry J. "For my money, Marilyn Monroe is understand these guys who say she hasn't got class. She gets class by I decided to chance it. I certainly wanted to do it in the worst way. There was a stick figure of a man left before me, an economical Modern Man with skeleton supporting the shell of a human being and two-thirds of a . There was a little car at the curb. This time I recognized that it 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 grinned, toothless. part, but a part. "That's not what I want to see. I want—" The old man snickered. "I know what you want. Indeed I do. This way." of my piloting. "What have you done to my mind?" 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, check 'em at the desk when you go." 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 memories. You remember only those things out of the past you Rejuvenation. This is it. Never mind how it works. Most minds can't stand being young and knowing they will have to go through the same 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." , G-8 and his The old man was watching me. He skittered back across the floor and . 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 beta betas a painted-on flying suit hanging from the struts of a Tiger Moth. "This one, this one," he said. "This must be a good one. I bet she 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 beta , and I didn't know, or think that I would ever know. Arlen. Vickers was chattering in answer to Spandaus, firing through the screw Here he comes, the Spandaus firing right through the screw in perfect I'm sick. That damned castor oil in the carburetor. I'll be in the W. C. until oh-six-hundred.... No, the air wasn't one of castor oil but the pleasant smell of aged Sr., in a western as a badman. He was protecting a doll-faced blonde Tom Santschi is sneaking across the top of the rocks, a knife in his Chaney stops his clock for him. Now William Farnum is riding up with The blonde is running toward Farnum as he polishes off the rest of the 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. . The street was full of wooden-paneled station wagons, blunt little roadsters with canvas tops, swept-back, tailless sedans. Only one dark, tailed, over-thyroided car moved through the traffic. It had a light on the roof. I dodged in front of a horse-drawn garbage wagon and behind an electric battles checkering the street behind me. "Madison Avenue," I said from my diaphragm, without any breath behind it. Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed me his hard, expressionless face. "What do you think you are doing?" "This isn't a taxicab?" I asked blankly. "D. &amp D.," the second man said to the driver. Carl shrugged. "What will we do with him?" I was beginning to attach myself to my surroundings. The street was full of traffic. My kind of traffic. Cars that were too big or too "Look, officers, I'm not drunk or disorderly. I thought this was a cab. I just wanted to get away from back then—I mean back there ." 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?" anything!" The car was turning, turning into shadows, stopping. We were in an The men opened their doors and then mine. "Out." I climbed out and stood by the car, blinking. "You were causing some kind of trouble in that neighborhood back there," the driver announced. "Hilliard Turner. There—" "You know about the laws governing pornography, Turner." it, Turner? You a narcotics user?" At that, Carl loped up beside him. 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 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. "Mr. Turner, I can't seem to find any record of an appointment for you "I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?" Turner. For instance, to a certain type of person, I often recommend "Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?" "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. Sergeant's hands were more expressive than his face. "You mentioned "But you did, Mr. Turner. You told me all about thinking you could go "Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you Those hands of his. There was something about them that wasn't so. They might have been the hands of a corpse, or a doll.... have , Mr. Turner! violence will—" to, You aren't going to be able to Immelmann out of this dive, Turner. Good-by, Turner.

<question>:
Why is Mr. Turner so observant of cars?

<options>:
A He is a car mechanic.
B He was a car thief in a past life.
C He loves cars.
D The car models tell him what era he is in at the moment.

<answer>:

D