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

<passage>:
panes. I remembered riding up in the elevator, the moments inside, the faint feeling of vertigo. Of course, who was to say the elevator really moved? Maybe they had only switched scenery on me while I was caught My fingers rubbed my head briskly, both hands working, trying to get some circulation in my brain. I guessed I had to run. There didn't seem much else to do. I ran. Get help? Not while I am alive, it won't! It surely was all right for me to let myself do it now. I couldn't have time. Anybody could see I was safe, and I could risk doing what I ached to do. stop. "I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." I turned the corner. The breaks were against me from the start. It didn't come as any surprise. I could never get away with it. I knew that all along. Not this old lady and her daughter. Not this Neanderthal sailor on his I decided to chance it. I certainly wanted to do it in the worst way. My footsteps carried me on down the block. I should have known better, but I wanted to touch him in some way, make him know I was alive. I grabbed him and shook him by the shoulders, and there was a whoosh and as I might have expected he collapsed like the insubstantiality he was. Rejuvenation. This is it. Never mind how it works. Most minds can't ritual, "a dime for ones with incomplete covers, three for a quarter, check 'em at the desk when you go." I ran my hand down a stack. stand being young and knowing they will have to go through the same damned thing all over again. We use synapse-shift to switch your upper "Fifteen cents for ones in good condition," the old man pronounced the , all of them. The old man was watching me. He skittered back across the floor and "I'll take it." Reluctantly he handed over the magazine, waited a moment, then left me. I stared at the stacks of flying story magazines and I felt the slow run of the drop of sweat down my nose. or not, we gave you good service. Don't slip now." I heard the voice and I heard another voice, and it said "What could Beta turns the blade back on him. It goes through his neck, all the way through. Shutting the door, I saw that the copy of Doctor Zhivago had been the roof. I dodged in front of a horse-drawn garbage wagon and behind an electric postal truck and ran for that light, leaving a trail of gaudy air battles checkering the street behind me. I grabbed the handle on the door, opened it and threw myself into the back seat. The second officer leaned forward and clicked something. "I'll get the City boys." Before I even got a chance to try, he said: "What did you do?" "I didn't do "Out." I climbed out and stood by the car, blinking. He grabbed my wrist and started rolling up my sleeve to look for needle marks. I twisted away from him. "Why don't you take up detective stories?" he asked me. I never heard the squad car drive away. Home. I lighted the living room from the door, looked around for intruders for the first time I could remember, and went inside. I threw myself on the couch and rubbed my stomach. I wasn't hurt badly. My middle was going to be sorer in the morning than it was now. I struck up a new cigarette. 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 punishing me to make me stay in my trap of the present. Oh, God. I rolled over on my face and pushed it into the upholstery. That was the worst part of it. False memories, feelings of persecution, one at random, for no particular reason. Dr. Ernest G. Rickenbacker. I memorized the address and heaved myself to my feet. The cool, lovely receptionist told me to wait and I did, tasting mint inside my mouth. After several long, peaceful minutes the inner door opened. I got to my feet. "Then I'll come back." He took my arm. "No, no, I can fit you in." "I didn't have an appointment. I just came." "I understand." "Maybe I had better go." "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. He led me inside and closed the door. The door made a strange sound in closing. It didn't go I seemed to be losing control of the conversation. "But this time travel...." "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. Sergeant's hands were more expressive than his face. "You mentioned time travel...." I blinked. "I did? I did?" "Of course." I stood up. "I did not!" I realized how it all sounded. "Good—GOD!" I moaned. I put my hands to my face and I felt the vein over my left eye swelling, pulsing. Through the bars of my fingers I saw Sergeant motion me down with one eloquent hand. I took my hands away—I didn't like looking through bars—and sat down. I lurched across the desk and grabbed his wrist. " Please I let go of him and stood away. For the first time, Sergeant smiled. I backed to the door and turned the knob behind my back. It wouldn't open. I turned around and rattled it, pulled on it, braced my foot against the wall and tugged. "Locked," Sergeant supplied. 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?) I stepped in while he was trying to decide whether to use the hypo on me or drop it to have his hands free. I stiff-handed him in the solar plexus and crossed my fist into the hollow of the apex arch of his jawbone. He dropped. I gave him a kick at the base of his spine. He grunted and lay still. There was a rapping on the door. "Doctor? Doctor?" I searched through his pockets. He didn't have any keys. He didn't The ledge ran beneath the windows of all the offices on this floor. The fourteenth, I remembered. I had seen it done in movies all my life. Harold Lloyd, Douglas Fairbanks, Buster Keaton were always doing it for some reason or other. I had a good reason. I unlatched the window and climbed out into the dry, crisp breeze. The movies didn't know much about convection. The updraft nearly lifted me off the ledge, but the cornice was so wide I could keep out of the wind if I kept myself flat against the side of the building. smiled at that idea. I slipped. I was falling down the fourteen stories without even a moment of windmilling for balance. I was just gone. Lines were converging, and I was converging on the lines. Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant. I was kneeling on a hard surface no more than six feet from the window from which I had fallen. It was still fourteen flights up, more or less, but Down was broken and splattered over me. I stood up, moving forward a step. It brought me halfway through the screen, halfway through the wall at the base of the building. The other side of the screen. The solid side, I found, stepping through, bracing a hand on the image. Looking up fourteen floors, I saw an unbroken line of peacefully closed

<question>:
What was the protaganists reaction to falling from the fourteenth floor?

<options>:
A He was injured and unable to move
B He fled the scene
C He asked the police for help
D He returned to the fourteenth floor to try again

<answer>:

B