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 moved? Maybe they had only switched scenery on me while I was caught inside, listening to the phony hum, seeing the flashing lights. Either cut down or increase the oxygen supply inside the cubicle suddenly and 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 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 a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus stop. 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. There was a Packard parked just beyond the fire plug. The metal and glass fronts of the buildings didn't show back here, only "I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, carrying a briefcase. And, reassuringly, he was in a hurry. I decided to chance it. I certainly wanted to do it in the worst way. My footsteps carried me on down the block. Still, I wasn't worried. It was actually too early in the day. It wasn't as if it were evening or anything like that. The little store was right where I left it, rotting quietly to itself. The Back Number Store, the faded circus poster proclaimed in red and gold, or now, pink and lemon. In the window, in cellophane envelopes, 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 The old man snickered. "I know what you want. Indeed I do. This way." I followed his spidering hand and sure enough, there they were. Stacks "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 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. different lately. It was becoming dangerous. I gathered up an armload of air-war magazines at random. Leaning across the table, I noticed the curtain in back for the first time. It was a beaded curtain of many different colors. Theda Bara might have worn it for a skirt. Behind the curtain was a television set. It was a comforting anti-anachronism here. The six- or eight-inch picture was on a very flat tube, a more pronounced Predicta. The size and the flatness didn't seem to go together. Then I saw that the top part of the set was a mirror reflecting an image from the roof of the cabinet where the actual picture tube lay flat. aims his six-shooter. No, no, say the girl's lips. "No!" "No!" says taken my book and traded parts of it in for coffee. She could never get enough coffee.... "Nobody would look at my magazines," the old man chuckled, "if I put it out front. My boy got me that. He runs a radio and Victrola store. A good boy. His name's in the fishbowl." I pressed some money on him and walked myself out of the store. Shutting the door, I saw that the copy of 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. it. Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed "D. &amp D.," the second man said to the driver. "Right into our laps." The second officer leaned forward and clicked something. "I'll get the City boys." "No, kill it, Carl. Think of all that damned paper work." window. 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. "We don't want you going back there again, Turner, causing trouble. Understand?" "Officer, I only bought some books—I mean magazines." "These?" the second man, Carl, asked. He had retrieved them from the back seat. "Look here, Sarge. They look pretty dirty." Sarge took up the Sky Fighters "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." "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. Oh, God. I rolled over on my face and pushed it into the upholstery. 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 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. I nodded. What I was thinking could only be another symptom of my illness. He led me inside and closed the door. The door made a strange sound in closing. It didn't go "The first step is to utterly renounce the idea. Stop thinking about hands of a corpse, or a doll.... 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. He was coming toward me, I could tell. I wheeled and faced him. He had younger. (Hadn't I?) I stepped in while he was trying to decide whether to use the hypo on 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 have any money or identification or a gun. He had a handkerchief and a ballpoint pen. The receptionist had moved away from the door and was talking to somebody, in person or on the phone or intercom. There wasn't any back door. 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 next window was about twenty feet away. I had covered half that distance, moving my feet with a sideways crab motion, when Carl, indisputably the second policeman, put his head out of the window where I was heading and pointed a .38 revolver at me, saying in a let's-have-no-foolishness tone: "Get in here." I went the other way. I kept shuffling toward the girl. I had decided I would rather wrestle 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

<question>:
What does the shopkeeper think would make people stop looking at his magazines?

<options>:
A If he got a radio for the store
B If he raised the prices
C If he started carrying more comic books
D If he moved his television to the front of the store

<answer>:

D