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

<passage>:
Galaxy Magazine August 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that 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 newspaper account of the failure of a monumental human adventure in the blooming extinction of a huge rocket. The boys on the corner seemed hardly human, scowling anthropoids in walrus-skin coats. It was my own 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, "For my money, Marilyn Monroe is the 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 were the first issue of Life two-trouser suit. Hide. . 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 And which he had didn't know, or think that I would ever know. He laid down the newspaper. (That subheadline couldn't really be parents, children, grandparents, the caption: Vodka is a Part of the American Tradition. making so nasty a suggestion to a noted general, could it?) "Yes," I laughed, not very true. Something happened. "You aren't, not without help," I told him in disgust. "Spunky, aren't you? I meant mental toughness. That's the one thing the start. Of course, you would still have needed the conditioning to integrate properly." "Conditioning? Conditioning?" It came out of me, vortexing up, outside I followed his spidering hand and sure enough, there they were. Stacks upon stacks of air-war pulp magazines. 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, 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 check 'em at the desk when you go." memories. You remember only those things out of the past you , G-8 and his Battle Aces , have two identities—one of them years beyond the other." face. "Don't go back on me now. We gave you the best we could. The beta . You shouldn't have waited until you were so old, so very old. We used with a girl in the very oldest sets and mock-ups we had for Rejuvenation Service couldn't help it if you were too old for a betas you have never known as for an orphan who has never had a home to be beta ?" and they were only some of the voices I was 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 Arlen. Living in the past, that was always me. I never watched anything on TV homesick. hearing, and I wondered what you could expect from a And my reading was the pulp literature harking back to the First World War. This was the biggest part of it all, I think. beta , and I But the identification I felt with the pilots in air-war stories was slipstream—no, that was a later term—the prop-wash?—no, that was still later—the backlash from the screw, that was it. I was lifting to meet the Fokker triplanes in the dawn sky. Then in a moment my plainly ridiculous. Vickers was chattering in answer to Spandaus, firing through the screw 70. Missed! Right here. claims. 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 paper and printer's ink. I'd been daydreaming again. I shouldn't forget things were getting different lately. It was becoming dangerous. I gathered up an armload of air-war magazines at random. through. I had seen movies like that before. When I was a kid, I had seen Flicker Flashbacks between chapters of The war had made a lot of difference in my life. Comic books were cut down to half their size, from 64 to 32 pages, and prices had gone up to where you had to pay $17 for a pair of shoes, so high that people said Wilson should do something about it. Tom Mix had gone off the air and he and his Cowboy Commandos beat the Japs in comic books. Only, hadn't he sold Liberty Bonds with Helen Morgan? And at school I had bought Defense—War—Savings—Security—Liberty—Freedom—I had bought stamps had been replaced by Gone With the Wind . it. small. "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 ." "Out." Sarge took up the Sky Fighters with the girl in the elastic flying suit. "Filth," he said. voice said above me. I looked up a little bit and saw an ugly, battered hand thumbing across a stack of half a dozen magazines like a giant deck of cards. not 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 Dawn Patrol on television were mere hallucinations. Neither could I remember drinking bootleg hooch in speak-easies, hearing Floyd Gibbons announce the Dempsey-Tunney fight, or paying $3.80 to get into the first run of . Different runs. That was it. The thing had been around half a dozen times. But would it have been $3.80 no more than ten years ago? I struck up a new cigarette. these false memories in a closed curve. been real. But it had been a nightmare. Those cops couldn't have been true. They were a small boy's bad dream about symbolized authority. They were keeping me from re-entering the past where I belonged, mixture of the past with the present, a Daliesque viscosity of reality, one at random, for no particular reason. cigarette commercial. The cool, lovely receptionist told me to wait and I did, tasting mint inside my mouth. "Maybe I had better go." "I won't hear of it." familiar. The door made a strange sound in closing. It didn't go snick-bonk it made a noise like click-clack-clunk . to fight with at the beginning. Or, if you prefer, you can sit "I feel," I said, "that I am caught up in some kind of time travel." Luke Short, John D. MacDonald, Huxley." read the mysteries of Mickey Spillane." the past. Think of the future." time travel...." "But not to the past or to the future," I said. "I know Daredevil Aces " Please younger. (Hadn't I?) I stepped in while he was trying to decide whether to use the hypo on 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. Death. The end of everything you ever were or ever could be. Reality was all over me in patches. I showed through as a line drawing, crudely done, a cartoon. Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant. less, but Down

<question>:
When does the story take place?

<options>:
A 1950s
B 1930s
C 1940s
D 1960s

<answer>:

A