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

<passage>:
conceited about your Flashing Eyes, because I'm sure you'll never know how to take advantage of them." When he parted from her downtown, pausing a moment to watch her walk The Invisible Being shifted his anchorage a bit in Earth's 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 that's beyond the reach of Galaxy I'd be out of a job." "And have to scheme up some other excuse for free-touring the Cosmos and were the best of friends. "Well, how many Gifts would you suggest for the test?" "How about two Little and one Big?" the Coadjutor ventured. "Umm ... statistically adequate but spiritually unsatisfying. Remember, the fate of his race hangs on his reactions to them. I'd be inclined to "No—at least I question the last. After all, the Great Gifts aren't as important, really, as the Big Gifts. Besides...." "Besides what? Come on, spit it out!" The Invisible Being was the already well within his race's reach, if not his. After all, they've already got atomic power." on a Galaxy Center test. We're agreed on the nature and the number of our Gifts—three Little, two Big, and one Great?" "Yes," his Coadjutor responded resignedly. Ernie Meeker—of Chicago, Illinois, U.S. of A., Occident, Terra, Sol, across the street to a drugstore. Ernie blinked. After a moment, he pointed toward the center of the Ernie Meeker went home and shaved. Five days—and shaves—later, he "That's true, all right," Ernie agreed, trying to remember how well he them to, in accordance with their flimsy souls, he told himself at the So Ernie Meeker pushed through the little slot beside the mirror and That day, Ernie felt a little sick, somehow. After dinner, he decided Ernie sat down suddenly on the toilet seat. The spoon rattled against serviceable fuel-and-oxydizer mix for most motorcycles, automobiles, trucks, motorboats, airplanes, stationary motors, torque-twisters, translators, and rockets (exhaust velocity up to 6000 meters per eye-testing in between, Ernie took up a little of the white powder on warmer. "Ernie! Are you going to be much longer?" Sleep refused even to flirt with Ernie, his mind was full of so many Ernie Meeker had discovered, inside the birthday box that was himself, the first of the Big Gifts. The trouble was that in that wee-hour, lonely bedroom, it didn't Ernie Meeker was not a drinking man, then. A pint had stood a week on For want of a better place, Ernie dropped the rubber tube from the Further than that, in the way of engine hygiene, Ernie's strictly 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 At that point, simple faith came to Ernie's rescue: in the same bathroom, he had feet behind him, all ready for his day's work as streetcar motorman and wearing the dark blue uniform that always made him look for a moment Ernie swung the hose around, flipping his thumb over the end to make Ernie felt light-headed. He decided there was enough water in the gas "Ernie! Come on in and have breakfast!" It was the day for their monthly drive out to Wheaton to visit Uncle Fabius. On the whole, Ernie was glad his sister was in the car when he motor started right up and began purring powerfully. Ernie's sister "But then how ... Ernie, didn't you once tell me the gauge doesn't work?" "Did I?" "Yes. Look, there's a station. Why don't you buy gas now?" "No, I'll wait for Wheaton—I know a place there I can get it cheaper," Ernie chose a moment when his sister was out of the room to ask if "Who's been getting at you?" Uncle Fabius demanded sharply, to Ernie's They always tell this story about how this man had a white powder or something and demonstrated it once with a pail of water and then disappeared. You're supposed to believe that Detroit or the big oil companies got rid of him. It's just another of those malicious legends, concocted—by Russia, I imagine—to weaken your faith in American With considerable difficulty, Ernie convinced his uncle that he had . When you see him—and be sure to make that soon—tell him from me that—" and Uncle Fabius began an impassioned ninety-minute defense of big business, small business, prosperity, America, money, know-how, and a number of other institutions that defended pretty easily, so that the situation was wholly normal when Ernie's sister returned. Chicago, she reminded him about the gas. "Oh, I've already done that," he assured her. "Made a special trip so I wouldn't forget. It was while you were out of the room. Didn't you hear motor, starting readily again, cut short her remark and Ernie didn't To tell the truth, Ernie wasn't feeling as elated about today's in a trenchcoat, then about it, whether in the general line of starting a fuel-powder company or of going to the F.B.I. From that moment, the fuel-powder became a trial to Ernie rather than a it around with him day and night. Bill spotted it once down at the office and by an unhappy coincidence needed some bicarb just then for a troubled stomach. Ernie explained on the spur of the moment that he was using the box to carry plaster of Paris, which involved him in further lies that he felt were quite unconvincing as well as making him appear decidedly eccentric, even butter-brained. Bill took to calling him "the sculptor." Meanwhile, besides the problem of the white powder, Ernie was having to shock his consciousness and send him hurrying for a few quick shots. Like many another car-owning commuter, Ernie found the traffic and parking problems a bit too much for comfort and so used the fast electric train to carry him five times a week to the heart of the city. During those brief, swift, crowded trips Ernie, generally looking steadily out the window at the brown buildings and black stanchions whipping past, enjoyed a kind of anonymity and privacy more refreshing to his spirit than he realized. But now all that had been suddenly total strangers struck up conversations almost every morning and afternoon. Ernie couldn't figure out the reason and wasn't at all sure he liked She was the sort of girl Ernie dreamed about, improperly. Tall, blonde and knowing, excitedly curved but armored in a black suit, friendly and funny but given to making almost cruelly deflating remarks, as if the She worked in an office too, a fancier one than Ernie's, as he found people?" "Me attractive? No." "Well, I'll tell you then, Ernie, and I've got to admit it's something quite out of the ordinary. I've never noticed it in anyone else. Ernie, I'm sure your knowledge of romantic novels is shamefully in style now—the hero is described as tall, manly, broad-shouldered, Anglo-Saxon features, etcetera, etcetera, but there's one thing he always has, something that sounds like poetic over-enthusiasm if you you, Ernie, actually have. Flashing eyes." "No, Ernie, though you're doing it now," she told him, shaking her head. "No, Ernie, your eyes just give a tiny flash of their own about every five seconds, like a lighthouse, but barely, barely bright

<question>:
Where did Ernie live?

<options>:
A In a small town
B In the country
C In a medium-sized town
D In a big city

<answer>:

D