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

<passage>:
"Really makes you sick to hear about something like that, doesn't it?" he said. "I'm in favor of the Lindbergh Law myself." "I'm not sure whether—" "Listen to me! These people, they're conspiring against me, trying to drive me insane! Two men, a girl—" "For my money, Marilyn Monroe is the doll of the world. I just don't gold, or now, pink and lemon. In the window, in cellophane envelopes, were the first issue of Life two-trouser suit. Hide. into some shadows. The area was littered with trash. Cartons, bottles, what looked like the skin of a dehydrated human being—obviously, on second thought, only the discarded skin of one of the things like the one I had deflated. grinned, toothless. "Came back for more of the stuff, did you?" He laid down the newspaper. (That subheadline couldn't really be making so nasty a suggestion to a noted general, could it?) "Yes," I laughed, not very true. "I know what a craving can be. I shouldn't smoke, but I do. I've tried to stop but I lie there thinking about cigarettes half the night. Long ones, short ones, smoked ones, ones unlit. I feel like I could smoke one in each hand. It like that with you?" "Not that bad. To me it's just—" "Don't tell me reading isn't a craving with some of you fellows. I've seen guys come in here, hardly two threads stuck together on them, and grab up them horror magazines and read and read, until sweat starts rolling off the end of their nose. I've hardly got the heart to throw 'em out." Horror magazines. Ones with lovely girls about to have their flesh 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 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." I ran my hand down a stack. Wings , have to, to retain your identity." have two identities—one of them years beyond the other." Sergeant tilted his head and his eyes at me and slapped me across the , The Lone Eagle beta . , all of them. face. "Don't go back on me now. We gave you the best we could. The betas , but you, you had You shouldn't have waited until you were so old, so very old. We used alpha territory, while they were striking sets, even. Beta or not, we gave you good service. Don't slip now." 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. "I'll take it." pieces. Pieces." beta , and I didn't know, or think that I would ever know. beta ?" and they were only some of the voices I was hearing, and I wondered what you could expect from a 70. Missed! God, what a mess. 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 paper and printer's ink. I'd been daydreaming again. I shouldn't forget things were getting different lately. It was becoming dangerous. Flicker Flashbacks between chapters of Flash Gordon and Johnny Mack Brown westerns. I looked at old movies and 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? Comic books were cut down to half their size, from 64 to 32 pages, and 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 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 replaced by Gone With the Wind . "D. &amp D.," the second man said to the driver. City boys." "No, kill it, Carl. Think of all that damned paper work." Carl shrugged. "What will we do with him?" alley. Soggy newspapers, dead fish, prowling cats, a broken die, half a dice, looking big in the frame of my thick, probably bullet-proof window. Sky Fighters with the girl in the elastic flying suit. "Filth," he said. "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." "Look here, I'm a citizen! You can't—" it, Turner? You a narcotics user?" 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. "Why don't you take up detective stories?" he asked me. I never heard the squad car drive away. 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. Lighting up a cigarette, I watched the shapes of smoke and tried to think. I looked at it objectively, forward and back. 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 Gone with the Wind . American Tradition. All of it lying here to rot. 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. 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 cigarette commercial. The cool, lovely receptionist told me to wait and I did, tasting mint inside my mouth. "Mr. Turner, I can't seem to find any record of an appointment for you snick-bonk it made a noise like click-clack-clunk . "Now," he said, "would you like to lie down on the couch and tell "I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?" "Some. I read a lot. All kinds of books. Tolstoi, Twain, Hemingway, Luke Short, John D. MacDonald, Huxley." read them instead of live them. Catharsis. Sublimate, Mr. Turner. For instance, to a certain type of person, I often recommend "Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?" "Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you Daredevil Aces , bars—and sat down. "Now," Sergeant said, steepling his fingers, "I know of a completely " Please , Mr. Turner! violence will—" A sleep, a reawakening, a lie. It's nothing like that. It's nothing. The end of everything you ever were or ever could be. I hit.

<question>:
What is Mr. Turner addicted to?

<options>:
A pornography
B old magazines
C drugs
D cigarettes

<answer>:

B