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

<passage>:
pinkish-gray suit that had been cut a long time ago by a Latin tailor—maybe to settle a grudge. The shirt that went with it was distinction. I'd swapped the railroader's cap for a tarnished beret. The man who had supplied the outfit was still asleep. I figured I'd done him a favor by taking it. I couldn't hope to pass for a fisherman—I wasn't the type. Maybe I'd get by as a coffee-house He rolled an eye toward me, shifted his toothpick. "What ya wanna go out there for? Nothing out there." "I'm a tourist," I said. "They told me before I left home not to miss it." I touched his mind, planted a couple of false impressions and withdrew. He blinked, then started up, drove around the field, pulled up at an open gate with a blue-uniformed guard. He looked back at me. "Granthan!" he burst out. "Where are the others? What happened out Belshazzar was sabotaged. So was Gilgamesh screen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostile as a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I would get his reaction to my report. I dozed off—and awoke with a start. "How the hell do I know?" I yelled—or croaked. But Kayle's voice was droning on: have some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make it possible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You've told me yourself that you blacked out during the attack—and came to on it possible to ... ah ... restudy the situation." He didn't meet my eye. I knew what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental anguish of knowing what was coming. I couldn't really blame him he was doing what he thought was the right thing. And I'd have to go along and pretend—right up until the warheads struck—that I didn't know I'd was acting under Gool orders. I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Granthan, psychodynamicist, who had started out with Dayan's fleet six weeks But how could I be sure of that? Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If the Gool were as skillful as we thought, they would have left no overt indications of their tampering—not at a conscious level. But this was where psychodynamics training came in. I had been reacting like any scared casualty, aching to get home and lick his wounds. But I wasn't just any casualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of the mind—and I had been prepared for just such an attack. The immense orderly confusion of the basic memory level lay before me. Abstracted from it, aloof and observant, the monitoring " It is a contact, Effulgent One! " " " It is elusive, Master! It wriggles like a gorm-worm in the eating trough! " intricate. I saw how the decoy pseudo-personality which I had concretized for the purpose in a hundred training sessions had fought At a level far below the conscious, the embattled pseudo-personality lashed out again—fighting the invader. passage, to leave me unaware of its tampering—at a conscious level. Watching the Gool mind, I learned. The insinuating probe—a concept regarding which psychodynamicists had But not if I could help it. The Gool had evolved a plan—but they'd had a stroke of bad luck. In the past, they had managed to control a man here and there, among stations, controller fields. It looked as though a radar-negative boat the size of mine might possibly get through the defensive net with a daring pilot, and as a condemned spy, I could afford to be daring. And I had a few ideas. The shrilling of the proximity alarm blasted through the silence. For a wild moment I thought Kayle had beaten me to the punch then I realized autopilot, at the same time running over my approach plan. The scout was moving in closer. I licked dry lips. It was time to try. ninety-eight. Do not attempt re-entry. Repeat: do not attempt re-entry!" It hadn't taken Kayle long to see that I'd gotten past the outer line of defense. A few more minutes' grace would have helped. I'd play it dumb, and hope for a little luck. A radar man at a site in the Pacific, fifteen thousand miles away, rose from his chair, crossed the darkened room and threw a switch. The radar screens blanked off.... from your gallant attempt. Mr. Granthan, I salute you." The general's arm went up in a rigid gesture. "Stow that, you pompous idiot!" I barked. "I'm no spy!" Kayle was back, blanking out the startled face of the general. "Goodbye, Granthan. Try to understand...." his hand against the destruct button. Men fell on him, dragged him back. "— fool, why did you blow it? " I dropped the contact, found another, who leaped to the panel, attacker. IV It was dark in the trainyard. I moved along the tracks in a stumbling Gravel scrunched nearby. The beam of a flashlight lanced out, slipped along the weathered car, caught me. There was a startled exclamation. I ducked back, closed my eyes, felt out for his mind. There was a confused murmur of thought, a random intrusion of impressions from the city all around. It was hard, too hard. I had to sleep— I gritted my teeth, pulled myself into the car, crawled to a dark corner behind a crate and slumped down. I tried to evoke a personality fraction to set as a guard, a part of my mind to stay awake and warn me of danger. It was too much trouble. I relaxed and let it all slide down into darkness. it from realizing how bad it was. All things considered, I felt like a badly embalmed mummy—except that I was hungry. I had been a fool not me at the railyard, and drove off under the impression he was in town for groceries. He'd never believe he'd seen me. Now I'd had my sleep. I had to start getting ready for the next act of the farce. inconspicuously as possible. I didn't disturb the bandages. I needed new clothes—or at least different ones—and something to cover my shaved skull. I couldn't stay hidden forever. The yard cop had recognized me at a glance. I lay back, waiting for the train to slow for a town. I wasn't unduly worried—at the moment. The watchman probably hadn't convinced anyone he'd actually seen me. Maybe he hadn't been too sure himself. The click-clack slowed and the train shuddered to a stop. I crept to the door, peered through the crack. There were sunny fields, a few low the hills, squirrel hunting, bottle of whiskey.... " I settled into control gently, trying not to alarm the man. I saw through his eyes the dusty box car, the rust on the tracks, the listless weeds growing among cinders, and the weathered boards of carelessly. "When'd you git so all-fired hungry all of a sudden?" "Put it in a bag. Quick." "Look who's getting bossy—" watched from the platform. A rattle passed down the line and the train started up with a lurch. The man walked back toward the girl. I heard him say: "Friend o' mine in there—just passin' through." I was discovering that it wasn't necessary to hold tight control over every move of a subject. Once given the impulse to act, he would rationalize his behavior, fill in the details—and never know that the original idea hadn't been his own. budding twinge of curiosity. It was almost an effort now not to follow his thoughts. It was as though my mind, having learned the trick of district of the city and drove off. I hoped he made out all right with

<question>:
Why did Granthan change from coveralls to a suit?

<options>:
A He had to walk through a swamp
B His coveralls were tattered
C He was in New Orleans
D He was trying to avoid detection

<answer>:

D