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

<passage>:
Get help? 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, ex-Army, Lions Club member, beefy, respectable, well-intentioned, not a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus "I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." "Really makes you sick to hear about something like that, doesn't it?" he said. "I'm in favor of the Lindbergh Law myself." crumbling stone. "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 understand these guys who say she hasn't got class. She gets class by satirizing girls without any...." Only it wasn't. I fixed the silhouette in my mind's eye and identified it. A Henry J. He was like anybody you might talk to on the street. I knew what he Modern Man with a modern woman fronting it, a Big Big Book of Buck Rogers and the , and a brand-new, sun-bleached copy of Doctor Zhivago . "You're tough," Sergeant said as I eased back into focus. "You aren't, not without help," I told him in disgust. "Spunky, aren't you? I meant mental toughness. That's the one thing we can never judge. I think you could have taken the shock right from the start. Of course, you would still have needed the conditioning to integrate properly." upon stacks of air-war pulp magazines. Rejuvenation. This is it. Never mind how it works. Most minds can't 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 conscious memories to your id and super-ego, leaving room for new memories. You remember only those things out of the past you ritual, "a dime for ones with incomplete covers, three for a quarter, check 'em at the desk when you go." "Fifteen cents for ones in good condition," the old man pronounced the to, to retain your identity." beta . with a girl in a painted-on flying suit hanging from the struts of a Tiger Moth. or not, we gave you good service. Don't slip now." I heard the voice and I heard another voice, and it said "What could you expect of a ?" and they were only some of the voices I was hearing, and I wondered what you could expect from a War. This was the biggest part of it all, I think. You identify with the hero of any story if it's well enough written. But the identification I felt with the pilots in air-war stories was plainly ridiculous. synchronization. Look at that chivalrous wave. You can almost see the dueling scar on his cheek from old Krautenberg. He can afford to be A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, streets...." But not enough. God, what a mess. I'm sick. picture tube lay flat. There was an old movie on the channel. An old, old movie. Lon Chaney, Sr., in a western as a badman. He was protecting a doll-faced blonde from the rest of the gang, standing them off from a grove of rocks. The flickering action caught my unblinking eyes. through. The blonde is running toward Farnum as he polishes off the rest of the Doctor Zhivago had been replaced by it. Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed me his hard, expressionless face. "What do you think you are doing?" "D. &amp D.," the second man said to the driver. full of traffic. My kind of traffic. Cars that were too big or too small. "Look, officers, I'm not drunk or disorderly. I thought this was a cab. "Really, officers—" "What's your name?" "Hilliard Turner. There—" Sarge stepped in front of me, his face in deadly earnest. "How about it, Turner? You a narcotics user?" 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. "Why don't you take up detective stories?" he asked me. on television were mere hallucinations. If there was one thing that working for an advertising agency had taught me, it was social responsibility. I took up the phone book and located several psychiatrists. I selected one at random, for no particular reason. Dr. Ernest G. Rickenbacker. I memorized the address and heaved myself to my feet. The doctor's office was as green as the inside of a mentholated cigarette commercial. The cool, lovely receptionist told me to wait and I did, tasting mint After several long, peaceful minutes the inner door opened. "Mr. Turner, I can't seem to find any record of an appointment for you in Dr. Rickenbacker's files," the man said. I got to my feet. "Then I'll come back." "I didn't have an appointment. I just came." "I understand." I looked up into that long, hard, blank face that seemed so recently familiar. "I'm Dr. Sergeant," he said. "I'm taking care of Dr. Rickenbacker's practice for him while he is on vacation." I nodded. What I was thinking could only be another symptom of my me about it? Some people have preconceived ideas that I don't want to fight with at the beginning. Or, if you prefer, you can sit there in front of my desk and tell me all about it. Remember, I'm a psychiatrist, a doctor, not just a psychoanalyst." I took possession of the chair and Sergeant faced me across his desk. "I feel," I said, "that I am caught up in some kind of time travel." "Some. I read a lot. All kinds of books. Tolstoi, Twain, Hemingway, Luke Short, John D. MacDonald, Huxley." "You should 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'?" "No." "Then how can there be any such thing? It can't be real." "I know that! I want to be cured of imagining it." "The first step is to utterly renounce the idea. Stop thinking about the past. Think of the future." "Of course." I stood up. "I did not!" "Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you actually have more control over themselves than you realize. If you will yourself to be calm...." "I I didn't tell you a thing about the Back Number Store. I'm starting to think I'm not crazy at all. You—you're trying to do something to me. You're all in it together." There was something about them that wasn't so. They might have been the hands of a corpse, or a doll.... " Please Sergeant. Sarge. jawbone. He dropped. 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 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. The cool, lovely receptionist was in Sergeant's window with the tiny silver needle in readiness. with her over the needle than fight Carl over the rod. Idiotically, I smiled at that idea. Good-by, Turner. Death. less, but Down

<question>:
What was the protaganists most recent profession?

<options>:
A A police officer
B A creative at an advertising agency
C A pilot in World War One
D A psychiatrist

<answer>:

B