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

<passage>:
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 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 blooming extinction of a huge rocket. The boys on the corner seemed hardly human, scowling anthropoids in walrus-skin coats. It was my own stop. Get help? "I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." time. Anybody could see I was safe, and I could risk doing what I ached to stretch back, ever further away from the glossy fronts into the 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 A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, understand these guys who say she hasn't got class. She gets class by satirizing girls without any...." He was like anybody you might talk to on the street. I knew what he would say if I cued him with "baseball" or "Russia" instead of the key doll of the world. I just don't carrying a briefcase. And, reassuringly, he was in a hurry. I decided to chance it. I certainly wanted to do it in the worst way. with a modern woman fronting it, a Big Big Book of Buck Rogers and the Silver Cities of Venus I went in, the brass handle making me conscious of the sweat on my palm. 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 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. The work I had done at the agency, important, creative work. There was my layout, the rough of the people with short, slim glasses, the My work. "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 shredded by toothy vampires. Yes, they were a part of it. Not a big part, but a part. "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 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. The old man snickered. "I know what you want. Indeed I do. This way." snatched up a magazine. It was a copy of Sky Fighters with a girl in a painted-on flying suit hanging from the struts of a Tiger Moth. "This one, this one," he said. "This must be a good one. I bet she I stared at the stacks of flying story magazines and I felt the slow And my reading was the pulp literature harking back to the First World 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. Vickers was chattering in answer to Spandaus, firing through the screw streets...." Look at that tail go. Tony can't be giving you as good stuff as he claims. I gathered up an armload of air-war magazines at random. through. The blonde is running toward Farnum as he polishes off the rest of the gang and dismounts, her blouse shredded, revealing one breast—is 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? I had seen these pictures before the war. 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. 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 at school. I never did get enough to trade in for a bond, but Mama had taken my book and traded parts of it in for coffee. She could never get enough coffee.... "Nobody would look at my magazines," the old man chuckled, "if I put it 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." 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. have been an aviator in World Memories of air combat in Spads and Nieuports stirred in me by old magazines, Quentin Reynolds, and re-runs of hearing Floyd Gibbons announce the Dempsey-Tunney fight, or paying matinee? Didn't she pay 90¢ for me? So how could I remember taking a "Mr. Turner, I can't seem to find any record of an appointment for you try to pull away, the grip would tighten and I would never get away. I looked up into that long, hard, blank face that seemed so recently familiar. practice for him while he is on vacation." "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." "You should read Turner. For instance, to a certain type of person, I often recommend travel...." "Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?" "But you did, Mr. Turner. You told me all about thinking you could go "Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you Those hands of his. There was something about them that wasn't so. They might have been the hands of a corpse, or a doll.... , Mr. Turner! violence will—" The cool, lovely receptionist was in Sergeant's window with the tiny silver needle in readiness. I kept shuffling toward the girl. I had decided I would rather wrestle Good-by, Turner. drawing, crudely done, a cartoon. Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant. I was kneeling on a hard surface no more than six feet from the window

<question>:
Why does Mr. Turner like to read air-war stories?

<options>:
A He aspires to be a war hero.
B The stories feel real to him because he can relate to the characters.
C He likes to escape his real life.
D He likes to look at the girls in the comics.

<answer>:

B