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

<passage>:
newspaper account of the failure of a monumental human adventure in the blooming extinction of a huge rocket. The boys on the corner seemed way to a bar and a blonde. Not the bookkeeper. Maybe the car salesman, ex-Army, Lions Club member, beefy, respectable, well-intentioned, not hardly human, scowling anthropoids in walrus-skin coats. It was my own "Really makes you sick to hear about something like that, doesn't it?" "This heat is murder, isn't it? Especially here in these concrete to stretch back, ever further away from the glossy fronts into the "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 would say if I cued him with "baseball" or "Russia" instead of the key The little store was right where I left it, rotting quietly to itself. gold, or now, pink and lemon. In the window, in cellophane envelopes, were the first issue of Modern Man two-trouser suit. with a modern woman fronting it, a Big Big Book of Silver Cities of Venus , and a brand-new, sun-bleached copy of Doctor Cartons, bottles, what looked like the skin of a dehydrated human being—obviously, on second thought, only the discarded skin of one of Zhivago And a moldering pile of letters and papers. The old man sat behind a fortress of magazines and books, treacherously reading the funnies in a newspaper. His bald head swiveled on the "Came back for more of the stuff, did you?" 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 "Not that bad. To me it's just—" "Don't tell me reading isn't a craving with some of you fellows. I've 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. "That's not what I want to see. I want—" of my piloting. "What have you done to my mind?" The old man snickered. "I know what you want. Indeed I do. This way." 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." snatched up a magazine. It was a copy of 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 But the identification I felt with the pilots in air-war stories was plainly ridiculous. I was there. I was in the saddle of the cockpit, feeling on my face the bite of the to meet the Fokker triplanes in the dawn sky. Then in a moment my chivalrous in that Fokker. I'd like to trade this skiddoo for it. That You ain't any Boelcke, mister, but this is from the Fifth for Squadron Look at that tail go. Tony can't be giving you as good stuff as he paper and printer's ink. I gathered up an armload of air-war magazines at random. 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 The blonde is running toward Farnum as he polishes off the rest of the gang and dismounts, her blouse shredded, revealing one breast—is I had seen movies like that before. When I was a kid, I had seen heard the oily voice making fun of them. But hadn't I also seen these 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 Japs in comic books. Only, hadn't he sold Liberty Bonds with Helen And at school I had bought Defense—War—Savings—Security—Liberty—Freedom—I had bought stamps taken my book and traded parts of it in for coffee. She could never get "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 postal truck and ran for that light, leaving a trail of gaudy air "No, kill it, Carl. Think of all that damned paper work." "What were you running from?" the driver asked. Before I even got a chance to try, he said: "What did you do?" alley. Soggy newspapers, dead fish, prowling cats, a broken die, half "Officer, I only bought some books—I mean magazines." "These?" the second man, Carl, asked. He had retrieved them from the back seat. "Look here, Sarge. They look pretty dirty." 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—" "Stay away from that neighborhood and stay out of trouble," Sarge's 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. have been an aviator in World 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 on television were mere hallucinations. Neither could I remember drinking bootleg hooch in speak-easies, . Only ... I probably had seen GWTW. Hadn't I gone with my mother to a girl, brunette, red sweater, Cathy, and paying $3.80 each? I couldn't. The doctor's office was as green as the inside of a mentholated cigarette commercial. familiar. click-clack-clunk "I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?" "Some. I read a lot. All kinds of books. Tolstoi, Twain, Hemingway, them instead of live them. Catharsis. Sublimate, Mr. "No." "Then how can there be any such thing? It can't be real." the past. Think of the future." " Please a hypodermic needle. It was the smallest one I had ever seen and it had an iridescence or luminosity about it, a gleaming silver dart. can't win them all, and I had been in a lot of scraps when I had been The movies didn't know much about convection. The updraft nearly lifted drawing, crudely done, a cartoon. Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant.

<question>:
Which of the following comparisons to cravings does the shop owner make when referring to the main character's affinity for air-war pulp magazines?

<options>:
A narcotics
B horror novels
C cigarettes
D pornography

<answer>:

C