input: Text: THE AIR OF CASTOR OIL BY JIM HARMON Illustrated by WALKER Let the dead past bury its dead? Not while I am alive, it won't! It surely was all right for me to let myself do it now. I couldn't have been more safe. In the window of the radio store a color television 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 blooming extinction of a huge rocket. The boys on the corner seemed hardly human, scowling anthropoids in walrus-skin coats. It was my own time. Anybody could see I was safe, and I could risk doing what I ached to do. I turned the corner. The breaks were against me from the start. It didn't come as any surprise. I could never get away with it. I knew that all along. There was a Packard parked just beyond the fire plug. The metal and glass fronts of the buildings didn't show back here, only seasoned brick glued with powdering chalk. The line of the block seemed to stretch back, ever further away from the glossy fronts into the crumbling stone. A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, 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. My footsteps carried me on down the block. A little car spurted on past me. One of those foreign jobs, I decided. Only it wasn't. I fixed the silhouette in my mind's eye and identified it. A Henry J. Still, I wasn't worried. It was actually too early in the day. It wasn't as if it were evening or anything like that. The little store was right where I left it, rotting quietly to itself. The Back Number Store, the faded circus poster proclaimed in red and gold, or now, pink and lemon.
  Question: What does Mr. Turner do for a job?
  
   (A) He directs war films.
   (B) He is a mechanic. 
   (C) He writes comics.
   (D) He works in advertising. 
  Answer:
output: He works in advertising.