Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

by Philip K. Dick

The lights had been turned on. And, seated on the moldering sofa facing them, a middle-aged man with gray hair and a gray suit. A heavy-set but immaculate man, with perfectly shaved jowls: no nicks, no red spots, no errors. He was perfectly attired and groomed; each hair on his head stood individually in place. Kathy said falteringly, “Mr. McNulty.” Rising to his feet, the heavy-set man extended his right hand toward Jason. Automatically, Jason reached out to shake it. “No,” the heavy-set man said. “I’m not shaking hands with you; I want to see your ID cards, the ones she made for you. Let me have them.” Wordlessly—there was nothing to say—Jason passed him his wallet. “You didn’t do these,” McNulty said, after a short inspection. “Unless you’re getting a hell of a lot better.” Jason said, “I’ve had some of those cards for years.” “Have you,” McNulty murmured. He returned the wallet and cards to Jason. “Who planted the microtrans on him? You?” He addressed Kathy. “Ed?” “Ed,” Kathy said. “What do we have here?” McNulty said, scrutinizing Jason as if measuring him for a coffin. “A man in his forties, well dressed, modern clothing style. Expensive shoes . . . made of actual authentic leather. Isn’t that right, Mr. Taverner?” “They’re cowhide,” Jason said. “Your papers identify you as a musician,” McNulty said. “You play an instrument?” “I sing.” McNulty said, “Sing something for us now.” “Go to hell,” Jason said, and managed to control his breathing; his words came out exactly...