Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

by Philip K. Dick

“Jason Tavern,” the uniformed officer said, examining the document. “Of Kememmer, Wyoming. Age: thirty-nine. A diesel engine mechanic.” He glanced at the photo. “Pic taken fifteen years ago.” “Any police record?” McNulty asked. “No trouble of any kind,” the uniformed officer said. “There are no other Jason Taverns on record at Pol-Dat?” McNulty asked. The officer pressed a yellow button, shook his head. “Okay,” McNulty said. “That’s him.” He surveyed Jason. “You don’t look like a diesel engine mechanic.” “I don’t do that anymore,” Jason said. “I’m now in sales. For farm equipment. Do you want my card?” A bluff; he reached toward the upper right-hand pocket of his suit. McNulty shook his head no. So that was that; they had, in their usual bureaucratic fashion, pulled the wrong file on him. And, in their rush, they had let it stand. He thought, Thank God for the weaknesses built into a vast, complicated, convoluted, planetwide apparatus. Too many people; too many machines. This error began with a pol inspec and worked its way to Pol-Dat, their pool of data at Memphis, Tennessee. Even with my fingerprint, footprint, voiceprint and EEG print they probably won’t be able to straighten it out. Not now; not with my form on file. “Shall I book him?” the uniformed officer asked McNulty. “For what?” McNulty said. “For being a diesel mechanic?” He slapped Jason convivially on the back. “You can go home, Mr. Tavern. Back to your child-faced sweetheart. Your little virgin.” Grinning, he...