Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said by Philip K. Dick Page B

none?”
    “I—don’t know. Good question. Well, I don’t have Jack. But maybe I don’t want him anymore. It’s been so fucking long. I guess I still need him. But I need you more.”
    Jason said, “I thought you were the one who could love two men equally.”
    “Did I say that?” She pondered as they walked. “What I meant was is that’s ideal, but in real life you can only approximate it…do you see? Can you follow my line of thought?”
    “I can follow it,” he said, “and I can see where it’s leading. It’s leading to a temporary abandonment of Jack while I’m around and then a psychological returning to him when I’m gone. Do you do it every time?”
    “I never abandon him,” Kathy said sharply. They then continued on in silence until they reached her great old apartment building with its forest of no-longer-used TV masts jutting from every part of the roof. Kathy fumbled in her purse, found her key, unlocked the door to her room.
    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 as he wanted them to. No more, no less.
    To Kathy, McNulty said, “He’s not exactly cowering. Does he know who I am?”
    “Yes,” Kathy said. “I—told him. Part of it.”
    “You told him about Jack,” McNulty said. To Jason he said, “There is no Jack. She thinks so but it’s a psychotic delusion. Her husband died three years ago in a quibble accident; he was never in a forced-labor camp.”
    “Jack is still alive,” Kathy said.
    “You see?” McNulty said to Jason. “She’s made a pretty fair adjustment to the outside world except for this one fixed idea. It will never go away; she’ll have it for the balance of her life.” He shrugged. “It’s a harmless idea and it keeps her going. So we’ve made no attempt to deal with it psychiatrically.”
    Kathy, quietly, had begun to cry. Large tears slid down her cheeks and dropped, bloblike, onto her blouse. Tear stains, in the form of dark circles, appeared here and there.
    “I’ll be talking to Ed Pracim in the next couple of days,” McNulty said. “I’ll ask him why he put the microtrans on you. He has hunches; it must have been a hunch.” He reflected. “Bear in mind, the ID cards in your wallet are reproductions of actual documents on file at various central data banks throughout earth. Your reproductions are satisfactory, but I may want to check on the originals. Let’s hope they’re in as good order as the repros you