I had nothing to say; I just looked at him as he sat surrounded by his ubiquitous yellow tins and cans of snuff.
"You'd suddenly find an entity talking to you in Koine Greek," Phil said. "Ancient Greek. From inside your head. And it would view the world the way an early - "
"Okay," I said irritably. "I see your point."
"This „telepathic sender who overpowered you with his personality" is in your own head. Broadcasting from the other side of your skull. From previously unused brain tissue."
"I thought you favored the alternate universe theory," I said, surprised.
"That was fifteen minutes ago," Phil said. "You know how I am with theories. Theories are like planes at LA Internationaclass="underline" a new one along every minute. Instead of another parallel universe, more likely it's a parallel hemisphere in your head."
"In any case," I said, "it's not me."
"Not unless you somehow learned ancient Greek as a child and have forgotten it consciously. And all the rest, like the information you suddenly had about Johnny's birth defect."
"I'm going to look up Sadassa Silvia," I told him. Rachel was not around to hear, fortunately.
"You mean look her up again."
"Yeah, well, I did buy her a fountain pen."
"Something to write with," Phil said meditatively. "An odd thing to buy a girl the first time. Not flowers or candy or theater tickets."
"I explained why -"
"Yes, you explained why. You buy someone a fountain pen so they can write. That's why. That's called final or Ideological cause - the purpose of something. All this that you're involved with ultimately has to be judged in terms of its goal or purpose, not its origin. If a flock of philanthropic baboons decided to oust Ferris F. Fremont we should rejoice. Whereas if angels and archangels decided tyranny was nice we should groan our hearts out. Right?"
"Fortunately," I said, "we don't have that dichotomy to worry about."
Tm just saying," Phil said, "that we shouldn't become too embroiled as to the identity of your mysterious friends; it's what they intend we should concern ourselves with."
I had to agree. The only thing I had to go on was the statement about the conspirators by the Roman sibyl, which is to say, the embodiment of the intergalactic communications network - I still saw it as that. For now, that had to be enough.
That night I received, in my sleep, further information about Sadassa Silvia. In the dream, which shone in vivid sparkling lit-up colors, a great leather-bound book was held up to me. I saw its cover clearly. In gold leaf was stamped:
ARAMCHEK
The book was opened by invisible hands and then laid on a table. All at once, who should show up but Ferris F. Fremont, with his sullen face and heavy jowls; scowling, Ferris Fremont took a large red fountain pen and wrote his name in the book, which, I could see, was a lined ledger.
Now came an old lady with white hair tied up in a bun; she wore a white uniform such as nurses wear, and she peered through thick glasses, like Sadassa's. Smiling in a busy, efficient way, the old lady shut the ledger and hurried off with it under her arm. She resembled Sadassa. And as I witnessed all this, a voice spoke, the familiar quasi-human AI voice I had come to recognize.
"Her mother."
That was all. One printed word, two spoken words -just three words in all. But, instantly awake, I sat up in bed, then got up and left the bedroom, to fix myself a cup of coffee.
Aramchek was of course her mother's name. Aramchek - Sadassa's mother. Her mother signing up none other than Ferris F. Fremont, but signing him up to what? Aramchek, the ledger had said. Her name, the name of a covert subversive organization. A red fountain pen much like that I had bought Sadassa.
Red, subversive, signed up, Sadassa's old mother.
Jesus Christ! I said to myself as I sat in the living room waiting for the coffee water to boil.
It was not a dream; it was an information printout, clear, economical, and direct. It had pulled no punches; like a political cartoon, it had conveyed its message by graphic and verbal means: word and picture combined.
And in conjunction with the literal printout came a flood of auxiliary information, supplied by the same source. This was why my meeting Sadassa was so important: not Sadassa but her mother, who was now dead; I knew that, understood that. The scene I had witnessed happened years ago, when Ferris Fremont was young. He had been in his late teens; it was during World War II, before America got in. Mrs Aramchek was an organizer for the Communist Party, and she had recruited the teenage boy Ferris Fremont; they both lived on the same block in Placentia. The Party had been active among the Mexican-Americans who picked crops in Orange County. Signing up the Fremont boy was an accidental spinoff.
It had not been a one-shot deal, a mere interlude in Ferris Fremont's youth. Because of his personality traits - unscrupulousness and deathless ambition to rise to power over other humans, lack of any fixed value system, an underlying nihilism - Ferris had proved to be exactly what Mrs Aramchek was looking for. She had buried the facts of his Party membership and put him in a special category. Ferris Fremont would be her sleeper, to grow unannounced until the day came, if it could be manipulated into coming, when he held office on the American political scene.
This was grave and frightening, this awareness I now had. Sadassa knew that her mother had been an organizer for the California branch of the CP-USA. She had been a child, then, and automatically recruited - she had seen Ferris Fremont, and later, when he entered politics, after her mother's death, she had recognized him. She had never told anyone, however. She was afraid to.
No wonder she had changed her name.
I wished fervently that my invisible friends had not conferred this knowledge on me; it was too much. And not only this knowledge but acquaintanceship with Mrs Aramchek's still-living daughter. What the hell was next?
Sadassa Aramchek, as she herself knew - as perhaps only she knew - was a living witness to the fact that the President of the United States was a sleeper for the Communist Party. That in fact, as the communications network continued to draw my thinking along the lines of truth, the CP in conjunction with Soviet political assassins, no doubt trained by the KGB, had taken over the United States in the name of anticommunism.
Sadassa Aramchek, who was in remission from lymphatic cancer, knew this; I knew this; the Party in the USSR or at least members of it knew this; and Ferris Fremont knew this.
The shoe ad would have wiped me out; one less who knew it. A poisoned arrow from God knew who aimed at my heart a few days before I met Sadassa. Coincidence? Maybe. But no wonder Valis and his AI web operators had emerged to protect me overtly; I had been only hours away from falling victim to FAP on the eve of encountering the girl I was to link up with.
The antagonist had almost aborted us, powerful as my friends were. Only the omniscience of Valis had warded it off. How close, I thought, it had been.
And what was I supposed to do? Why had Valis selected me out of hundreds of millions of people? Why not an editor of a large newspaper, or a TV newsman, or a famous writer, or one of Ferris's political foes?
I remembered an earlier dream, then, starkly, and my heart slowed almost to a halt, thudding with discomfort. The dream of a record album of Sadassa Silvia. Which meant, graphically and obviously:
SADASSA SILVIA SINGS
That had been the title of the album; I remembered now; although at the time it seemed self-evident that the first LP by Sadassa Silvia should be called that. The other meaning of the verb ‘sing": to spill her story out.
As an executive of Progressive Records I could sign her up. And now I looked back, impressed and awed, at how I had been maneuvered to this valuable point, this position in a successful Burbank recording firm with many top folk artists under contract. Starting back years ago, the prevision of what I took to be Mexico. I would have been worth nothing as a record clerk in Berkeley; what could I have done then? Now I could do something. Sadassa played a guitar; she was good enough, despite what she said, to own and play a Gibson, the most expensive - and professional - acoustic guitar in the business. And she wrote lyrics. The fact that she could not or would not sing was not important; any singer could sing her lyrics. Progressive supplied material to its singers routinely. There were singers who couldn't write and writers who couldn't sing. We matched them up, when necessary; we were the master brokers. We were where it all came together.