The VALIS Trilogy

by Philip K. Dick

"We'll fly up to Sonoma," I said. "Are there others?" I said. "Who've contacted you?"

  "'Happy King' people? Well, we'll talk about that when we get together, your little group and Linda and Mini; did you know that Mini did the music?"

  "Yes," I said. "Synchronicity Music."

  "He is very good," Lampton said. "Much of what we get through lies in his music. He doesn't do songs, the prick. I wish he did. He'd do lovely songs. My songs aren't bad but I'm not Paul." He paused. "Simon, I mean."

  "Can I ask you," I said, "where he is?"

  "Oh. Well, yes; you can ask. But no one is going to tell you until we've talked. A two-word message doesn't really tell me very much about you, now does it? Although I've checked you out. You were into drugs for a while and then you switched sides. You met Tim Leary—"

  "Only on the phone," I corrected. "Talked to him once on the phone; he was in Canada with John Lennon and Paul Williams—not the singer, but the writer."

  "You've not been arrested. For possession?"

  "Never," I said.

  "You acted as a sort of dope guru to teenagers in—where was it?—oh yes; Marin County. Someone took a shot at you."

  "That's not quite it," I said.

  "You write very strange books. But you are positive you don't have a police record; we don't want you if you do."

  "I don't," I said.

  Mildly, pleasantly, Lampton said, "You were mixed up with black terrorists for a while."

  I said nothing.

  "What an adventure your life has been," Lampton said.

  "Yes," I agreed. That certainly was true.

  "You're not on drugs now?" Lampton laughed. "I'll withdraw that question. We know you're squared up now. All right, Philip; I'll be glad to meet you and your friends personally. Was it you who got—well, let's see. Got told things."

  "The information was fired at my friend Horselover Fat."

  "But that's you. 'Philip' means 'Horselover' in Greek, lover of horses. 'Fat' is the German translation of 'Dick.' So you've translated your name."

  I said nothing.

  "Should I call you 'Horselover Fat'? Are you more comfortable that way?"

  "Whatever's right," I said woodenly.

  "An expression from the Sixties." Lampton laughed. "Okay, Philip. I think we have enough information on you. We talked to your agent, Mr. Galen; he seemed very astute and forthright."

  "He's okay," I said.

  "He certainly understands where your head is at, as they say over here. Your publisher is Doubleday, is it?"

  "Bantam," I said.

  "When will your group be coming up?"

  I said, "What about this weekend?"

  "Very good," Lampton said. "You'll enjoy this, you know. The suffering you've gone through is over. Do you realize that, Philip?" His tone was no longer bantering. "It is over; it really is."

  "Fine," I said, my heart hammering.

  "Don't be scared, Philip," Lampton said quietly.

  "Okay," I said.

  "You've gone through a lot. The dead girl ... well, we can let that go; that is gone. Do you see?"

  "Yes," I said. "I see." And I did. I hoped I did; I tried to understand; I wanted to.

  "You don't understand. He's here. The information is correct. 'The Buddha is in the park.' Do you understand?"

  "No," I said.

  "Gautama was born in a great park called Lumbini. It's a story such as that of Christ at Bethlehem. If the information were 'Jesus is in Bethlehem,' you would know what that meant, wouldn't you?"

  I nodded, forgetting I was on the phone.

  "He has slept almost two thousand years," Lampton said. "A very long time. Under everything that has happened. But—well, I think I've said enough. He is awake now; that's the point. Linda and I will see you Friday night or early Saturday, then?"

  "Right," I said. "Fine. Probably Friday night."

  "Just remember," Lampton said. "'The Buddha is in the park.' And try to be happy."

  I said, "Is it him come back? Or another one?"

  A pause.

  "I mean—" I said.

  "Yes, I know what you mean. But you see, time isn't real. It's him again but not him; another one. There are many Buddhas, but only one. The key to understanding it is time ... when you play a record a second time, do the musicians play the music a second time? If you play the record fifty times, do the musicians play the music fifty times?"

  "Once," I said.

  "Thank you," Lampton said, and the phone clicked. I set down the receiver.

  You don't see that every day, I said to myself. What Goose said.

  To my surprise I realized that I had stopped shaking.

  It was as if I had been shaking all my life, from a chronic undercurrent of fear. Shaking, running, getting into trouble, losing the people I loved. Like a cartoon character instead of a person, I realized. A corny animation from the early Thirties. In back of all I had ever done the fear had forced me on. Now the fear had died, soothed away by the news I had heard. The news, I realized suddenly, that I had waited from the beginning to hear; created, in a sense, to be present when the news came, and for no other reason.

  I could forget the dead girl. The universe itself, on its macrocosmic scale, could now cease to grieve. The wound had healed.

  Because of the late hour I could not notify the others of Lampton's call. Nor could I call Air California and make the plane reservations. However, early in the morning I called David, then Kevin and then Fat. They had me take care of the travel arrangements; late Friday night sounded fine to them.

  We met that evening and decided that our little group needed a name. After some bickering we let Fat decide. In view of Eric Lampton's emphasis on the statement about the Buddha we decided to call ourselves the Siddhartha Society.

  "Then count me out," David said. "I'm sorry but I can't go along with it unless there's some suggestion of Christianity. I don't mean to sound fanatic, but—"

  "You sound fanatic," Kevin told him.

  We bickered again. At last we came up with a name convoluted enough to satisfy David; to me the subject wasn't all that important. Fat told us of a dream he had had recently, in which he had been a large fish. Instead of an arm he had walked around with sail-like or fan-like fins; with one of these fins he had tried to hold onto an M-16 rifle but the weapon had slid to the ground, whereupon a voice had intoned:

  "Fish cannot carry guns."

  Since the Greek word for that kind of fan was rhipidos—as with the Rhiptoglossa reptiles—we finally settled on the Rhipidon Society, the name referring elliptically to the Christian fish. This pleased Fat, too, since it alluded back to the Dogon people and their fish symbol for the benign deity.

  So now we could approach Lampton—both Eric and Linda Lampton—in the form of an official organization. Small though we were. I guess we were frightened, at this point; intimidated is perhaps the better word.

  Taking me off to one side, Fat said in a low voice, "Did Eric Lampton really say we don't have to think about her death any more?"

  I put my hand on Fat's shoulder. "It's over," I said. "He told me that. The age of oppression ended in August 1974; now the age of sorrow begins to end. Okay?"

  "Okay," Fat said, with a faint smile, as if he could not believe what he was hearing, but wanted to believe it.

  "You're not crazy, you know," I said to Fat. "Remember that. You can't use that as a cop-out."

  "And he's alive? Already? He really is?"

  "Lampton says so."

  "Then it's true."

  I said, "Probably it's true."

  "You believe it."

  "I think so," I said. "We'll find out."

  "Will he be old? Or a child? I guess he's still a child. Phil—" Fat gazed at me, stricken. "What if he isn't human?"

  "Well," I said, "we'll deal with that problem when and if it arises." In my own mind I thought, Probably he's here from the future; that's the most likely possibility. He will not be human in some respects, but in
others he will be. Our immortal child ... the life form of maybe millions of years ahead in time. Zebra, I thought. Now I will see you. We all will.

  King and judge, I thought. As promised. All the way back to Zoroaster.

  All the way back, in fact, to Osiris. And from Egypt to the Dogon people; and from there to the stars.

  "A hit of cognac," Kevin said, bringing the bottle into the living room. "As a toast."

  "Damn, Kevin," David protested. "You can't toast the Savior, not with cognac."

  "Ripple?" Kevin said.

  We each accepted a glass of the Courvoisier Napoleon cognac, including David.

  "To the Rhipidon Society," Fat said. We touched glasses.

  I said, "And our motto."

  "Do we have a motto?" Kevin said.

  "'Fish cannot carry guns,'" I said.

  We drank to that.

  11

  IT HAD BEEN years since I'd visited Sonoma, California, which lies in the heart of the wine country, with lovely hills on three sides of it. Most attractive of all is the town's park, set dead-center, with the old stone courthouse, the pond with ducks, the ancient cannons left over from used-up wars.

  The many small shops surrounding the square park pandered by and large to weekend tourists, bilking the unwary with many trashy goods, but a few genuine historically-important buildings from the old Mexican reign still stood, painted and with plaques proclaiming their ancient roles. The air smelled good—especially if you emanate from the Southland—and even though it was night we strolled around before finally entering a bar called Gino's to phone the Lamptons.

  In a white VW Rabbit both Eric and Linda Lampton picked us up; they met us in Gino's where the four of us sat at a table drinking Separators, a specialty of the place.

  "I'm sorry we couldn't pick you up at the airport," Eric Lampton said as he and his wife came over to our table; apparently he recognized me from my publicity pictures.

  Eric Lampton is slender, with long blond hair; he wore red bellbottoms and a T-shirt reading: SAVE THE WHALES. Kevin, of course, identified him at once, as did many of the people in the bar; calls, shouts and hellos greeted the Lamptons, who smiled around them at what obviously were their friends. Beside Eric, Linda walked quickly, also slender, with teeth like Emmylou Harris's. Like her husband she is slender, but her hair is dark and quite soft and long. She wore cut-offs, much washed, and a checkered shirt with a bandana knotted around her neck. Both of them had on boots: Eric's were sideboots and Linda's were granny boots.

  Shortly, we were squeezed into the Rabbit, sailing down residential streets of relatively modern houses with wide lawns.

  "We are the Rhipidon Society," Fat said.

  Eric Lampton said, "We are the Friends of God."

  Amazed, Kevin reacted violently; he stared at Eric Lampton. The rest of us wondered why.

  "You know the name, then," Eric said.

  "Gottesfreunde," Kevin said. "You go back to the fourteenth century!"

  "That's right," Linda Lampton said. "The Friends of God formed originally in Basel. Finally we entered Germany and the Netherlands. You know of Meister Eckehart, then."

  Kevin said, "He was the first person to conceive of the Godhead in distinction to God. The greatest of the Christian mystics. He taught that a person can attain union with the Godhead—he held a concept that God exists within the human soul!" We had never heard Kevin so excited. "The soul can actually know God as he is! Nobody today teaches that! And, and—" Kevin stammered; we had never heard him stammer before. "Sankara in India, in the ninth century; he taught the same things Eckehart taught. It's a trans-Christian mysticism in which man can reach beyond God, or merges with God, as or with a spark of some kind that isn't created. Brahman; that's why Zebra—"

  "VALIS," Eric Lampton said.

  "Whatever," Kevin said; turning to me, he said in agitation, "this would explain the revelations about the Buddha and about St. Sophia or Christ. This isn't limited to any one country or culture or religion. Sorry, David."

  David nodded amiably, but appeared shaken. He knew this wasn't orthodoxy.

  Eric said, "Sankara and Eckehart, the same person; living in two places at two times."

  Half to himself, Fat said, "'He causes things to look different so it would appear time has passed.'"

  "Time and space both," Linda said.

  "What is VALIS?" I asked.

  "Vast Active Living Intelligence System," Eric said.

  "That's a description," I said.

  "That's what we have," Eric said. "What else is there but that? Do you want a name, the way God had man name all the animals? VALIS is the name; call it that and be satisfied."

  "Is VALIS man?" I said. "Or God? Or something else."

  Both Eric and Linda smiled.

  "Does it come from the stars?" I said.

  "This place where we are," Eric said, "is one of the stars; our sun is a star."

  "Riddles," I said.

  Fat said, "Is VALIS the Savior?"

  For a moment, both Eric and Linda remained silent and then Linda said, "We are the Friends of God." Beyond that she added nothing more.

  Cautiously, David glanced at me, caught my eye, and made a questioning motion: Are these people on the level?

  "They are a very old group," I answered, "which I thought had died out centuries ago."

  Eric said, "We have never died out and we are much older than you realize. Than you have been told. Than even we will tell you if asked."

  "You date back before Eckehart, then," Kevin said acutely.

  Linda said, "Yes."

  "Centuries?" Kevin asked.

  No answer.

  "Thousands of years?" I said, finally.

  "'High hills are the haunt of the mountain-goat,'" Linda said, "'and boulders a refuge for the rock-badger.'"

  "What does that mean?" I said; Kevin joined in; we spoke in unison.

  "I know what it means," David said.

  "It can't be," Fat said; apparently he recognized what Linda had quoted, too.

  "'The stork makes her home in their tops,'" Eric said, after a time.

  To me, Fat said, "These are Ikhnaton's race. That's Psalm 104, based on Ikhnaton's hymn; it entered our Bible—it's older than our Bible."

  Linda Lampton said, "We are the ugly builders with clawlike hands. Who hide ourselves in shame. Along with Hephaistos we built great walls and the homes of the gods themselves."

  "Yes," Kevin said. "Hephaistos was ugly, too. The builder God. You killed Asklepios."

  "These are Kyklopes," Fat said faintly.

  "The name means 'Round-eye,'" Kevin said.

  "But we have three eyes," Eric said. "So an error in the historic record was made."

  "Deliberately?" Kevin said.

  Linda said, "Yes."

  "You are very old," Fat said.

  "Yes, we are," Eric said, and Linda nodded. "Very old. But time is not real. Not to us, anyhow."

  "My God," Fat said, as if stricken. "These are the original builders."

  "We have never stopped," Eric said. "We still build. We built this world, this space-time matrix."

  "You are our creators," Fat said.

  The Lamptons nodded.

  "You really are the friends of God," Kevin said. "You are literally."

  "Don't be afraid," Eric said. "You know how Shiva holds up one hand to show that there is nothing to fear."

  "But there is," Fat said. "Shiva is the destroyer; his third eye destroys."

  "He is also the restorer," Linda said.

  Leaning against me, David whispered in my ear, "Are they crazy?"

  They are gods, I said to myself; they are Shiva who both destroys and protects. They judge.

  Perhaps I should have felt fear. But I did not. They had already destroyed—brought down Ferris F. Fremount, as he had been depicted in the film Valis.

  The period of Shiva the Restorer had begun. The restoration, I thought, of all we have lost. Of two dead girls.

  As in
the film Valis, Linda Lampton could turn time back, if necessary; and restore everything to life.

  I had begun to understand the film.

  The Rhipidon Society, I realized, fish though it be, is out of its depth.

  An irruption from the collective unconscious, Jung taught, can wipe out the fragile individual ego. In the depths of the collective the archetypes slumber; if aroused, they can heal or they can destroy. This is the danger of the archetypes; the opposite qualities are not yet separated. Bipolarization into paired opposites does not occur until consciousness occurs.

  So, with the gods, life and death—protection and destruction—are one. This secret partnership exists outside of time and space.

  It can make you very much afraid, and for good reason. After all, your existence is at stake.

  The real danger, the ultimate horror, happens when the creating and protecting, the sheltering, comes first—and then the destruction. Because if this is the sequence, everything built up ends in death.

  Death hides within every religion.

  And at any time it can flash forth—not with healing in its wings but with poison, with that which wounds.

  But we had started out wounded. And VALIS had fired healing information at us, medical information. VALIS approached us in the form of the physician, and the age of the injury, the Age of Iron, the toxic iron splinter, had been abolished.

  And yet ... the risk is, potentially, always there.

  It is a kind of terrible game. Which can go either way.

  Libera me, Domine, I said to myself. In die illa. Save me, protect me, God, in this day of wrath. There is a streak of the irrational in the universe, and we, the little hopeful trusting Rhipidon Society, may have been drawn into it, to perish.

  As many have perished before.

  I remembered something which the great physician of the Renaissance had discovered. Poisons, in measured doses, are remedies; Paracelsus was the first to use metals such as mercury as medication. For this discovery—the measured use of poisonous metals as medications—Paracelsus has entered our history books. There is, however, an unfortunate ending to the great physician's life.

  He died of metal poisoning.

  So put another way, medications can be poisonous, can kill. And it can happen at any time.