"Here is what I will do," I told Nicholas, "rf you spy for the government. First, I will phone the brass at Progressive and tell them. Second, I will park my car out front of your main entrance, and when I see young artists going up the walk with their guitars and high hopes and absolute trust in you, I will stop them and tell them you are a paid - "

"Shit," Nicholas said.

"I mean it," I said.

"Well, I guess I can't do it." He looked relieved.

„That's right," I said. "You can't do it."

"They'll destroy me. It's just like when the FBI men came by originally; it's me they're after. Do you know the possible consequences if they harm Valis?"

"Valis can take care of himself," I said.

"But I can't," Nicholas said.

"In that case you're no different from the rest of us," I said. "Because neither can I."

That appeared to be the end of the conversation. The moral of it, I could have pointed out to Nicholas, is that if you are contemplating informing on people you should tell no one. Telling me had been a mistake, since I had immediately been flooded by visions of his informing on me.

That night I myself received a phone call from a cop, one whom I knew.

"A lot of people have access to your house, don't they?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," I said.

"I have a tip I'm passing on to you. Someone is hiding dope in your house and the local FAP knows about it. If we're sent over to look for it and we find it we'll have to arrest you."

"Even though you know someone else is hiding it?"

That's right," the cop said. "That's the law. Better find it and flush it before we're called to go over there."

I spent the rest of the night looking for it. In all I found five stashes of drugs in five separate places, one even inside the phone itself. I destroyed all of it, but for all I knew I missed some. There was no way I could be sure. And whoever it was could plant more.

The following day two FAPers came by to visit me. These were young: a slender youth in a white shirt, slacks, and tie, and with him a girl in a long skirt. They could have been Mormon missionaries, but both wore the FAR armband. It was the really young FAPers who were the worst, so I was not very happy to see these two people. The FAPer youth were the zealous spearheads.

"May we sit down?" the boy said brightly.

"Sure," I said, not moving. My friend the cop had warned me just in time.

The girl, seated on my couch with her hands folded, said, "We have mutual friends. Nicholas Brady."

"Oh," I said.

"Yes," the boy said. "We're friends of his. He's talked about you a great deal - you're a writer, aren't you?"

"Yep," I said.

"We're not interrupting your writing, are we?" the boy said. They were the epitome of grooming and politeness.

"Nope," I said.

"You've certainly written some important novels," the girl said. "Ubik, Man in the Castle - "

"The Man in the High Castle," I corrected her. Obviously they'd never read my work.

"You and Mr Brady together," the girl said, "have certainly contributed a great deal to our popular culture, you with your stories and he selecting which artists are to be recorded. Is this why you're both living down in this area, the entertainment capital of the world?"

"Orange County?" I said.

The Southland."

"Well, it makes it easy to meet people," I said vaguely.

"You and Mr Brady have been friends for years, haven't you?" the boy said. "You lived together in Berkeley, as roommates."

"Yep," I said.

"And then he moved down here, and after a few years so did you."

"Yeah, well, we're good friends."

"Would you be willing to sign a notarized statement, under oath, as to his and his wife's political loyalty?"

Taken by surprise, I said, "What?" >

"Or would you not be willing to?"

"Sure I would," I said.

"We would like you to draft such a statement during the next few days," the girl said. "We'll help in the preparation of the final draft down at our headquarters. And we will leave you several models to base yours on, as well as an instruction manual."

"What for?"I asked.

"To help your friend," the girl said.

"Why does he need help?" I said.

The boy said, "Nicholas Brady has a suspect background, from his Berkeley days. If he is to retain the position he now holds, he will need the support of his friends. You're willing to give that support, aren't you? You are his friend."

I said, "I'll give Nicholas any and all help I can." As I said it I knew instinctively that I had taken the bait; I was in some vague police trap.

"Good," the girl said, and smiled, whereupon both of them rose to leave. The boy placed a plastic package down on the coffee table.

"Your kit," he said. "Instructions, helpful hints, models; as an author you'll undoubtedly find this very easy. Along with your statement about your friend we'd like you to draft a short autobiographical sketch, so the person who reads your statement will know a little about you too."

"A sketch covering what?" I said, and now I was really afraid, really sure I had fallen into a trap.

There's instructions covering that as well," the girl said, and both of them left. I was alone with the red-white-and-blue plastic kit. Seating myself, I opened the kit and began looking through the instruction booklet, which was printed on fine glossy paper. It bore the Presidential seal and the printed signature of F.F.F.

Dear American:

You have been invited to write a short article on the subject you know best: yourself! It is entirely up to you what matters you consider pertinent and what you feel should be left out. However, you will be graded not only on your inclusions but on what you omit.

Perhaps you have been asked to do this by a delegation of your friends and neighbors, the Friends of the American People. Or perhaps you wrote for this kit on your own initiative. Or perhaps your local police suggested it to you as a way to ...

I turned to the instruction booklet oh the preparation of a notarized statement about a friend's loyalty.

Dear American: . • .

You have been invited to write a short article on a subject well known to you: a close friend! It is entirely up to you what matters you consider pertinent and what you feel should be left out. However, you will benefit your friend by the greatest inclusion. What you write about him will, of course, be kept completely confidential; this article is for official use only.

Perhaps you have been asked to do this by a delegation of your friends and neighbors, the Friends of ...

I went to my typewriter, put paper in it, and began to compose the autobiographical sketch.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

I, Philip K. Dick, being of sound mind and reasonably good health, wish to admit to being a high official for a period covering many years of the organization known to its enemies as Aramchek. In the course of my training for subversion and espionage, I have learned to lie and if not outright lie to distort so effectively that what I say is worthless to those who hold power in this our target nation, the US of A. With these provisos in mind, I will now make a statement about my lifelong friend Nicholas Brady, who has, to my recollection, been a covert advocate and supporter of the policies of Aramchek for years, changing his mind as the official line of Aramchek continually changes in order that it be in accord with the policy 6f People's China and other Socialist powers, not excluding the USSR, one of our earliest acquisitions in the power struggle against man which we have waged since our inception in the Middle Ages.

Perhaps I should speak further of Aramchek, in order to better clarify my own situation. Aramchek, an offshoot of the Roman Catholic Church, is devoted to the principle that the means justify the end. We therefore employ the highest means possible, with no regard to the end, knowing that God will dispose of that which mere man has proposed. In connection with this we employ and have employed every artifice and strategy and resource available to us to thwart the goals of Ferris F. Fremont, current puppet tyrant of these the US of A. During his childhood, to cite one example, we arranged to stencil an indentation of the name of our organization on the sidewalk down the street from the house in which he was born, for the purpose of spooking him in a most forceful way as to the fact that eventually WE WOULD GET HIM.