"Well, he's not here now," Nicholas said. "He's in Washington DC, three thousand miles away."

"But how grotesque," Rachel said. To be living in the town where the tyrant was born. Like him, it's an ugly little house, a dreadful color. I didn't get out of the car; I didn't want to go near it, even though it seemed to be open, and people were walking around inside it. Like it was a little museum, probably with exhibits of his schoolbooks and the bed he slept in, like one of those California historical sites you see near the highway." Nicholas turned to gaze at his wife enigmatically. "And nobody mentioned this to you?" I said. "I don't think they like to talk about it much," Rachel said, "the people around here. I think they'd rather keep it secret. Fremont probably paid for it to be made into a historical site himself; I didn't see any official state marker."

"I'd like to go there," I said.

"Fremont," Nicholas ruminated. "The greatest liar in the history of the world. He probably wasn't actually born there; he probably had a PR firm pick it out as the kind of place he ought to have been born in. I'd like to see it. Drive by there now, Rachel; let's take a look at it." She made a left turn; presently we were moving along very narrow tree-lined streets, some of which weren't paved. This was Oldtown; I had been driven through it before.

"It's on Santa Fe," Rachel said. "I remember noticing that and thinking I'd like to ride Fremont out of town on a rail.".She pulled up to the curb and parked. "There it is, over there to the right." She pointed. We could see only dim outlines of houses. Somewhere a TV set played a Spanish program. A dog barked. The air, as usual, was warm. There were no special lights put up around the house where, allegedly, Ferris F. Fremont had been born. Nicholas and I got out of the car and walked over, while Rachel remained in the car, holding the sleeping baby.

"Well, there's not much to see, and we can't get inside tonight," I said to Nicholas.

"I want to determine if it's a place I foresaw in my vision," Nicholas said.

"You're going to have to do that tomorrow."

Together he and I walked slowly along the sidewalk; grass grew in the cracks, and once Nicholas stubbed his toe and swore. We arrived at last at the corner, where we halted.

Bending down, Nicholas examined a word incised in the cement of the sidewalk, a very old word put there some time ago, when the sidewalk had been wet. It was professionally printed.

"Look!" Nicholas said.

I bent down and read the word.

ARAMCHEK

"That was the original name of this street," Nicholas said, "evidently. Before they changed it. So that's where Fremont got the name of that conspiratorial group: from his childhood. From finding it written on the sidewalk. He probably doesn't even remember now. He must have played here."

The idea of Ferris Fremont playing here as a little boy the idea of Ferris Fremont as a little boy at all, anywhere was too bizarre to be believed. He had rolled his tricycle by these very houses, skipped over the very cracks we had tripped on in the night; his mother had probably warned him about cars passing along this street. The little boy playing here and inventing fantasies in his head about people passing, about the mysterious word ARAMCHEK inscribed in the cement under his feet, conjecturing over the weeks and months as to what it meant, discerning in a child's mind secret and occult purposes in it that were to blossom later on in adulthood. Into full-blown, florid, paranoid delusions about a vast conspiratorial organization with no fixed beliefs and no actual membership but somehow a titanic enemy of society, to be hunted out and destroyed wherever found. I wondered how much of this had come into his head while he was still a child. Maybe he had imagined the entire thing then. As an adult he had merely voiced it.

"Could be the contractor's name," I said, "rather than the original street name. They inscribe that too, sometimes, when they're done with a job."

"Maybe it means an inspector had gone by here and completed his job of checking all the arams," Nicholas said. "What's an aram? Or it could mean the spot where you check for arams. You stick a metal pole down through a little hole in the pavement and take a reading, like a water-meter reading." He laughed.

"It is mysterious," I said. "It doesn't sound like a street name. Probably, if it was, it was named after somebody."

"An early Slavic settler to Orange County. Originally from the Urals. Raised cattle and wheat. Maybe owned a big land-grant ranch, deeded to him from the Mexicans. I wonder what his brand would be. An aram and then a check mark."

"We're doing what Ferris did," I said.

"But along more reasonable lines. We're not nuts. How much can you get from a single word?"

"Maybe Ferris Fremont knows more than we do. Maybe he put investigators into it, after he grew up and had money; maybe that was a childhood dream fulfilled: to research the mysterious word ARAMCHEK and find out what it really meant and why they had thought to stick it into the sidewalk forever and ever."

"Too bad Ferris didn't ask someone what the word meant."

I said, "He probably did. And he's still asking. That's the problem; he still wants to know. He wasn't satisfied with any of the answers he got - like, „It's the old street name. It's a contractor." That wasn't enough. It portended more."

"It doesn't portend anything to me," Nicholas said. "It's just a weird word stuck in the cement sidewalk that's been here God knows how many years. Let's go." He and I returned to the car and presently Rachel was driving us all back to the apartment.

Several years after Ferris F. Fremont had been elected President of the United States, I moved from the Bay Area to Southern California to be with my friend Nicholas Brady. I had been doing well in my writing career; in 1963 I had won the Hugo award for best science fiction novel of the year for my novel The Man in the High Castle. That book had to do with an imaginary alternate Earth in which Germany and Japan had won World War II and had divided the United States between them, with a buffer zone in the middle. I had written several other well received novels and was beginning to get solid critical comment, especially on my really insane novel The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, which had to do with long hallucinogenic trips by the characters under the influence of psychedelic drugs. It was my first work dealing with drugs, and it soon earned me the reputation of being involved with drugs myself. This notoriety paid off well in sales but came back later on to haunt me.

My real trouble concerning drugs came when Harlan Ellison in his anthology Dangerous Visions said in an introduction to a story of mine that it was "written under the influence of LSD," which of course was not correct. After that I had a really dreadful reputation as a doper, thanks to Marian's desire for publicity. Later on I was able to add a paragraph to the afterword of the story stating that Harlan had not told the truth, but the harm was done. The police began to become interested in me and in the people who visited me. This became particularly true when the tyrant became President in the spring of 1969 and the darkness of oppression closed over the United States.

In his inaugural statement, Ferris Fremont discussed the Vietnam War, in which the United States had been actively involved for a number of years, and declared it to be a two-front war: one front six thousand miles away and the other front here at home. He meant, he explained later, the internal war against Aramchek and all that it espoused. This was really one war fought in two areas of the world; and the more important battlefield, Fremont declared, consisted of the one here, for it was here that the survival of the United States would be decided. The gooks could not really invade us, he explained, and take us over; but Aramchek could. Aramchek had grown more and more during the last two administrations. Now that a Republican had been returned to office, Aramchek would be dealt with, after which the Vietnam War could finally be won. It could never be won, Fremont explained, so long as Aramchek operated at home, sapping the vitality and will of the American people, destroying their determination to fight. The antiwar sentiment in the United States, according to Fremont, derived from Aramchek and its efforts.