Philip Dick - In Milton Lumky Territory

“I don’t,” his former boss said. “I’ve never even seen an ad or an inventory list. I can ask around for you, if you want.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said.

His former boss phoned several people, including one of the Pareti brothers who had been out on the East Coast for a time. None of them knew anything about the Mithrias, but one of them believed that he had heard the name before. He thought he had read about it in a magazine article having to do with England.

“That’s something else,” Bruce said. “A tomb they dug up. An old tomb.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” von Scharf said.

“My own fault,” he said. After all, he could have phoned from the Coast and saved himself the trip.

Von Scharf said, “You’d be better off putting your money into children’s toy typewriters.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. You can get a buy on them right now. Sell them at Christmas.”

“What I think I’ll do,” Bruce said, “is try to locate the man who originally told me about them. Milt Lumky.”

“Oh him,” von Scharf said, smiling. “Yes, he represents some paper manufacturer up in the Northwest. Little guy with a deep voice.”

“I didn’t know you knew him.”

“We got some paper through him, once. A hard man to deal with, but scrupulous. He told you about these Jap machines? Well, he’s smart. Maybe he owns a warehouse of them and wants to get rid of them.”

Bruce explained that Lumky was somewhere on his rounds, between Seattle and Montpelier.

“You can get hold of him,” von Scharf said. “You could call his company and ask what his schedule is. Or you could call them and tell them to have him get in touch with you the next time he calls in. Or you could get in touch with some big paper-buyer along his route and ask them to have him call you.”

He pondered. “I guess his company would know.”

He called the Whalen Paper Company on C.B.B.’s phone and told them that he wanted to get hold of Milton Lumky, their sales representative for the Pacific Northwest. After some delay they informed him that Mr. Lumky was on the road between Pocatello and Boise, but that on the 9th of the month he would definitely be in Pocatello. He had an appointment to meet with the owner of a dairy who wanted to order pasteboard milk cartons of a new style. The Whalen people gave him the address of the dairy and the exact time of the appointment. He thanked them and hung up.

“This is the 7th,” his former boss said, showing him a calendar.

“I think I’ll drive up to Pocatello,” he decided.

His former boss said, “If you want to stay here in Reno tonight you can have dinner with my wife and myself and as far as I’m concerned you can sleep on the couch in the living room.”

“Thanks,” he said, “but I want to get started.”

“Would you resent it if I gave you some advice?”

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Be sure you don’t put everything you have on the block. Try to make sure that if everything falls apart you’ll still come out with something. Don’t wind up empty-handed.”

He said, “She’s putting up much more than I am.”

His former boss excused himself and went downstairs to the main floor. He returned presently carrying a wrapped package, sealed with the firm’s special clip that always got fixed on during a purchase. “So you won’t leave here feeling bad,” he said.

“I don’t feel bad,” he answered. But he opened the package. It turned out to be a quart of imported discount Scotch that his former boss had gone down and bought for him at the liquor department. “Thanks,” he said.

“You always talk about liking Scotch.” His former boss shook hands with him, clapped him on the back, and sent him out of the building and onto the sidewalk.

As he got into his car he thought, Now I have a six hundred mile drive to make. But this was one road that he knew perfectly. He stopped at a grocery store and bought some food to carry along with him, and then he set off along highway 40, going East toward the junction with 95. Off to try to find Milton Lumky, he thought. Who is somewhere in Idaho selling paper wholesale in one town or another, driving his Mercedes-Benz and wearing his lemon-colored short-sleeve sports shirt and gray slacks, listening to his car radio and smoking a White Owl cigar.

The road brought him closer and closer to Boise, and he began to want to stop there. He yearned to stay overnight with Susan and Taffy in the house. But near Winnemucca he had had a flat tire, and that had held him up for several hours. He could not afford to cut it too close; he needed to get into Pocatello with plenty of time to spare.

Anyhow his delay altered his schedule and brought him into Boise at three o’clock in the morning. Of course he had a key to the house, but if he stopped at all he would want to stay most of the next day. There would be problems that had come up that Susan needed help with; once that got started he might never leave.

I might simply stay, he thought.

So he drove on through dark, closed-up Boise and out the far side, on Highway 30, the long straight stretch before the obnoxious twists and descents began. Little traffic moved with him. He had the road to himself.

At dawn he pulled off onto the shoulder, went wretchedly around and crawled into the back of the car, and slept. Just before noon the hot sun woke him up. He returned to the front and drove along the road until he saw a roadside diner. There he ate and rested. The owner permitted him to use the diner’s washroom; he shaved, washed the upper part of his body, changed his clothes, squirted on new deodorant, and returned to the car feeling improved.

As he drove, it occurred to him that now he had entered Milton Lumky territory. At any moment he might spy the gray Mercedes. Suppose it was going in the opposite direction? Should he make a U-turn and go after it? Probably it would be going toward Pocatello, so he had only to catch up with it and go on by; his Merc had a higher top speed and that would not be hard to do. But, he thought, suppose it is not Milton Lumky and his Mercedes; suppose it is an entirely different Mercedes with someone else, a total stranger, inside. Suppose I chase it for miles, farther and farther away from Pocatello… but how many gray Mercedes would there be driving around this part of Idaho at this particular time? Still, it would only take one. One in addition to Milt’s.

Or, he thought, I might run into him at a roadside cafe or at a gas station. At a motel. At a drugstore in some small town, both of us buying suntan oil or cigarettes or beer. I might stop at a red light and see him walking along the street of some small town. I might see him off on the shoulder napping in the rear of the Mercedes. In Pocatello, when I get there, I might see him crossing in a crosswalk, or roaming along with his satchel. Anywhere, at any moment. Now that I am in Milton Lumky territory.

He reached Pocatello that evening, just at sunset. The appointment that Milt had with the dairy did not take place until the following morning, at ten-thirty. So he had arrived with time to spare. He turned off at a motel called the Grand View Motel, rented a room, parked his car, and carried his suitcase indoors and set it down on the bed.

It’s even possible, he thought, that the next car that drives in here to the Grand View Motel will be his gray Mercedes.

The evening air was warm. He left the screen door open as he took a shower in the cubicle-like bathroom.

It occurred to him that he might benefit by knowing the exact location of the dairy. So, when he had finished his shower and had put on his dressy single-breasted suit, he set out in the car to search for it. The motel owner gave him complete instructions, and he found the dairy within a few minutes. Naturally everyone had gone home. A row of trucks were parked in the rear, by a metal loading dock. The empty trucks depressed him, and he drove back into town. What a hell of a thing to drive a thousand miles for, he thought to himself. But in the daytime it would be more pleasant.