Philip Dick - In Milton Lumky Territory

Having nothing else to do he cruised up and down the highway on both sides of Pocatello, keeping his eye out for the Mercedes. At each motel he slowed down for a good long inspection of the cars parked between the cabins or in the space before the numbered doors. He saw every make of car and every variety of motel, but no sign of the Mercedes. For hours he kept it up, driving back and forth, slowing at each motel or wherever he saw cars parked. Later in the evening the traffic began to thin, and by two o’clock he had street after street of the town to himself. But he continued to drive; he did not feel much like it, but on the other hand he did not care to shut himself up in his motel room and go to sleep. At three o’clock he became too halting in his reactions to continue. Without having had any success he drove back to his own motel, parked, went inside, and prepared for bed.

The next morning he drove over to the dairy.

In the sunlight the place struck him as much more cheerful, although he saw almost as little sign of life. Evidently the milk had been brought in at dawn, bottled and taken off to be delivered; the trucks that he had seen lined up were nowhere in sight. The office of the dairy was a small building at one end of the bottling and pasteurizing plant, and he opened the door and entered.

Behind a varnished oak desk sat a kindly-looking woman of a country sort, wearing a flowered dress. She asked him what she could do for him, and he explained to her that he wanted to see Mr. Lumky when he came in.

“He should be in any time now,” the woman said. She showed him a chair in which he could sit, and some Saturday Evening Posts to read. But he preferred to stand by a window overlooking the company’s parking lot; he watched for the Mercedes, as he had been doing now since entering Milton Lumky territory. It had become an obsession, an end in itself—not Lumky but the Mercedes was the sight he held out for.

Some time later the receptionist approached him and said, “Excuse me, but Mr. Lumky called and said he isn’t going to be able to keep his appointment with Mr. Ennis.”

He regarded her stupidly.

“He said he’s ill,” she said.

“When will he be in, then?” he said.

“He told Mr. Ennis that he’d get in touch with him very shortly.”

“Is he here in town?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “He’s staying somewhere here.”

“Did you find out where?”

“No,” she said. “He said he would get in touch with us.”

He left his name and the phone number at his motel, and walked out of the building.

Now he had no idea what to do. He did what he had been doing; he drove around Pocatello, up one street and along the next, searching for the Mercedes. There was nothing to think about. He had driven this far; he certainly couldn’t leave. So he drove around and around, and at sunset he had still seen no sign of the Mercedes, either in motion or parked.

At six-thirty he ate dinner in a restaurant. Then he stopped off at his motel to see if Lumky had called. Lumky had not called. So again he resumed his driving.

If Lumky was sick, what was the nature of his sickness? How sick was he? Had he had an accident on the road? Or was it nothing more than an excuse to get out of his appointment at the dairy? Suppose, he thought, that Lumky had not gotten to Pocatello at all; suppose he had stopped off in some other town and phoned from there. He might not get to Pocatello at all this time. It might not be until his next round that he showed up at the dairy, in a matter of weeks.

But he kept on driving.

The traffic around him remained heavy until nine or ten o’clock and then, as it had done the night before, it began to thin. By one in the morning he saw only an occasional car.

At two o’clock in the morning he saw the Mercedes.

Ahead of him, at a stoplight, the Mercedes coasted through on the yellow. He had to stop and watch it as it continued on. When the light changed he followed after it, memorizing the pattern of its tail lights. The license plate could not be read; he could not get close enough to it. Maybe it’s another Mercedes, he thought to himself. At night all cars, except bright pastel ones or very dark ones, look gray. He stuck with it, getting closer and closer, and at last he came up beside it. On the door of the car he saw the painted inscription:

WHALEN PAPER PRODUCTS

SERVE THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST

So it was Lumky. He began tapping his horn. The street being dark he could not see Lumky; he had no way of knowing if Lumky recognized him. The Mercedes kept on. He kept on with it, sometimes in front, sometimes beside it. Toward the end of town it began to pick up speed. So he did so, too.

At a stop sign he managed to stop in front of it. Setting the parking brake he jumped out and ran back to the Mercedes. It had started to back away, wanting to pull around his Merc.

“Hey,” he said, banging on the door. The Mercedes continued to back, and then the driver shifted gear and moved forward, swinging out toward him so that he had to leap from its path. He managed to catch hold of the door handle and get it open.

Inside the car, behind the wheel, was a girl, wide-eyed and frightened. She wore a billowy skirt, and her hair was arranged in long curls, very blond hair, so that she reminded him of a carefully brushed and groomed grammar school child scrubbed until she shone. At a guess she was no more than sixteen or seventeen.

“I’m looking for Milt,” he said, hanging onto the door handle as the car drifted forward.

“What?” she said, in a faint squeak.

“Stop your damn car,” he said. “I know this is Milt’s car. Why is he sick?”

The girl put her foot on the brake; she had on laceless slippers. “Milt Lumky?” she said, in her clear, high-pitched soprano.

“I drove all the way up from Reno to talk to him,” he said, panting and nearly incoherent.

Staring at him, she said, “Let me get my breath.”

“Pull over off the road,” he said. Other cars had begun honking at them. He ran back to the Merc, hopped in, and drove to the curb. The Mercedes wobbled over behind him and also stopped. This time he came around on the passenger’s side; he rattled the door handle and she unlocked the door for him. Now she did not seem as scared, but her pale, fragile features were certainly those of a child; he could not believe she was supposed to be driving the car, or any car. Her feet scarcely reached the pedals. In fact, she was propped up on a pillow. He saw, now, that she had a ribbon tied in the midst of her blond curls. The front of her dress was cut low, but she had no figure at all. It was a child’s dress and a child’s body.

“Are you a friend of Milt’s?” she asked, in her little voice.

“Yes,” he said. “I tried to get hold of him at the dairy.”

“He couldn’t keep his appointment,” she said. “I was driving around trying to find a grocery store still open, or some place I could buy a can of frozen orange juice for him.”

“Where is he?” he said.

The girl said, “He’s staying at my apartment. We’ve been living together.”

That explained why he had not seen the Mercedes parked at any of the Motels. “I noticed a grocery store still open,” he said. He had gone down so many streets that he had seen every part of Pocatello. “I’ll show you where it is, if you want to follow.”

Shortly, they had parked in front of a dinky, family-owned grocery store that still had its lights and sign on.

“What’s your name?” the girl said, as they entered the store. When he had told her she said, “He never mentioned you.”

“He didn’t know I was coming,” he said.

While the owner of the store rang up the purchase he got the girl to give him the address. Now, even if they became separated, he could still find Milt. He became elated. What did he have to worry about? One chance in a million…after two days of driving around town. Because Milt wanted frozen orange juice.