Philip Dick - In Milton Lumky Territory

“I’m sure glad to see you,” Bruce said. “I was afraid maybe you’d gone on to the next town.”

Upstairs, on the top floor, Milt read the note tacked to the door and then tore it down and stuffed it into his coat pocket. As he unlocked the door he said, “What do you think of Cathy?”

“Very solicitous,” he said.

“I have to pack,” Milt said, holding the door aside for him. “I’m two days late on my route.”

While Bruce stood by, he carried shirts from a dresser to his suitcase. In the bathroom he gathered up his shaving objects.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you last night,” Milt said, as he stuffed pairs of shoe’s into the sidepockets of the suitcase.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Can you talk about it now?”

“What about?” Milt said.

He said, “I’m interested in the Jap typewriters. The Mithrias. I saw one in San Francisco.”

“That’s right,” Milt said. “You can pick them up out there on the Coast. How’s Susan?”

“Fine,” he said.

“Did you kick out Zoe?”

“Yes,” he said. “Now we’ve got some working capital.” For some reason he felt reluctant to tell Milt about his marriage with Susan. “What can you tell me about getting a buy on some Mithrias?” he said. “You talked about it when I saw you before.”

“How much do you have to work with?”

He said, “Enough, if the price is any good.”

“It’s out of my hands,” Milt said.

“Does that mean you used to have an interest?”

“No,” he said. “But I used to know more about it. I was thinking about buying in.”

“And not anymore?”

“If I got them there’s nothing I could do with them. I’d have to hold them and try to turn them over as a job lot to some retailer.”

Bruce said, “What I want to do is sell them. Advertise. But it all depends on the price.”

“Is it your money?”

“Mine and Susan’s,” he said.

“All I can tell you is that there’s one warehouse I know of for sure. But it’s not out here. It’s in Seattle.”

“That’s okay,” he said. He had expected it to be on the Coast; if any existed here, then something had gone wrong.

“That’s right,” Milt said, closing up his suitcase. “You’re a great one for driving around. Cathy says you came up from Reno.” He stuck several objects in his pockets and glanced around for more. “When did you want to get them? The trouble is I’m not going to be back in Seattle for a couple of weeks.”

“I want to get them as soon as possible. If I get them at all.”

“Have you tried one out?”

“No,” he said.

“Don’t you think you better?”

“I will,” he said. “Before I put any money in.”

“You know, you’re a real buyer. You’re not a damn bit interested in the machine; you’re just looking at it as an investment. You’re detached. Aloof, like a scientist.” He slapped Bruce on the arm. “Come on. We’re finished.”

They walked downstairs. “I want to settle this,” Bruce said, “and I don’t see how I can if you hop in your Mercedes and drive off.”

“Can’t you come along?” Then he noticed the Merc. “Oh,” he said. “I just figured I’d give you a lift to Montpelier and we could chew the fat as we went. I was looking forward to company. Why don’t you leave this tank here? I’ll be in Montpelier a day or so and then I’ll be heading back here. You can pick it up again then.”

“And then what?” Bruce said.

“It depends on what we hatch up.” Suddenly Milt became serious; in a low, humble voice he said, “You know, I almost go nuts driving alone on the road. I can really stand company; I mean it. And I’m positive we can figure out something on the Jap machines.”

It occurred to Bruce, then, to wonder how ill the man was. If he required constant care. He quailed from the notion of being Milt Lumky’s nurse, as Cathy Hermes was. And as perhaps other persons throughout Milton Lumky territory were. But he had to settle the business about the typewriters. And if he said no to the idea of going to Montpelier, then Milt would simply wave good-bye and ride off; he had already started the motor and was behind the wheel. Obviously he was in a genuine hurry. It was a wonder he had come back to the apartment at all.

“You can’t stick around here long enough to discuss it?” he said.

“It isn’t a question of that, it’s a question of getting some action started on the thing. Throw your stuff into the back and we’ll be in Montpelier in a couple of hours. Your car’ll be safe here; just get everything out of it and lock it up.”

Reluctantly, he did so. He added his suitcase to the heap of sample cases in the back of the Mercedes, and a moment later Lumky sped out into the mid-morning Pocatello traffic.

The trip between Pocatello and Montpelier was by no means as bad as the trip between Boise and Pocatello. They made good time, seeing mostly farms and orchards; the pavement itself was in fair shape and several portions had been recently laid down. Traffic was light. Lumky did not drive fast, but he kept up a good professional pace, passing slow vehicles and getting out of the path of new Buicks and Cads that wanted as much speed as they could flog out of their three hundred horse engines. He averaged something over fifty-five, which, on that road, was not bad.

That afternoon they reached Montpelier. The local streets were in terrible disrepair, almost a form of degeneracy. In some spots the pavement had entirely broken down, leaving nothing but rubble. All the houses had an archaic, woebegone appearance; they did not need paint or obvious work, but each was a somber neutral color, as nondescript as possible. The houses looked like farmhouses brought together, with weedy lawns and flower beds in between. Many of the cars they saw parked had winter tires, suggesting that during rains the mud made the roads into pigwallows. The first motel they saw had only a dirt pasture in which to park; the cabins were clapboard. shacks and the sign was hand-painted on the wood, not neon. They next passed a tumble-down garage and then two or three gas stations, an ice cream stand, and after that the main street of town with its bars, workman’s clothing stores, tiny theater, and abandoned warehouses that had once served the train during the decades of heavy freight. The air was filled with dust. All the cars they saw were gray with dust. The men on the sidewalks wore wide-brimmed western hats. The sight discouraged both him and Lumky.

“What a place,” Lumky said. “I stay here as little as possible. And right across the border from Utah…” He pointed. “As soon as you go down there you find yourself in a forest, and then you come out in Logan. That’s where I’d like to be. It’s clean. All Utah is clean.”

“I know,” he said. And he thought, This is the extreme edge of Milton Lumky territory. Its frontier.

“In Utah they’d never let this dust blow around,” Lumky said, searching for a parking slot. Mud-spattered pick-up trucks had most of them already, the work vehicles of a farm area. “They have water running down the gutters. Everything’s fertile. They make it that way; it’s due to L.S.D.”

“L.D.S.,” Bruce said.

“That’s right. I’m thinking of ‘LSMFT.’ Of course that’s the joker. If you live in Utah you have to join the Church. It’s a hell of a thing—they won’t let you alone. You can’t buy cigarettes or booze; they look at you funny if you drink coffee. You can’t rent a room or go to the toilet.” He found a parking slot and parked the Mercedes. “These people up here don’t give a damn about anything. The whole town’s collapsing in ruins.” He got out of the car and stepped up on the sidewalk, fastening his belt; while driving he had undone it.