Philip Dick - In Milton Lumky Territory

Nodding, she sat down her cafe royal. At the first taste she pushed it aside and shuddered. “I can’t drink it,” she said.

“You ought to see a doctor,” he said. “Find out if it’s serious.”

“I hate doctors,” she said. “I know it’s not serious. It’s just psychosomatic. Because I’m worried and full of anxiety, because of my marriage breaking up. I got so dependent on Walt. That was part of the trouble. I was just like a child with him; I let him make all the decisions and that wasn’t right. If anything went wrong I blamed him. It was a vicious circle. Then finally we both realized I had to get free and try living on my own again. I don’t think I was ready for marriage. You have to be able to reach a certain stage before you’re ready for it. I wasn’t. I just thought I was.”

“How long were you married?” he asked.

“Two years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Not long enough,” she said. “We were still getting acquainted. Are you married, Mr. — ” His name did not materialize.

“Stevens,” he said. “Bruce.”

“Mr. Stevens?” she finished.

“No,” he said. “I’ve given it some thought, but I’d like to wait until I’m absolutely positive. I don’t want to make any mistakes on something that serious.”

“Weren’t you going steady with Peg Googer?”

“For awhile,” he said. “Last year or so.”

“Did you live up here?”

“Yes,” he said vaguely, not wishing to spoil the deception that he came from Reno.

“Did you drive up to see Peg?”

“No,” he said. “I came up this way on business.” He told her, then, about Consumers’ Buying Bureau, what he did and what it did. He told her that it sold goods at an average of twenty-five percent off, that it didn’t have to advertise, that its overhead was low because it had no windows to dress and few fixtures to maintain, only one vast long single-story building, like a factory, with counters, and with clerks who did not even need to wear ties. He explained that a discount house never stocked complete lines of anything, only those items that it could get hold of cheaply enough. The items came and went, according to what the buyers could lay their hands on.

Right now, he told her, he had driven up here to Boise to scout out a warehouse of car wax.

That seemed to intrigue her. “Car wax,” she said. “Really? Five hundred miles for car wax ?”

“It’s good stuff,” he said. “A paste wax.” The thing was, he explained, that paste wax did not sell well any more because it was so much work to apply. Now there were new silicates that could be dabbed on and then wiped without rubbing. But nothing gave a finish like good old paste wax, out of a can and not a bottle or spout, and every car owner deep down inside knew that, or thought he knew that. And at a discount sale-price of about ninety cents a can, the wax would move. A man would spend an entire Saturday rubbing it on his car to save a dollar off what he knew to be the retail price.

She listened intently. “And how much will you have to pay?”

“We’ll make an offer on the lot,” he said. His boss had authorized him to start at forty cents a can, and to go up to sixty at most. There was some doubt as to how many cans there were. And of course, if the wax was too old, if it had gotten dry, then the deal was off.

“And you go all over looking for buys like that?” Susan said.

“Everywhere. As far east as Denver and all the way out to the Coast. Down to L.A.” He basked in his grandeur.

“How fascinating,” she said. “And nobody knows where you get the things you sell. I imagine regular retailers come to you very angry and wanting to know if their suppliers sold to you at more of a discount than they get.”

“That’s right,” he said. “But we never disclose our sources of supply.” Now he found himself passing out information ordinarily kept quiet. “Sometimes naturally we do get hold of stuff directly from the local jobbers, at a price. And a really good deal is to drive to the manufacturer—we have our own big trucks—and pick it up direct, at what the wholesaler pays or even less. And then sometimes when a retail outlet goes bust, we get stuff that way. Or overstock that doesn’t move. Or even old stock.”

At the table, Susan Faine stirred her cup of coffee and brandy at so slow and depressed a tempo that he realized his talk had adversely affected her. “And these deals go on all the time?” she murmured. “No wonder I can’t get anywhere.”

“You’re not in retail selling,” he said. “Are you?”

“Oh,” she said listlessly, “I sell a couple of typewriter ribbons and a few sheets of carbon paper now and then.”

She got to her feet and wandered off to stand facing him, her arms folded just beneath her breasts. Her belt, still undone, allowed the top of her skirt to separate where it was intended to fit together, two edges of fabric unconnected and hanging loose. She had narrow, modern-looking hips, and he got the impression that unless she fastened her belt something would presently slip gradually off. But she remained unconscious of herself; she had a frowning, introverted expression on her face. He noticed that she had rubbed off her lipstick; it left her lips straw-colored, with countless radiating lines, a dry mouth. Her skin, too, had a dryness, but it was stretched smooth. In spite of her stark black hair, her skin was light. And her eyes, he saw, were blue. Looking more intently at her hair, he discovered that at the roots it became reddish brown. So evidently she had dyed it. That explained its lack of luster.

And once again he thought, I know her. I’ve seen her before, talked to her; she’s familiar to me, her voice, mannerisms, choice of words. Especially her choice of words. I’m accustomed to listening to her talk. It is a voice as well-known to me as anybody in the world’s.

While he was pondering that, a great wave of sound rolled in from the front of the house. The door burst open, people pushed indoors, turning on lights and chattering. Peg and her clerkish pals had returned home with the ginger ale.

Without batting an eye—as if she didn’t hear the people—Susan said, “I’m very interested in all this. I suppose I really have to be. It’s the new trend in selling, more or less. In fact—” She turned her head as Peg appeared with a paper bag at her shoulder.

“What are you doing back?” Peg said, amazed to see him. “I thought you left.” Sweeping past him she set down the bag on the drainboard. The bag clinked.

“I forgot my coat,” he said.

“How did you get in? The door was locked.”

Susan said, “I let him in.”

“You’re supposed to be lying down sick,” Peg said to her. She left the kitchen and returned to the living room, leaving them.

“Is she angry with you?” Susan said. “She acted strangely after you left. You left so hurriedly. How long will you be up here, before you drive back to Reno?”

“It depends on how I make out,” he said. “A day at the most.”

“I’d like to talk to you again sometime,” Susan said, leaning back against the edge of the sink.

“So would I,” he said. “You know, I have the feeling I know you. But I can’t place you.”

“I have the feeling I know you, too,” she said.

“Of course,” he said, “people always say that.”

“A ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ sort of thing.” She smiled. “instantaneous identification of the beloved.”

That quickened his pulse, hearing that.

“You know,” Susan said, “listening to you talk about selling and buying made me feel better. My stomach’s stopped growling.”

“Good,” he said, shelving such statements off to the back of his mind; they did not go with his image of her, the rest of their discussion and all.