In Milton Lumky Territory (1984)

by Philip K. Dick

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s make it seventy-five.”

  “Seventy-five,” Baranowski said, “at around one hundred dollars each.”

  “No,” he said. “Seventy-five at forty dollars.”

  “Well, glad to have met you.” Turning his back, Baranowski resumed his unpacking.

  Bruce said, “I’ll buy seventy-five machines at forty dollars apiece. Three thousand in cash. I have the cash. No guarantee, but they have to be identical with the machine you loaned me, and in sealed original cartons.”

  In the store room Baranowski said nothing.

  “I’ll give you a call in a day or so,” Bruce said. “So long.” As he started out into the hall he said, “I’ll leave the machine you loaned me. It’s on the table.”

  The door closed after him. Somewhat shaken, he walked downstairs to the ground floor and outside onto the sidewalk.

  THE NEXT MORNING Susan telephoned him. “I got your letter,” she said. “It looks wonderful. Go ahead and buy them. I’m really excited about it. How many do you think you can get?”

  “Time will tell,” he said.

  The day dragged by. Late that afternoon the phone in his motel room rang. Sure enough, it was Baranowski.

  “I’ll make one proposal,” Baranowski said. “Take it or leave it. I don’t go in for haggling. Sixty machines at fifty dollars apiece. I know you’ve got three thousand to spend, and that’s what it comes to.”

  “It’s a deal,” he said.

  “All right,” Baranowski said. “I’m not happy about this, but evidently you’re inexperienced at this so what the hell. Only next time don’t come to a jobber and try to buy a pissant quantity like that.”

  Shortly, Bruce had driven out to meet Baranowski at the warehouse in the industrial section. A contract was typed out on one of the machines, the money passed over in the form of a cashier’s check, and then together they loaded sixty of the sealed cartons into the Merc. Bruce examined each one to be sure that the coded markings were identical.

  “I think I’ll open them up,” he said suddenly.

  Baranowski groaned.

  “Since I’ll be selling them direct,” he said. “And you don’t care if I do.” While Baranowski stood unsympathetically by he carried all sixty cartons from the car and piled them back on the loading platform. One by one, with the blade of a screwdriver, he slit open the cartons, lifted out the machines, and made certain that he was getting what he had paid for. In all sixty he found no variation at all, except that one machine showed a dented side. Baranowski, wordlessly, grabbed up another carton from the warehouse and shoved it in his hands.

  “Good luck,” Baranowski said, and then he disappeared inside the warehouse, for good.

  Bruce drove away with his sixty portable typewriters, feeling the sluggishness of the car under the weight. Had he done right? Too late to worry about that now.

  Returning to his motel he packed his suitcase, paid what he owed, and started the drive back to Boise with his typewriters.

  14

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, at one A.M., he entered Boise. Parking in front of the house he locked up the car and climbed the stairs to the front porch. Letting himself in with his key he went into the bedroom and stood at the end of the bed until Susan awoke.

  “Oh!” she said, staring at him.

  “I’m back,” he said.

  At once she slid from the bed and picked up her robe. “Let’s see them,” she said, buttoning her robe. “They’re still in the car, aren’t they?”

  He said, “I’m too tired.” Seated at the end of the bed he began removing his shoes. “I took it as fast as I could. I only got a few hours sleep.”

  Bending down, she kissed him. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “What a grind,” he said. He finished undressing, and, without putting any pajamas on, got into the bed where she had been. The bed was warm and it smelled of her. Almost at once he was off into sleep.

  “Bruce,” she said, awakening him. “Can I go out and get one? I want to see what they look like.”

  “Okay,” he murmured. And again he fell asleep.

  The next he knew she had seated herself on the edge of the bed, in her robe and slippers. He had the feeling that a good deal of time had passed. “Hi,” he muttered.

  Susan said, “Bruce, are you awake enough to look at something?”

  The tone of her voice caused him to come fully awake, worn-out as he was. He sat up and looked at the clock. An hour and a half had gone by. “What’s the matter?” he said.

  Arising from the bed, she walked to the door of the bedroom. “I want you to look at something.”

  He got up, put his trousers on, and followed her down the hall to the living room. On the table a familiar Mithrias portable had been placed between two stacks of typing paper, one white and one yellow. She had been typing.

  “Here,” she said. She handed him a small booklet, which he recognized as the book of instructions.

  “What about it?”

  “Open it,” she said.

  He opened it. The cover had only the word Mithrias on it, and the first page was a diagram of the machine with each control numbered. He examined the second page.

  The instructions were in Spanish.

  After a moment he said, “Then these didn’t come in to Seattle by ship from Japan. Directly. They must have originally been shipped to Mexico or Latin America.”

  Susan said, “I’m afraid to tell you.” She had a dry-eyed wild expression. “The keyboard isn’t standard.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “A touch-typist can’t use them. I brought in ten of them.” She pointed, and he saw that she had carried ten cartons in, opened them, and gone over the ten machines. “They’re probably all the same.”

  “Explain it to me,” he said. But he understood. “I thought keyboards were standard everywhere.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s different in different countries. This is a Spanish keyboard. See. The upside down question mark. The special n with the tilde over it. The acute mark.” She typed the marks. He had paid no more attention to them than he had to the percent sign or the etc sign. “Some of the letters are in the same position as English keyboards, but some aren’t. Even in this country there used to be several different keyboards; just in this one country alone.”

  Both of them were silent, for a time.

  “Would any typist know that?” he said finally.

  “Yes,” she said. “As soon as they started to touch-type.”

  “Would that mean almost anybody?”

  She said, “We couldn’t sell them unless they had a standard keyboard. There aren’t any machines sold any more without standard keyboards. There haven’t been in years. It’s implied. It’s taken for granted. What did the man who sold them to you say? I want to see the contract.”

  He got out the contract and they examined it. Naturally it said nothing about the keyboard.

  “Has the check had time to go through?” she said. “Anyhow it was a cashier’s check, wasn’t it? So that’s out. We can go to Fancourt and see what he says. I thought you’d want me to wake you up and tell you.”

  “I guess so,” he said, numbed.

  “Do you have any money left?”

  “No,” he said.

  “How were you going to advertise them, then?”

  “Sell a couple,” he said. “Then buy space.”

  “I’m going to get dressed,” she said. She returned to the bedroom and presently she reappeared wearing a dress, her hair tied back. “Do you have a cigarette?” she said, searching around in the living room.

  “Here,” he said, handing her his pack. “I wonder if Milt knew,” he said.

  “Of course he didn’t know,” she said.

  “I think he did,” he said.

  “Milt would never have let you buy them if he had known, she said. “I’ve known Milt Lumky for years.”

  “Don’t you think it’s possible that he was
sore and getting back at us?”

  “For what?”

  “For getting married.”

  “Why?”

  He said, “Because of his interest in you.”

  “I suppose,” she said, “now you want to drive back up there and ask him.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. In his own mind he was convinced that Milt had known. “I guess we’ll have to get rid of them,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “If we can.”

  “It’s possible to sell anything,” he said. “It all depends on the price. Maybe they could be worked over. Keys changed around.”

  “We don’t have any money,” she said. “If you had saved some money out, maybe we could do that.”

  “If I had saved any money out,” he said, “I wouldn’t have been able to get the typewriters.”

  With fury she said, “Wouldn’t that have been a shame.”

  “I spent two days looking over the thing,” he said.

  “And you never noticed the keyboard.”

  “I don’t touch-type,” he said.

  “But it never occurred to you.”

  “No,” he said. “It never did. Well, these things happen.”

  “I’m not used to it,” she said in an almost unrecognizable voice. “I never worked for a discount house that buys up things that are being dumped for one reason or another.”

  “The trouble is,” he said, trying not to pay attention to what she was saying, “that we don’t have enough working capital to write this off. That’s the part that gets me. It’s too bad.” He did not look at her because he was unable to stand the expression on her face. The grim, hard look that he remembered back into the past, the anxiety and impatience. “Let’s go to bed,” he said. “We’ll take a look at the rest of them tomorrow. Maybe they’re not all like that.”

  Susan said, “This is why I wanted to get out of owning a business. Dreadful things like this, when somebody swindles you.”

  Shrugging, he said, “Well, there had to be some reason why they were selling so cheap. Now we found out. But we can probably do something. Don’t -” He broke off. “We’ll fix it up,” he said.

  “More deals?” she said.

  “Something,” he murmured.

  “I feel so strange,” she said in a thin, shrill voice that shook. “It’s my own fault for getting mixed up in this kind of way of doing things. I’m not blaming you.”

  “There’s no issue about blame,” he said.

  “True,” she said, clasping her hands together. “I mean, it’s my own fault. I wanted somebody who could talk this kind of language. I got what I wanted, so why dwell on it?” She began to pace about the living room, straightening things on the mantel, rearranging the magazines on the coffee table. “This is my punishment. I should simply have gotten out of it entirely. Sold my share to Zoe.”

  He said nothing.

  “After all,” she said, “I ought to know how discount houses operate.”

  He said, “We can get rid of them.”

  “How?”

  “In a group,” he said. “At what we paid. To somebody who can afford to work them over. If we had the captial we could probably do it ourselves.”

  “Of course,” Susan said, “you could try to do what that man did to us. You could see if possibly someone wouldn’t notice. If you didn’t notice, maybe there’s somebody else.”

  “That’s right,” he said. His mind began to tangle with it. “I might drive down to Reno,” he said. “It’s just a thought. I’ll talk to my former boss. It’s perfectly possible that I can interest him in them. It would make a good deal for them.”

  “Would you tell him?” she asked. “About the keyboard.”

  He said, “Well, as they say - Buyer beware.”

  “If you do that,” she said, “don’t think about coming back here.”

  “What?” he said.

  She said, “If you drive down there I will call him on the phone; I know his name. I’ll tell him about the keyboard.”

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “I don’t want to pass them along to somebody else. I’ve never done business that way. I’d rather take the loss.”

  “We can’t take the loss,” he said.

  “You mean I can’t take the loss. It’s my place, not yours. I can take the loss. I’ll go out of business before I’ll stick somebody else with them. If anybody wants them knowing what’s the matter with them that’s fine. You don’t understand that, do you?”

  “I understand that you’re sore and both of us need our sleep,” he said. “Let’s go to bed, for Christ’s sake! I’ve been on the road for a week.” Turning, he walked down the hall and back into the bedroom. Sitting down on the bed he unfastened his pants, stood up and stepped out of them and crawled into the bed. .

  Susan appeared at the door. “Listen,” she said. “I’ve had enough. I’ve had all I can stand.”

  Getting out of bed he dressed once more, this time completely. He put on his shirt, his tie, his shoes and socks, and then his coat. “I’ll see you,” he said.

  “Where are you going?” she said, following him down the hall to the living room.

  “Who gives a damn?” he said. He opened the front door. “I’ll see you,” he said, starting down the steps toward his car.

  Behind him she slammed the door so loudly that the sound echoed for miles, up and down the dark deserted street. Dogs, a long distance off, began to bark.

  He got into his car and started it up. A moment later he had started out from the curb and was driving away from the house.

  FOR AN HOUR OR SO he drove aimlessly, and then he found himself on US 95. Presently he turned in the direction of Montario. Why not? he asked himself.

  When he reached Montario he took the familiar route to Peg Googer’s house. As he parked he noticed no sign of lights. Naturally, he said to himself. The time was three or four o’clock in the morning. He got out of the car and walked up the path to the porch. For some time he knocked. Nobody answered. So he walked around the side of the house and rapped on what he knew from experience to be her bedroom window.

  The back door opened. Peg, wrapped up in a white robe, whispered, “My god, it’s Bruce Stevens.” She fluttered uneasily. “What’s the matter? Forget your coat again?”

  He said, “How about letting me stay the rest of tonight? I just got back from Seattle.”

  “Oh no,” she said, blocking the door. “You have a wife now. Or did that slip your mind?”

  “I’m too tired to drive to Boise,” he said. He pushed past her and into the house. When she had managed to lock the door and pursue him he had already begun hanging up his coat in the bedroom closet. All he wanted was sleep; he paid no attention to her as she stood clamoring at him. As soon as he had gotten his clothes off he threw himself into the bed and pulled the covers up over him.

  “And where am I supposed to go?” Peg demanded, a little hysterically.

  He shut his eyes and said nothing.

  “I’ll sleep in the other room,” she said. She gathered up her clothes, and the bottles on the vanity table, and left the room. When she returned she said, “What’s all that in your car? Did you pack up all your things and move out? I’m so curious.” She hung around the bed, waiting for an answer. “If you’re going to sleep here you better tell me. I think it’s against the law or something, isn’t it? Now that you’re a married man. Is Susan going to come looking for you?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Don’t go to sleep,” she said merrily. “I want to talk to you.” She switched on the lamp by the bed. “You really are beat. You look as if you haven’t shaved for a month. Have you been on one of those lost weekends?”

  He said nothing. Finally Peg shut off the light and left the room.

  “Good night,” she said, from the hall. “I have to get up early and go to work tomorrow, so I probably won’t see you. There’s eggs and pork sausage in the refrigerator. Lock up the house when you leave. Y
ou are leaving, aren’t you?” She hovered about once more. “Yes,” he said.

  Finally she shut the door, and he at last was able to go to sleep.

  AT NOON THE NEXT DAY he got out of bed, bathed, shaved, dressed, ate breakfast in Peg’s kitchen, and then drove back to Boise.

  He found Susan down at her R & J Mimeographing Service office, sitting behind one of the desks with a great batch of papers before her. Seeing him she at once put down her cigarette and said in a low voice, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he said.

  “I’m sorry we had a fight,” she said. She sat with her chin in her hands, rubbing her forehead and staring down hollow-eyed. “Bruce,” she said, “this is the end of this place. I just hope it isn’t the end of us.”

  “I hope so, too,” he said, going over and drawing up a chair so that he could sit beside her. He put his arms around her and kissed her; her mouth was dry and only barely responsive.

  She said, “If you want to try to fool somebody else into buying those machines -” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s my fault. I’m responsible.”

  “Why?” he said.

  Under her eyes dark heavy pouches had formed, and, he saw, her throat was wrinkled with despair. “After all,” she said in a wavering voice, “I was your teacher. I helped form your morals.”

  At that he had to smile. “Is it such a moral lapse?” he said. “What do you do when somebody hands you a counterfeit bill? Don’t you pass it on to the next fellow?”

  She said, “No.”

  “Really?” It appeared to him that she was saying it only for the record. “Everybody passes them on,” he said.

  “Don’t you see?” she said. “That’s the difference between us. You think I’m kidding.”

  “I don’t think you’re kidding,” he said. “But I think that in practice -“He changed what he had intended to say. “Theory is one thing,” he said. “We have to get rid of them. Isn’t that right? We can’t absorb the loss. A big place, like C.B.B., could absorb the loss and never know it. They take a certain percentage of losses every year; they buy into bum deals and they expect to. They make thousands of deals a year and by the law of averages, some of them have to go wrong.”