A Bottle of Old Wine

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  _A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escape reality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too._

  A BOTTLE OF _Old Wine_

  By Richard O. Lewis

  Illustrated by KELLY FREAS

  Herbert Hyrel settled himself more comfortably in his easy chair,extended his short legs further toward the fireplace, and let his eyestravel cautiously in the general direction of his wife.

  She was in her chair as usual, her long legs curled up beneath her, theupper half of her face hidden in the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis, of a stereoscopic nature,seemingly brought the performers with all their tinsel and colordirectly into the room of the watcher.

  Hyrel had no way of seeing into the plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on the lower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-market sex-operas. In any event, therewould be no sound, movement, or sign of life from her for the next threehours. To break the thread of the play for even a moment would ruin allthe previous emotional build-up.

  There had been a time when he hated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours during which he was completely ignored. It wasdifferent now, however, for those hours furnished him with time for anescape of his own.

  His lips curled into a tight smile and his right hand fondled theunobtrusive switch beneath his trouser leg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minutes longer. But it was comforting to know thatit was there, exhilarating to know that he could escape for a few hoursby a mere flick of his finger.

  He let his eyes stray to the dim light of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was not bounded merely by those lonely hoursshe had forced upon him. No, it was far more encompassing.

  He hated her with a deep, burning savagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for her money, the money she kept securely fromhim. He hated her for the paltry allowance she doled out to him, as ifhe were an irresponsible child. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in every glance and gesture, "I made a bad bargain when Imarried you. You wanted me, my money, everything, and had nothing togive in return except your own doltish self. You set a trap for me,baited with lies and a false front. Now you are caught in your own trapand will remain there like a mouse to eat from my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you."

  But some day his hate would be appeased. Yes, some day soon he wouldkill her!

  He shot a sideways glance at her, wondering if by chance shesuspected.... She hadn't moved. Her lips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probably reached one of its more pleasurable moments.

  Hyrel let his eyes shift back to the fireplace again. Yes, he would killher. Then he would claim a rightful share of her money, be rid of herdebasing dominance.

  * * * * *

  He let the thought run around through his head, savoring it with mentaltaste buds. He would not kill her tonight. No, nor the next night. Hewould wait, wait until he had sucked the last measure of pleasure fromthe thought.

  It was like having a bottle of rare old wine on a shelf where it couldbe viewed daily. It was like being able to pause again and again beforethe bottle, hold it up to the light, and say to it, "Some day, when mydesire for you has reached the ultimate, I shall unstopper you quietlyand sip you slowly to the last soul-satisfying drop." As long as thebottle remained there upon the shelf it was symbolic of that pleasurablemoment....

  He snapped out of his reverie and realized he had been wasting preciousmoments. There would be time enough tomorrow for gloating. Tonight,there were other things to do. Pleasurable things. He remembered thegirl he had met the night before, and smiled smugly. Perhaps she wouldbe awaiting him even now. If not, there would be another one....

  He settled himself deeper into the chair, glanced once more at his wife,then let his head lean comfortably back against the chair's headrest.His hand upon his thigh felt the thin mesh that cloaked his body beneathhis clothing like a sheer stocking. His fingers went again to the tinyswitch. Again he hesitated.

  Herbert Hyrel knew no more about the telporter suit he wore than he didabout the radio in the corner, the TV set against the wall, or thepersonalized telovis his wife was wearing. You pressed one of thebuttons on the radio; music came out. You pressed a button and clicked adial on the TV; music and pictures came out. You pressed a button andmade an adjustment on the telovis; three-dimensional, emotion-coloredpictures leaped into the room. You pressed a tiny switch on thetelporter suit; you were whisked away to a receiving set you hadpreviously set up in secret.

  He knew that the music and the images of the performers on the TV andtelovis were brought to his room by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musicians and performers remained in thestudio. He knew that when he pressed the switch on his thigh somethingwithin him--his ectoplasm, higher self, the thing spirits use formaterialization, whatever its real name--streamed out of him along aninvisible channel, leaving his body behind in the chair in a consciousbut dream-like state. His other self materialized in a small cabin in ahidden nook between a highway and a river where he had installed thereceiving set a month ago.

  He thought once more of the girl who might be waiting for him, smiled,and pressed the switch.

  * * * * *

  The dank air of the cabin was chill to Herbert Hyrel's naked flesh. Hefumbled through the darkness for the clothing he kept there, found hisshorts and trousers, got hurriedly into them, then flicked on a pocketlighter and ignited a stub of candle upon the table. By the waveringlight, he finished dressing in the black satin clothing, the whiteshirt, the flowing necktie and tam. He invoiced the contents of hisbillfold. Not much. And his monthly pittance was still two weeksaway....

  He had skimped for six months to salvage enough money from his allowanceto make a down payment on the telporter suit. Since then, hisexpenses--monthly payments for the suit, cabin rent, costly liquor--hadforced him to place his nights of escape on strict ration. He could notgo on this way, he realized. Not now. Not since he had met the girl. Hehad to have more money. Perhaps he could not afford the luxury ofleaving the wine bottle longer upon the shelf....

  Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrived by bus and a hundred yards ofwalking, was exclusive. It catered to a clientele that had but threethings in common: money, a desire for utter self-abandonment, and asales slip indicating ownership of a telporter suit. The club was ofnecessity expensive, for self-telportation was strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high.

  Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white, silken mask carefully at the door andshoved his sales slip through a small aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. A buzzer sounded an instant later, the lock onthe door clicked, and Hyrel pushed through into the exhilarating warmthof music and laughter.

  The main room was large. Hidden lights along the walls sent slow beamsof red, blue, vermillion, green, yellow and pink trailing across thedomed ceiling in a heterogeneous pattern. The colored beams mingled,diffused, spread, were caught up by mirrors of various tints whichdiffused and mingled the lights once more until the whole effect was anever-changing panorama of softly-melting shades.

  The gay and bizarre costumes of the masked revelers on the dance floorand at the tables, unearthly in themselves, were made even more so bythe altering light. Music flooded the room from unseen sources.Laughter--hysterical, drunken, filled with utter abandonment--came fromthe dance floor, the tables, and the private booths and rooms hiddencleverly within the walls.

  Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupied table, sat
down and ordered abottle of cheap whiskey. He would have preferred champagne, but hisdepleted finances forbade the more discriminate taste.

  When his order arrived, he poured a glass tumbler half full and consumedit eagerly while his eyes scanned the room in search of the girl. Hecouldn't see her in the dim swirl of color. Had she arrived? Perhaps shewas wearing a different costume than she had the night before. If so,recognition might prove difficult.

  He poured himself another drink, promising himself he would go in searchof her when the liquor began to take effect.

  A woman clad in the revealing garb of a Persian dancer threw an armabout him from behind and kissed him on the cheek through the veil whichcovered the lower part of her face.

  "Hi, honey," she giggled into his ear. "Havin' a time?"

  He reached for the white arm to pull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into the waiting arms of a tall toreador. Hyrelgulped his whiskey and watched her nestle into the arms of her partnerand begin with him a sinuous, suggestive