Richard O. Lewis - A Bottle of Old Wine.pdf - Richard O. Lewis - allforjesus2001

A Bottle of Old Wine

Lewis, Richard O.

Published: 1953

Type(s): Short Fiction, Science Fiction

Source: http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/30004

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Transcriber's Note:

This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953. Ex-

tensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on

this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors

have been corrected without note.

H ERBERT HYREL settled himself more comfortably in his easy

chair, extended his short legs further toward the fireplace, and let

his eyes travel cautiously in the general direction of his wife.

She was in her chair as usual, her long legs curled up beneath her, the

upper half of her face hidden in the bulk of her personalized, three-di-

mensional telovis. The telovis, of a stereoscopic nature, seemingly

brought the performers with all their tinsel and color directly into the

room of the watcher.

Hyrel had no way of seeing into the plastic affair she wore, but he

guessed from the expression on the lower half of her face that she was

watching one of the newer black-market sex-operas. In any event, there

would be no sound, movement, or sign of life from her for the next three

hours. To break the thread of the play for even a moment would ruin all

the previous emotional build-up.

There had been a time when he hated her for those long and silent

evenings, lonely hours during which he was completely ignored. It was

different now, however, for those hours furnished him with time for an

escape of his own.

His lips curled into a tight smile and his right hand fondled the unob-

trusive switch beneath his trouser leg. He did not press the switch. He

would wait a few minutes longer. But it was comforting to know that it

was there, exhilarating to know that he could escape for a few hours by a

mere flick of his finger.

He let his eyes stray to the dim light of the artificial flames in the fire-

place. His hate for her was not bounded merely by those lonely hours

she had forced upon him. No, it was far more encompassing.

He hated her with a deep, burning savagery that was deadly in its pas-

sion. He hated her for her money, the money she kept securely from him.

He hated her for the paltry allowance she doled out to him, as if he were

an irresponsible child. It was as if she were constantly reminding him in

every glance and gesture, "I made a bad bargain when I married you.

You wanted me, my money, everything, and had nothing to give in re-

turn 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 trap and will remain

there like a mouse to eat from my hand whatever crumbs I stoop to give

you."

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

would kill her!

He shot a sideways glance at her, wondering if by chance she suspec-

ted… . 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 kill

her. Then he would claim a rightful share of her money, be rid of her de-

basing dominance.

H E LET THE thought run around through his head, savoring it with

mental taste buds. He would not kill her tonight. No, nor the next

night. He would wait, wait until he had sucked the last measure of pleas-

ure from the thought.

It was like having a bottle of rare old wine on a shelf where it could be

viewed daily. It was like being able to pause again and again before the

bottle, hold it up to the light, and say to it, "Some day, when my desire

for you has reached the ultimate, I shall unstopper you quietly and sip

you slowly to the last soul-satisfying drop." As long as the bottle re-

mained

there

upon

the

shelf

was

symbolic

that

pleasurable

moment… .

He snapped out of his reverie and realized he had been wasting pre-

cious moments. There would be time enough tomorrow for gloating. To-

night, there were other things to do. Pleasurable things. He remembered

the girl he had met the night before, and smiled smugly. Perhaps she

would be 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 beneath his

clothing like a sheer stocking. His fingers went again to the tiny switch.

Again he hesitated.

Herbert Hyrel knew no more about the telporter suit he wore than he

did about the radio in the corner, the TV set against the wall, or the per-

sonalized telovis his wife was wearing. You pressed one of the buttons

on the radio; music came out. You pressed a button and clicked a dial on

the TV; music and pictures came out. You pressed a button and made an

adjustment on the telovis; three-dimensional, emotion-colored pictures

leaped into the room. You pressed a tiny switch on the telporter suit; you

were whisked away to a receiving set you had previously set up in

secret.

Richard O. Lewis - A Bottle of Old Wine.pdf

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