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diff --git a/old/30004.txt b/old/30004.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b9f260 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/30004.txt @@ -0,0 +1,853 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Bottle of Old Wine, by Richard O. Lewis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Bottle of Old Wine + +Author: Richard O. Lewis + +Illustrator: Kelly Freas + +Release Date: September 16, 2009 [EBook #30004] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOTTLE OF OLD WINE *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration] + + + _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 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-dimensional 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 +unobtrusive 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 +fireplace. 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 +passion. 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 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 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 +suspected.... 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 +debasing dominance. + + * * * * * + +He 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 pleasure 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 remained there upon the shelf it was symbolic of that pleasurable +moment.... + +He snapped out of his reverie and realized he had been wasting precious +moments. There would be time enough tomorrow for gloating. Tonight, +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 +personalized 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. + +He knew that the music and the images of the performers on the TV and +telovis were brought to his room by some form of electrical impulse +or wave while the actual musicians and performers remained in the +studio. He knew that when he pressed the switch on his thigh something +within him--his ectoplasm, higher self, the thing spirits use for +materialization, whatever its real name--streamed out of him along an +invisible channel, leaving his body behind in the chair in a conscious +but dream-like state. His other self materialized in a small cabin in a +hidden nook between a highway and a river where he had installed the +receiving 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. He +fumbled through the darkness for the clothing he kept there, found his +shorts and trousers, got hurriedly into them, then flicked on a pocket +lighter and ignited a stub of candle upon the table. By the wavering +light, he finished dressing in the black satin clothing, the white +shirt, the flowing necktie and tam. He invoiced the contents of his +billfold. Not much. And his monthly pittance was still two weeks +away.... + +He had skimped for six months to salvage enough money from his allowance +to make a down payment on the telporter suit. Since then, his +expenses--monthly payments for the suit, cabin rent, costly liquor--had +forced him to place his nights of escape on strict ration. He could not +go on this way, he realized. Not now. Not since he had met the girl. He +had to have more money. Perhaps he could not afford the luxury of +leaving the wine bottle longer upon the shelf.... + +Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrived by bus and a hundred yards of +walking, was exclusive. It catered to a clientele that had but three +things in common: money, a desire for utter self-abandonment, and a +sales slip indicating ownership of a telporter suit. The club was of +necessity expensive, for self-telportation was strictly illegal, and +police protection came high. + +Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white, silken mask carefully at the door and +shoved his sales slip through a small aperture where it was thoroughly +scanned by unseen eyes. A buzzer sounded an instant later, the lock on +the door clicked, and Hyrel pushed through into the exhilarating warmth +of music and laughter. + +The main room was large. Hidden lights along the walls sent slow beams +of red, blue, vermillion, green, yellow and pink trailing across the +domed ceiling in a heterogeneous pattern. The colored beams mingled, +diffused, spread, were caught up by mirrors of various tints which +diffused and mingled the lights once more until the whole effect was an +ever-changing panorama of softly-melting shades. + +The gay and bizarre costumes of the masked revelers on the dance floor +and at the tables, unearthly in themselves, were made even more so by +the altering light. Music flooded the room from unseen sources. +Laughter--hysterical, drunken, filled with utter abandonment--came from +the dance floor, the tables, and the private booths and rooms hidden +cleverly within the walls. + +Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupied table, sat down and ordered a +bottle of cheap whiskey. He would have preferred champagne, but his +depleted finances forbade the more discriminate taste. + +When his order arrived, he poured a glass tumbler half full and consumed +it eagerly while his eyes scanned the room in search of the girl. He +couldn't see her in the dim swirl of color. Had she arrived? Perhaps she +was 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 search +of her when the liquor began to take effect. + +A woman clad in the revealing garb of a Persian dancer threw an arm +about him from behind and kissed him on the cheek through the veil which +covered 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 his +grasp and reeled away into the waiting arms of a tall toreador. Hyrel +gulped his whiskey and watched her nestle into the arms of her partner +and begin with him a sinuous, suggestive dance. The whiskey had begun +its warming effect, and he laughed. + +This was the land of the lotus eaters, the sanctuary of the escapists, +the haven of all who wished to cast off their shell of inhibition and +become the thing they dreamed themselves to be. Here one could be among +his own kind, an actor upon a gay stage, a gaudy butterfly metamorphosed +from the slug, a knight of old. + +The Persian dancing girl was probably the wife of a boorish oaf whose +idea of romance was spending an evening telling his wife how he came to +be a successful bank president. But she had found her means of escape. +Perhaps she had pleaded a sick headache and had retired to her room. And +there upon the bed now reposed her shell of reality while her inner +self, the shadowy one, completely materialized, became an exotic thing +from the East in this never-never land. + +The man, the toreador, had probably closeted himself within his library +with a set of account books and had left strict orders not to be +disturbed until he had finished with them. + +Both would have terrific hangovers in the morning. But that, of course, +would be fully compensated for by the memories of the evening. + +Hyrel chuckled. The situation struck him as being funny: the shadowy +self got drunk and had a good time, and the outer husk suffered the +hangover in the morning. Strange. Strange how a device such as the +telporter suit could cause the shadow of each bodily cell to leave the +body, materialize, and become a reality in its own right. And yet ... + + * * * * * + +He looked at the heel of his left hand. There was a long, irregular scar +there. It was the result of a cut he had received nearly three weeks ago +when he had fallen over this very table and had rammed his hand into a +sliver of broken champagne glass. Later that evening, upon re-telporting +back home, the pain of the cut had remained in his hand, but there was +no sign of the cut itself on the hand of his outer self. The scar was +peculiar to the shadowy body only. There was something about the shadowy +body that carried the hurts to the outer body, but not the scars.... + +Sudden laughter broke out near him, and he turned quickly in that +direction. A group of gaily costumed revelers was standing in a +semi-circle about a small mound of clothing upon the floor. It was the +costume of the toreador. + +Hyrel laughed, too. It had happened many times before--a costume +suddenly left empty as its owner, due to a threat of discovery at home, +had had to press the switch in haste to bring his shadowy self--and +complete consciousness--back to his outer self in a hurry. + +A waiter picked up the clothing. He would put it safely away so that the +owner could claim it upon his next visit to the club. Another waiter +placed a fresh bottle of whiskey on the table before Hyrel, and Hyrel +paid him for it. + +The whiskey, reaching his head now in surges of warm cheerfulness, was +filling him with abandonment, courage, and a desire for merriment. He +pushed himself up from the table, joined the merry throng, threw his arm +about the Persian dancer, drew her close. + +They began dancing slowly to the throbbing rhythm, dancing and holding +on to each other tightly. Hyrel could feel her hot breath through her +veil upon his neck, adding to the headiness of the liquor. His feeling +of depression and inferiority flowed suddenly from him. Once again he +was the all-conquering male. + +His arm trembled as it drew her still closer to him and he began dancing +directly and purposefully toward the shadows of a clump of artificial +palms near one corner of the room. There was an exit to the garden +behind the palms. + +Half way there they passed a secluded booth from which protruded a long +leg clad in black mesh stocking. Hyrel paused as he recognized that part +of the costume. It was she! The girl! The one he had met so briefly the +night before! + +His arm slid away from the Persian dancer, took hold of the mesh-clad +leg, and pulled. A female form followed the leg from the booth and fell +into his arms. He held her tightly, kissed her white neck, let her +perfume send his thoughts reeling. + +"Been looking for me, honey?" she whispered, her voice deep and throaty. + +"You know it!" + +He began whisking her away toward the palms. The Persian girl was +pulled into the booth. + +Yes, she was wearing the same costume she had worn the night before, +that of a can-can dancer of the 90's. The mesh hose that encased her +shapely legs were held up by flowered supporters in such a manner as to +leave four inches of white leg exposed between hose top and lacy +panties. Her skirt, frilled to suggest innumerable petticoats, fell away +at each hip, leaving the front open to expose the full length of legs. +She wore a wig of platinum hair encrusted with jewels that sparkled in +the lights. Her jewel-studded mask was as white as her hair and covered +the upper half of her face, except for the large almond slits for her +eyes. A white purse, jewel crusted, dangled from one arm. + +He stopped once before reaching the palms, drew her closer, kissed her +long and ardently. Then he began pulling her on again. + +She drew back when they reached the shelter of the fronds. "Champagne, +first," she whispered huskily into his ear. + +His heart sank. He had very little money left. Well, it might buy a +cheap brand.... + + * * * * * + +She sipped her champagne slowly and provocatively across the table from +him. Her eyes sparkled behind the almond slits of her mask, caught the +color changes and cast them back. She was wearing contact lenses of a +garish green. + +He wished she would hurry with her drink. He had horrible visions of his +wife at home taking off her telovis and coming to his chair. He would +then have to press the switch that would jerk his shadowy self back +along its invisible connecting cord, jerk him back and leave but a small +mound of clothes upon the chair at the table. + +Deep depression laid hold of him. He would not be able to see her after +tonight until he received his monthly dole two weeks hence. She wouldn't +wait that long. Someone else would have her. + +Unless ... + +Yes, he knew now that he was going to kill his wife as soon as the +opportunity presented itself. It would be a simple matter. With the aid +of the telporter suit, he could establish an iron-clad alibi. + +He took a long drink of whiskey and looked at the dancers about him. +Sight of their gay costumes heightened his depression. He was wearing a +cheap suit of satin, all he could afford. But some day soon he would +show them! Some time soon he would be dressed as gaily.... + +"Something troubling you, honey?" + +His gaze shot back to her and she blurred slightly before his eyes. "No. +Nothing at all!" He summoned a sickly smile and clutched her hand in +his. "Come on. Let's dance." + +He drew her from the chair and into his arms. She melted toward him as +if desiring to become a part of him. A tremor of excitement surged +through him and threatened to turn his knees into quivering jelly. He +could not make his feet conform to the flooding rhythm of the music. He +half stumbled, half pushed her along past the booths. + +In the shelter of the palms he drew her savagely to him. "Let's--let's +go outside." His voice was little more than a croak. + +"But, honey!" She pushed herself away, her low voice maddening him. +"Don't you have a private room? A girl doesn't like to be taken +outside...." + +Her words bit into his brain like the blade of a hot knife. + +No, he didn't have a private room at the club like the others. A private +room for his telporter receiver, a private room where he could take a +willing guest. No! He couldn't afford it! No! _No!_ NO! His lot was a +cheap suit of satin! Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne! A cheap shack by +the river.... + +An inarticulate cry escaped his twisted lips. He clutched her roughly to +him and dragged her through the door and into the moonlight, whiskey and +anger lending him brutal strength. + +He pulled her through the deserted garden. _All the others had private +rooms!_ He pulled her to the far end, behind a clump of squatty firs. +His hands clawed at her. He tried to smother her mouth with kisses. + +She eluded him deftly. "But, _honey_!" Her voice had gone deeper into +her throat. "I just want to be sure about things. If you can't afford +one of the private rooms--if you can't afford to show me a good time--if +you can't come here real often ..." + +The whiskey pounded and throbbed at his brain like blows from an unseen +club. His ego curled and twisted within him like a headless serpent. + +"I'll have money!" he shouted, struggling to hold her. "I'll have plenty +of money! After tonight!" + +"Then we'll wait," she said. "We'll wait until tomorrow night." + +"No!" he screamed. "You don't believe me! You're like the others! You +think I'm no good! But I'll show you! I'll show all of you!" + + * * * * * + +She had gone coldly rigid in his arms, unyielding. + +Madness added to the pounding in his brain. Tears welled into his eyes. + +"I'll show you! I'll kill her! Then I'll have money!" The hands +clutching her shoulders shook her drunkenly. "You wait here! I'll go +home and kill her now! Then I'll be back!" + +"Silly boy!" Her low laughter rang hollowly in his ears. "And just who +is it you are going to kill?" + +"My wife!" he cried. "My wife! I'll ..." + +A sudden sobering thought struck him. He was talking too much. And he +wasn't making sense. He shouldn't be telling her this. Anyway, he +couldn't get the money tonight even if he did kill his wife. + +"And so you are going to kill your wife...." + +He blinked the tears from his eyes. His chest was heaving, his heart +pounding. He looked at her shimmering form. "Y-yes," he whispered. + +Her eyes glinted strangely in the light of the moon. Her handbag glinted +as she opened it, and something she took from it glittered coldly in +her hand. + +"Fool!" + +The first shot tore squarely through his heart. And while he stood +staring at her, mouth agape, a second shot burned its way through his +bewildered brain. + + * * * * * + +Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removed the telovis from her head and laid it +carefully aside. She uncoiled her long legs from beneath her, walked to +her husband's chair, and stood for a long moment looking down at him, +her lips drawn back in contempt. Then she bent over him and reached down +his thigh until her fingers contacted the small switch. + +Seconds later, a slight tremor shook Hyrel's body. His eyes snapped +open, air escaped his lungs, his lower jaw sagged inanely, and his head +lolled to one side. + +She stood a moment longer, watching his eyes become glazed and +sightless. Then she walked to the telephone. + +"Police?" she said. "This is Mrs. Herbert Hyrel. Something horrible has +happened to my husband. Please come over immediately. Bring a doctor." + +She hung up, went to her bathroom, stripped off her clothing, and slid +carefully out of her telporter suit. This she folded neatly and tucked +away into the false back of the medicine cabinet. She found a fresh pair +of blue, plastifur pajamas and got into them. + +She was just arriving back into the living room, tying the cord of her +dressing gown about her slim waist, when she heard the sound of the +police siren out front. + + +THE END + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _If Worlds of Science Fiction_ July + 1953. Extensive 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. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Bottle of Old Wine, by Richard O. 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