A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, 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 himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife.
She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher.
Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up.
There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own.
His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger.
He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing.
He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, "I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you."
But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her!
He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments.
Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance.
He let the thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought.
It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, "Someday, when my desire for you hasreache