Harris published only eleven stories and one novel (Persephone of Eleusis: A Romance of Ancient Greece, 1923) before she stopped writing in 1930, supposedly to focus on her three sons (who were teenagers at the time). Her stories were later collected in Away From the Here and Now (1947).
THE DIABOLICAL DRUG, by Clare Winger Harris
First published in Amazing Stories, May 1929
If Edgar Hamilton had even remotely suspected whither his singular experiments in anaesthetics were destined to lead him, it is doubtful whether he would have undertaken even the initial steps. But the degrees by which he advanced from an astounding scientific discovery to an experience beyond the ordinary ken of mankind, were in themselves so slow and uncertain as to fail to give warning of the ultimate catastrophe.
Young Hamilton’s years numbered but twenty-six, and this was to the youth himself a slight source of annoyance, for the young woman whom he adored with heart and soul lacked but four months of being thirty-two. Now these six years would not have mattered to Edgar, had they not, in the eyes of his ladylove, represented an unbridgeable gulf. Repeated declarations of a lasting devotion did not change the lady’s mind in the slightest degree, so that at last, in utter despair, Edgar shut himself in his little chemical laboratory and applied himself assiduously to the pursuit of the science that he loved.
For two months he saw very little of Ellen Gordan, and even in her presence he had an air of abstraction that contrasted strangely with his former ardor. Upon the rare occasions, when he left his laboratory to call at the Gordan home, he sat with preoccupied gaze, much to Ellen’s annoyance, for this indifference was certainly less satisfying than his former demonstrations of affection had been.
Then one October day he was ushered into her presence as she sat playing the piano. He was hatless and breathless. She gazed at him reprovingly, much as a teacher might look in correcting a naughty school-boy. Edgar comprehended the glance, and it only rendered his present call of greater importance to him.
“I say, Ellen, where can I talk to you alone? I’ve got so much to explain. But we must have privacy.”
A smile of amusement flitted across her face.
“Let’s go into the library, Edgar. It is warm by the fire-place and no one will intrude.”
Together they passed into the library. After the door was closed, he produced from his coat-pocket a vial containing about two ounces of a clear amber-colored liquid, which he held up for her inspection.
“What is it?” she asked wonderingly.
“It’s the most wonderful potion ever concocted by the hand of man,” he answered somewhat huskily. “It will make Ponce de Leon’s fountain of eternal youth look like poison hooch!”
“But I don’t understand. Is it to be taken internally?”
“No, that would be somewhat risky. This is to be injected into the blood—and—then—” He paused, not knowing how to continue.
“And then—what?” asked Miss Gordan with interested eyes riveted upon the golden fluid.
“I will explain.” Hamilton gazed for a long moment at the yellow contents of the small bottle before continuing. Then he spoke, and his voice quivered with the intensity of his emotion. “You know, Ellen, the brain is the conscious center to which vibrations are conveyed by the nerves. Do you know what happens when the brain interprets vibrations?”
Ellen admitted that she did not.
“Well, neither do I,” resumed Hamilton, “nor does anybody else, for that matter, but that there is a similar interpretation to all human beings from a given source of vibrations, there can be no doubt, though it cannot be proven that we respond identically. These various vibrations, whether they are the rapid ones of sight, the slower ones of sound, or the still slower ones of touch, must travel over a nerve with something like pressure, which vibrations, as I said before, are probably similarly interpreted by all of us. Now here comes my wonderful discovery,” Edgar Hamilton’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm as he reached his climax. “I have discovered that this pressure, which travels along the nerves to the brain, is very like volts in electricity. Now most anesthetics deaden the nerves so that they but faintly convey the nervous impulses to the brain, but I have here a drug that instead of deadening the nerves, reduces the pressure or voltage, not in halves, mind you, but in hundredths and even in thousandths. You know how our bodies grow old. What is life but the sum total of our forces that resist death? Decrease the nervous energy expended in this process of warding off the grim reaper, and you have a prolongation of the bodily functions. Hence if not eternal, at least a protracted youth.”
He held for her further inspection the bit of glass with its amber contents.
“Will—will it—make me younger?” she faltered.
“Certainly not,” he replied. “It will merely retard the expenditure of your energy, and you will age very slowly, while the rest of us can overtake and pass you on life’s journey. In other words, you will remain about thirty-two, while I go ahead at life’s customary pace, catch up and pass you by a year or two, and then—then, Ellen, I may find favor in your eyes!”
“Oh, Edgar, if that can be done I shall truly say yes. What a wonderful man you are to have figured out so marvelous a plan!”
Edgar Hamilton already fancied that the future held much happiness for them both.
“And you are not afraid to have me inject this drug into your arm?” he asked.
“Is it painless?” she questioned.
“To the best of my knowledge, yes,” he answered gravely.
“Very well, then I am ready.” She pulled up the sleeve which covered her left arm, while Edgar filled the needle with some of the liquid from the little glass vessel.
“It will require the entire amount,” he said, “to produce enough change in nervous pressure to keep your body hovering around thirty-two years of age for seven or eight years to come, but I shall administer it slowly.”
And administer it he did!
For a moment it seemed that she was going to faint. Edgar led her gently to the massive arm-chair into which she sank. She sat erect, but apparently inanimate. Her eyes stared unshrinkingly into the flames, then for a period of a minute or two they remained closed. Then Edgar noticed that she was turning her head toward him, but the movement was scarcely perceptible. Her lips were opening so slowly, and from her throat there issued occasional low rumbles.
“My God,” cried the terrified young man, “I’ve done it now! This is awful! Ellen, Ellen, you can not live at this slow rate for seven years. I never realized it could be so gruesome. For heaven’s sake stop looking at me so fixedly with your mouth open! I can’t even talk with you intelligibly. Wait—I have it!”
He went to a writing-desk which stood in a corner and took therefrom a large tablet of paper, and producing a pencil from his own pocket, placed them in Ellen Gordan’s lap. After what seemed an interminable length of time she apparently noticed the tablet and pencil. Another five, ten and fifteen minutes ticked away on the mahogany mantel-clock, at the end of which time she had the pencil and tablet in her hands and was beginning to write.
Edgar knew that task would require at least a half hour, so he left the library and rushed out upon the terrace where he found Mrs. Gordan, an aristocratic appearing woman of fifty-five. To her he poured out the experience of the last few moments. The two lost no time in returning to the library, where Ellen sat, an impassive figure, with a pencil poised apparently motionless above the paper.
“She has written some,” cried Edgar, “but we will wait until she is through and then read the whole message.”
Poor Mrs. Gordan was overwhelmed at her daughter’s catastrophe and did not hesitate to express her opinion of young Hamilton, in very derogatory epithets.
“If you two wanted to be the same age, why didn’t you take something to speed you up instead of bringing this calamity upon my poor, dear Ellen?” lamented the distraught mother.
“By George,” cried Edgar, “I never though
t of that! I believe it would be harder to do, but maybe I can yet, and then I shall catch up with her quickly. I could use it as an antidote for what has been given her.”
“Well, try it on yourself first, you rash young man! Better have her this way than dead. But look,” she cried, pointing to the immobile figure of her daughter, “she is through writing and is looking toward us with the tablet in her hands.”
Edgar seized the message with trembling hands and read it aloud to the anguished mother.
The note ran as follows:
“Edgar, what on earth has happened? I don’t feel any different, but you fly around worse than a chicken with its head cut off. Half the time you are a mere streak, and as for your talk, occasionally I hear a fine, piping, whistling note. I see mother is here now but it was quite awhile before she stood in one place long enough for me to make her out. Don’t worry, I feel fine, but what ails you?”
After reading this, Edgar sat down at the desk and wrote the following to his sweetheart:
“My own dear Ellen: The amber potion is working! Rates of vibration are relative. If we seem fast to you, you are extremely slow to us. We remain normal with the rest of the inhabitants of this world, while you are considerably slowed up, but do not be alarmed, my dear. I am now beginning to catch up with you in age. And here is a secret for you, your mother and me. I am going to produce an antidote which I shall take until I overtake you quickly, then I shall give you some to bring you back to normal. Then, as the fairytale has it, we shall live happily ever after.
Your devoted Edgar.
P.S. You might begin writing me another message right away, so I shall have it to enjoy this evening!”
He gave this note to Ellen and then followed Mrs. Gordan out on the terrace, where he assured her with sincere words of consolation, that everything would come out all right. Mrs. Gordan had been considerably cheered by her daughter’s message, and the indignation which she had felt toward her prospective son-in-law was partially mollified. They sat for some time discussing the prospects of a bright future. At length Edgar arose and said he would have a look in at the library to see if Ellen had finished reading the note. In a moment he rushed back toward Mrs. Gordan, his face depicting abject terror.
“Come, come at once,” he cried.
The frantic mother joined him, and together they ran into the library.
Ellen sat with her face turned toward them, her mouth wide open, her eyes squinting. The immobility of the features was gruesome.
“Isn’t that awful!” gasped Edgar when he could find voice.
“Awful, nothing!” exclaimed the indignant mother. “Can’t you see the poor dear girl is laughing at your post-script? See, her finger points to it!”
But Edgar turned and fled!
Many times in the days and weeks that followed, Edgar Hamilton thought of the interminable smile that had lost its quality of alert gaiety, which is essential, if a smile is to put across its meaning at all.
And the antidote? That was progressing splendidly. It was to be a much more powerful drug than the other. Edgar had figured out that one drop of the colorless antidote would counteract the two ounces of amber fluid which had been injected into the veins of Ellen Gordan.
Before taking any chances with himself, Edgar decided to try the experiment upon Napoleon, the tortoise-shell cat. Napoleon had been nicknamed Nap because he was such a sleepy old fellow. Nap was past the prime of cat life. He was no longer a good mouser, so Edgar figured that if his declining years were a bit shortened, no one would greatly regret that fact, and Nap could prove very useful in testing the powerful antidote.
Nap was discovered sleeping under the back porch near the remains of a pork chop which Agnes, the maid, had thrown out to him after breakfast. Edgar smuggled the furry creature upstairs and into the laboratory, and lost no time in administering the drug. One drop was all that he intended to inject, but when Nap felt the prick of the needle, he leaped wildly into the air, and before Edgar could withdraw the instrument, Nap had in his veins about ten drops. After a dazed second or two, Edgar thought the cat had disappeared, but upon closer observation, he perceived a faint gray streak near the floor moving with almost lightning-like rapidity around the room. Finally the streak disappeared and he saw flashes of color. These, he assumed, were the vibrations of Nap’s wild cries increased until they entered the realm of vision. Then there was a puff of smoke, an instantaneous glare of fire, and Edgar knew that Nap had literally ignited, due to his friction with the air.
“Well,” thought the young chemist sadly, when he had recovered from the shock of Nap’s fate, “I must take only one drop. That will allow me to catch up with Ellen in a few weeks, or at most, months. Then we will forget about this dangerous drug business.”
He took within the needle but one drop of the crystal fluid and injected it quickly. Nothing apparently happened. He walked to his window and looked out upon the street below, and then he knew what had occurred. It was a frozen world that he beheld! An automobile stood in front of the house and yet it was not standing, for behind it was a cloud of dust that hung motionless like a fog-bank. Everywhere people stood in grotesque attitudes. It required the most infinite patience to discover the meaning of their postures. He turned away from the window and stood buried in thought. At last he became aware that Agnes, the maid, was drifting toward him like some slowly swimming fish. She held a letter in her hand.
“Now,” thought Edgar, “I will not alarm her. I will imitate her slow and ponderous movements in receiving the letter from her.”
Gauging the rate of her approach, he extended his arm as slowly as his muscular control permitted and received the letter with a grave and tiresomely slow bow. If his actions did not appear exactly normal, he could not tell it by the fixed expression of Agnes’ features, which were none too mobile under ordinary conditions. He stood perfectly still until she had disappeared, then with feverish haste he opened the missive which was written in the straight firm handwriting of Mr. Paul Gordan, the father of Ellen.
“You infernal young idiot,” it ran, “I’d like nothing so well as to twist your miserable neck! Day after day my daughter sits like a statue and it quite gets on her mother’s nerves and mine, to get into communication with her. But now to cap the climax! She has a severe case of measles and the doctor tells us she will likely have the disease for the next five years!”
With a sob, Edgar flung the letter from him and seized the vial of colorless fluid.
“Let it be ten drops,” he said hoarsely. “I shall go as old Nap did—but no—I shan’t prolong it, I will take the entire two ounces that I have made. The quicker the better!”
Now the reader at this point will doubtless be prepared for the hasty conclusion of this story, but such, I regret to say, is not the case. Have you never heard that one hundred thousand volts of high frequency electricity can be discharged through a living body with no apparent damage, but diminish the number of volts to five hundred or a thousand at a lower frequency and death is instantaneous? Something of the quality of the mysterious force known to us as electricity was contained in that harmless looking liquid. Before Edgar had put the entire two ounces into his arm he was conscious of a deafening roar and of intermittent flashes of brilliant lights. He felt as if he were falling through interstellar space. He seemed to be passing suns with planets swinging in their orbits about them. Great universes stretched on and on without end! At first he thought, “They are universes of solar systems, containing suns and planets.” Then with sudden lucidity came the thought, “They are molecules made up of atoms, containing protons and electrons! I am going, not the way of the telescope, but of the microscope!”
A physics professor, who had been considered a little wild in his theories, had once said these words and they had never been forgotten by the student, Hamilton.
“Our Earth in the ether of space is as but a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. Our universe may be but a molecule in a greater universe, and all our
ages since the beginning of time, record but a second in the time of that larger cosmos. Then take it the other way too. In this grain of sand which I hold in my hand, there may be other universes which, while I have talked to you, have come into being, and vanished. Students, perhaps time is the fourth dimension we have sought after so long!! Would not this theory prove that the time element enters into the size of things?”
Then Edgar understood. Ellen had been headed the way of the telescope, but only to an infinitesimal degree. His body was hurtling millions of times more rapidly in the direction of microscopic infinity, and as his physics professor had explained, the atomic space is as vast, proportionally, as interplanetary space. The difference is that of rates of vibration, and with his bodily shrinkage, Edgar was expending his bodily energies at a relatively rapid rate.
Unable to measure the passage of time, Edgar drowsily felt himself losing consciousness. If this was death it was actually a pleasurable experience.
Again consciousness, sharp and acute. Edgar looked about him and raised himself to a sitting posture. In his ears pounded an almost deafening roar, and a strong wind was blowing steadily. He seemed to be lying upon a stone-paved floor. Then he observed that it was a great ledge, as broad as the length of a city block. He could see where it made a straight horizon with the sky a few rods away. But the fearful roar! He turned toward the near edge of this ledge, and there, stretching in endless billows that tossed and drove great waves to points within not more than ten feet from the top of the huge wall, was a vast watery expanse, the most restless, writhing body of water that Edgar had ever imagined. Nothing but water, a deep blue sky (not the cerulean blue of the skies of Terra, but a deeper royal blue) and the stone paving of this vast shelf of rocks! Edgar took a few steps toward the farther edge. As he walked, he noticed how evenly and smoothly the slabs of stone had been fitted together. It was like one vast block of concrete.
Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction Page 72