Chapter 2

After that first ‘accidental experiment’, I started an “Effects” log, which I kept at home, and noted my observations from the first exposure. I was still terrified at the thought of having possibly introduced some unknown side effect to my accidental subject, but I’d follow up with her.

I wondered what degree of suggestion I could introduce while under the effect of the drug. Was there some boundary beyond which the subject’s mind would revolt and refuse, and if so then what psychological effect might that have on the subject?

If I introduced a suggestion that, for example, they run outside, jump on a bus, strip naked and sing the aria ‘Che Gelida Manina’ from La Boheme, would they do it? That might be embarrassing, but they could always claim they had lost a bet and this was the result. But how about being ordered to walk into a store and punch the first clerk they met? Most people would be appalled at that idea, and their minds would object strenuously. Would the drug override that? Would it cause internal psychological conflicts that would remain after the drug wore off?

Those are the kinds of experiments that ethics committees love to make decisions on, and they’re always very conservative, for good reason. A government lab might not have the same qualms, but something like this ought to be kept away from governments anyway, if it was as effective as I thought.

So I worried about these things endlessly, while continuing to follow Clark’s tedious research assignments. I tweaked my formula on the weekends and after hours.

At some point, ten days or so after my date with Ellen, I got it into my head that I should follow up and see if I could detect any lingering effects in her from the exposure. She was pleasant and attractive, and easy to talk to, though I didn’t see us getting into a relationship. But if only to be able to say to my mother that I had gone out with someone twice, I called Ellen again and asked her to dinner.

She seemed happy to hear from me, and we agreed that we’d meet up for dinner on Wednesday downtown at Chez Jacques. I’d never eaten there, but it sounded impressive. Perhaps I’d get a chance to use my high school French. That should be good for a few laughs among the staff.

I didn’t think I wanted to use it, but decided to bring a small amount of the drug, just to have it. I had taken a small atomizer from the lab, a small cylinder just a couple of inches long, slightly larger than a butane lighter, with a plunger on the top. It fit unobtrusively into my side pocket.

She was already there when I arrived. I asked if I was late, but she said she’d misjudged how long it would take her to get here and just decided to have a glass of wine until I got there.

“I’m glad you could make it. You look nice. Do you always dress so well for work?”

She smiled and said, “No, I had just enough time to get home and change before I had to leave. Work attire is a little more casual.”

Her hair looked different and I remarked on it. She said she’d decided to have it cut, to try something new. It was shorter, not breaking over her ears, and I admired it.

“Thanks. I decided I was tired of the old cut, it never seemed to go where I wanted it to and it was starting to annoy me a bit.”

We continued to chat after we ordered, while I tried to think of a way to see what she remembered from that night, and also how to determine if there were personality or body changes as a result of the drug. I wasn’t hopeful on that last one.

When our salads arrived, I asked how she’d been doing since our last date, since she’d seemed a little disoriented when I took her home. She looked puzzled, and said, “I was disoriented? How do you mean?”

I explained about how she’d suddenly sat on the floor when she looked at the mice, then seemed unfocused when she stood up. She looked at me blankly.

“I don’t remember that at all. In fact, I didn’t recall the mice until you mentioned it just now. Wait, we went to your apartment?”

“Yeah, you were convinced I lived like a slob and had all my dirty socks stuffed under the couch, and wanted me to prove otherwise. I have to say you looked really disappointed when you found it was clean. Mostly.”

Now she was shaking her head. “Perhaps I was out of it after all, ‘cause I don’t remember going there, or why I wanted to, or even the mice — until you mentioned them just now. I remember us taking a taxi back to my building and saying good night, but the rest of it’s a blank.”

“So, not even the itchy ear? You don’t remember that?”

Another blank look. “What about my ear? What do you mean?”

I explained about the hair that kept dropping on her ear and tickling it, while she continued to shake her head. “Nope. Whatever it was I was drinking that night, I’d better stop doing that.”

Of course, there was no itch-causing hair, just my suggestion of it, but she didn’t remember that, clearly.

This was interesting. As far as I could see, she seemed perfectly healthy and cheerful, much the same as I remembered her from the first time. But she had lost memory of all that had happened after inhaling the mist, for at least 15 minutes, till we got in the taxi. And even a bit before that time, as well, as she didn’t remember coming into the apartment or why she was there. Odd.

I wondered if the sudden urge for a different haircut was a result of the itchy hair suggestion. I couldn’t ask about it, because she wouldn’t know specifically why she wanted a new cut.

But there was something here to indicate that some portion of the suggestion remained, though there was no memory of it having been made. I shouldn’t try to extrapolate from one experimental subject, but interesting, nonetheless.

Dinner turned out to be pretty good, as French restaurants go, and I had fortunately not had to inflict my high school French on them. Ellen was a good conversationalist, so we chatted amiably without trying to impress each other. We had some dessert, but only after both the waiter and I tried to convince her to indulge in a torte.

“I’ll regret that dessert tomorrow, and I blame you,” she said as I waited for the credit card receipt.

“You know you won’t. You’ll probably be on the phone here tomorrow asking if you can get a couple of tortes to go.” She smiled, because she knew I was right.

We found a taxi, easy enough since it was a mid-week evening, and got to her building pretty quickly.

“So, listen,” she said, “I have to be up for work tomorrow early — and I assume you do, too — but you want a quick coffee?”

I thought for a moment, then said, “Sure, as long as I can get home at a reasonable hour. Why not?”

I paid the taxi and we took the elevator up to her small apartment. She apologized for the clutter — there wasn’t any, she was just saying it so I’d notice that there wasn’t any — took off her coat, and put a kettle on the stove.

The kitchenette had room for a small fridge, a tiny stove, and a really small table with two chairs. It would be an effort for two people to co-exist in this apartment. But I sat at the table, and we talked about her work and mine.

It was freeze-dried coffee she was preparing, but I’ve had worse, and she found some crackers and cheese to put on the table. While the water boiled, I thought about what had happened to her. The data were suggestive, but open to interpretation.

I needed something more concrete to work with. She was pleasant, but I didn’t think we were destined for each other in the long run, so if I messed things up and she wound up hating me and badmouthing me to my friend and his girlfriend who had introduced us, I could live with that. I fingered the atomizer in my jacket pocket.

She poured the water into the cups, put the kettle back on the stove and sat down. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

“Just a little sugar, thanks. Do you mind if I use your bathroom first?”

“Sure, Just down the hall on your right.” As I stood up and squirmed past her in the narrow kitchenette, I slipped the atomizer out of my pocket and gave it one pump from behind her shoulder as I said, “Excuse me. Be right back.”

I held my breath until I got into the bathroom, where I actually did need to pee. I washed my hands and returned to the kitchen.

She was still sitting there, looking blankly out the window, arms resting in her lap.

“You okay, Ellen? How do you feel?”

“I feel fine, thanks. Just pleasantly full.”