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Dexedrine and dexamyl, for the most part.  I couldn't get these in Ibiza.  But I did find a better sleeping pill there -- quaaludin, a heavy hypnotic drug, terribly habit-forming.  These were obtainable over the counter at any pharmacy.  The druggists weren't always glad to see me buy a dozen packs at a time.  But they always sold them to me.

I brought my drug problem to Ibiza, and it was a bad combination.  My life became a matter of trying to balance one drug effect against another.  And also trying to write.  But writing was becoming a face-saving maneuver for me as I lived my drug habit.  My output fell off sharply.  I struggled to maintain it, but it was becoming a losing battle.  Ibiza was too soft for me; it was too easy to get by with a minimum effort.  Still, I had the lifestyle.  I had a lovely finca in San Carlos, a wife who took drugs with me, and a lot of friends who also took drugs, and who approved of them.  I suppose the only drug I didn't get into was alcohol.

I wish I could say that I came to my senses one day and quit the drugging.  But this wasn't to happen for some years yet -- not until I had left Ibiza, ended my marriage, traveled to the Far East, and returned, first to Paris, then to London.

Abby and I broke up our time in Ibiza with one stay of about a year in Palma de Mallorca.  Why?  It seemed a good idea at the time.  Ibiza was very dear, but very tight, and I wasn't getting much work done.  I kidded myself as to the reasons for this, but I thought that living in a different place, with none of our usual friends around, would be helpful.  During a visit there we had met a man who had a place to rent near the Plaza Cort, one of the old, historical sections of Palma.  A film option had come through, so I blew it on rent, and we went over, with our motorcycle, a classy Bultaco Matador 250 cc trail bike.

The trip began well.  We drove the bike out on the island, visiting Deya, where we met Robert Graves, and to Valdemosa, where Chopin and George Sand had lived and scandalized the neighbors with their unmarried state.  But soon our life in Ibiza turned darker.  First, our motorcycle was stolen, though we recovered it a few days later, a little the worse for wear.  Second, and more serious, was what happened when we were lounging in our apartment late one night.  When I looked up, I saw a man looking at me.  I got up and chased him out.  I didn't exactly run hard after him, because the thought had occurred to me that he might be armed.  So I made haste slowly. When I got down to the bottom landing, I found a note in our mailbox. It was written in Spanish, and it said, "Tonight you will die." It was signed with a black hand. This was more than a little disturbing. I went to the municipal police, and was directed to the Secret Police, who had a building
 marked Policia Secreta. They directed us to the Guardia Civil. The Guardia took the threat calmly, told us not to worry, they'd look into it. But as far as I know, they never did.
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Robert Sheckley's Autobiography

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