Soma Blues by Robert Sheckley

beach. They parked under a straw umbrella, for which they paid one of the urchins whose job that was, spread out their towels, and lay until they were hot. Then they went for a swim, then came out to heat up again. This routine, repeated twice, brought them to lunch hour. At La Terraza they had the fish fry, a mixed batch of whatever the fishermen had brought in that day, with rough island bread, olive oil and olives, and a couple of San Miguels to wash it all down. Then they returned to the beach, took a dip, and napped under the umbrella for several hours. It was one of those perfect inconsequential days that were the essence of the Ibizan summer life—for foreigners, that is, since Ibicencos didn’t go near the water except to fish in it.
    Hob drove Harry back to where he had left his car and arranged to have dinner with him later. He returned to his finca, showered quickly (the gravity-flow tank hadn’t been pumped for two days), shaved, and dressed for the evening. He drove back into Santa Eulalia and went to Sandy’s. Checking his mail, he found a note from Big Bertha, delivered by one of her friends coming into Santa Eulalia. “Got stuff to talk about. Come see me in the morning.” He folded the note and put it into his pocket. Chances were only a few dozen people had read it before he came in. Harry arrived soon after. They had a couple of drinks, then joined several of their friends for dinner, a satisfying lobster mayonnaise at Juanito’s. They had a final nightcap at The Black Cat and then home to bed.
     
     

 
    8
     
     
    “Hob,” Bertha said next morning, over breakfast, after he had come to visit her, “do I get an expense account?”
    “What do you need one for?”
    “I’ve already run up some expenses.”
    “Make a note of it when you hand in your paperwork. Just kidding. What expenses?”
    “I bribed somebody. That’s the thing an operative’s assistant does, isn’t it?”
    “Depends on what you found out.”
    “Well, it’s going to cost you two thousand pesetas. That’s what I laid out in drinks for Dolores.”
    “Who’s Dolores?”
    “She’s a waitress. Works at Dirty Domingo’s. She has a little apartment right next to Annabelle’s.”
    “No problem,” Hob said, peeling some thousand peseta bills from his pocket. “What did you learn?”
    Bertha tucked the money into her Ibiza basket. She was beaming. “I really feel like an operative now. This is the most exciting thing I’ve done since my first acid trip.”
    “I can’t tell you how pleased I am at that,” Hob said. “Now, if you’re finished gloating, would you mind telling me what you’ve got?”
    “Nothing much,” Bertha said archly. “Only the identity of that fellow you’ve been trying to trace. The one who was with Stanley Bower in Paris.”
    Bertha told Hob what Dolores had told her. She had been out on her front terrace laying out a wash when a man arrived at Annabelle’s apartment. This was on the day after Stanley had left for Paris. The stranger was not very tall, but burly, with a tanned dark skin and what Dolores described as “evil eyes,” though she did not explain in what respect. Annabelle had not seemed to know the man, but she let him in. By going to her rear terrace with the rest of her laundry, Dolores was able to hear the tone of the conversation, if not the actual words. It had not been amicable. The man had raised his voice. He had been speaking Spanish. Annabelle, replying in English, had seemed to be protesting. Dolores was certain she had heard the sound of a slap, then a cry from Annabelle. Then more conversation, this time lower pitched and urgent. Dolores had been considering leaving her apartment and finding someone who might help—there was a Guardia Civil barracks only half a mile away—when the man came out, slamming the door behind him. He got into a car parked down the block and drove away in the direction of San Antonio, the opposite direction from Ibiza City.
    “Did