He looked upon these charities, he often told his colleagues, as a form of insurance. He would lift his eyes at such moments. Those around him thought he was looking toward heaven. But Vince was really searching for Sizzle, who was usually not far away.
«Really, Vince,» the dragon told him, chuckling, «you still don’t trust me. After all these years. I don’t want your soul. Honestly I don’t.»
Vince still attended church and poured money into charities.
Finally Louie himself, old and frail, bequeathed the Family fortunes to Vince and then died peacefully in his sleep, unassisted by members of his own or any other Family. Somewhat of a rarity in Family annals.
Vince was now Capo of the Family. He was not yet forty, sleek, hair still dark, heavier than he wanted to be, but in possession of his own personal tailor, his own barber, and more women than he had ever dreamed of having.
His ascension to Capo was challenged, of course, by some of Louie’s other lieutenants. But after the first few of them disappeared without a trace, the others quickly made their peace with Vince.
He never married. But he enjoyed life to the full.
«You’re getting awfully overweight, Vince,» Sizzle warned him one night, as they strolled together along the dark and empty waterfront where they had first met. «Shouldn’t you be worrying about the possibility of a heart attack?»
«Naw,» said Vince. «I don’t get heart attacks, I give ’em!» He laughed uproariously at his own joke.
«You’re getting older, Vince. You’re not as cute as you once were, you know.»
«I don’t hafta be cute, Sizzle. I got the power now. I can look and act any way I wanna act. Who’s gonna get in my way?»
Sizzle nodded, a bit ruefully. But Vince paid no attention to her mood.
«I can do anything I want!» he shouted to the watching heavens. «I got th’ power and the rest of those dummies are scared to death of me. Scared to death!» He laughed and laughed.
«But Vince,» Sizzle said, «I helped you to get that power.»
«Sure, sure. But I got it now, an’ I don’t really need your help anymore. I can get anybody in th’ Family to do whatever I want!»
Dragons don’t cry, of course, but the expression on Sizzle’s face would have melted the heart of anyone who saw it.
«Listen,» Vince went on, in a slightly less bombastic tone, «I know you done a lot to help me, an’ I ain’t gonna forget that. You’ll still be part of my organization, Sizzle old girl. Don’t worry about that.»
But the months spun along and lengthened into years, and Vince saw Sizzle less and less. He didn’t need to. And secretly, down inside him, he was glad that he didn’t have to.
I don’t need her no more, and I never signed nuthin about givin’ away my soul or nuthin. I’m free and clear!
Dragons, of course, are telepathic.
Vince’s big mistake came when he noticed that a gorgeous young redhead he was interested in seemed to have eyes only for a certain slick-looking young punk. Vince thought about the problem mightily, and then decided to solve two problems with one stroke.
He called the young punk to his presence, at the very same restaurant where Louie had given Vince his first big break.
The punk looked scared. He had heard that Vince was after the redhead.
«Listen kid,» Vince said gruffly, laying a heavily be-ringed hand on the kid’s thin shoulder. «You know the old clothing factory up on Twenty-Eighth and Arch?»
«Yessir,» said the punk, in a whisper that Vince could barely hear.
«It’s a very flammable building, dontcha think?»
The punk blinked, gulped, then nodded. «Yeah. It is. But …»
«But what?»
His voice trembling, the kid said, «I heard that two, three different guys tried beltin’ out that place. An’ they … they never came back!»
«The place is still standin’, ain’t it?» Vince asked severely.
«Yeah.»
«Well, by tomorrow morning, either it ain’t standin’ or you ain’t standin.’ Capisce?»
The kid nodded and fairly raced out of the restaurant. Vince grinned. One way or the other, he had solved a problem, he thought.
The old factory burned cheerfully for a day and a half before the Fire Department could get the blaze under control. Vince laughed and phoned his insurance broker.
But that night, as he stepped from his limousine onto the driveway of his Cherry Hill home, he saw long coils of glittering scales wrapped halfway around the house.
Looking up, he saw Sizzle smiling at him.
«Hello, Vince. Long time no see.»
«Oh, hi Sizzle ol’ girl. What’s new?» With his left hand, Vince impatiently waved his driver off. The man backed the limousine down the driveway and headed for the garage back in the city, goggle-eyed that The Boss was talking to himself.
«That was a real cute fellow you sent to knock off the factory two nights ago,» Sizzle said, her voice almost purring.
«Him? He’s a punk.»
«I thought he was really cute.»
«So you were there, huh? I figured you was, after those other guys never came back.»
«Oh Vince, you’re not cute anymore. You’re just soft and fat and ugly.»
«You ain’t gonna win no beauty contests yourself, Sizzle.»
He started for the front door, but Sizzle planted a huge taloned paw in his path. Vince had just enough time to look up, see the expression on her face, and scream.
Sizzle’s forked tongue licked her lips as the smoke cleared.
«Delicious,» she said. «Just the right amount of fat on him. And the poor boy thought I was after his soul!»
THE LAST DECISION
One of the things that makes science fiction such a vital and vivid field is the synergy that manifests itself among the writers. Whereas in most other areas of contemporary letters the writers appear to feel themselves in competition with each other (for headlines, if nothing else) the writers of science fiction have long seen themselves as members of a big family. They share ideas, they often work together, and they help each other whenever they can.
A large part of this synergy stems from the old, original Milford Science Fiction Writers Conference, which used to be held annually in Milford, Pennsylvania. Everlasting thanks are due to Damon Knight, James Blish, and Judith Merrill, who first organized the conferences. For eight days out of each June, a small and dedicated group of professional writers—about evenly mixed between old hands and newcomers—ate, slept, breathed, and talked about writing. Lifelong friendships began at Milford, together with the synergy that makes two such friends more effective working together than the simple one-plus-one equation would lead you to think.
I met Gordon R. Dickson at the first Milford I attended, back in the early Sixties, and we became firm friends until the day he died. We collaborated on a children’s fantasy, Gremlins, Go Home! some years later, and even though Gordy lived in Minneapolis and I on the East Coast, it was a rare six months when we did not see each other.
«The Last Decision» is an example of the synergy between writers. Gordy wrote a marvelous story, «Call Him Lord,» which stuck in my mind for years. In particular, I was haunted by the character of the Emperor of the Hundred Worlds, as powerful a characterization as I have found anywhere, even though he is actually a minor player in Gordy’s story. I wanted to see more of the Emperor, and finally asked Gordy if he would allow me to «use» the character in a story of my own. He graciously gave his permission, and the result is «The Last Decision.»