A Choice Of Miracles

 By JAMES A. COX

 _You're down in the jungle with death staring you in the face. There is nothing left but prayer. So you ask for your life. But wait! Are you sure that's really what you want above all else?_

Andy Larson was a hard-headed Swede. He had to be, to be still alive. Hehadn't been able to move anything but that hard head for what heestimated to be about three hours since he regained consciousness. Andin that time he hadn't heard anything that led him to believe anyoneelse had survived the crash. 

[Illustration: Hurt and helpless, Larson waited for death. ]

The only thing Andy Larson had heard was the water and the far-awaywhine of the patrol ship on its grid track search pattern. It had notreached his area yet, and he wasn't at all excited about his chances ofbeing spotted when it did get nearer. He could turn his head, and hecould see the tangled interlacing of tree branches and vines above andaround him. He remembered, at the first moment of impact, just beforethe ship began to break apart, a tremendous geyser of mud and water. Thepicture was indelibly imprinted on his mind. He couldn't see the waternow, but he could hear it. The litter he could see by twisting his headas far to the left as it would go told him they had crash-landed on thewater--a river by the sound of it--and had skipped drunkenly, insomething approximating flat stone fashion, into the forest lining theriver's bank. There had been no explosion and no fire, there was no wideswath cut through the trees--and therefore no reason why he shouldassume the patrol would spot him. There might be pieces of the shiplying where the patrol could see them. But he doubted that, for theriver was deep and the vegetation was thick. 

 * * * * *

He strained his ears, not to hear if the patrol was approaching closer, but listening for the sound of life around him. This was his onehope--another survivor, and of necessity a mobile one. Someone to shoutand wave, to climb a tree, to find an open space and build a fire, tolight a flare, to do something--anything--that would attract thepatrol's attention. Andy Larson wasn't afraid of dying. He felt nopanic, no agonies of conscience, remorse or bitterness at the apparentinevitability of the prospect before him. But if he was not destined todie he needed a miracle or the assistance of that almost impossible--butonly almost--survivor. And instead of praying for the miracle, helistened with all the hearing power at his command for the sound ofhuman life. That would be miracle enough, and he didn't intend to stoplistening until he couldn't any more. 

Not that he didn't pray at all; back home in New Jersey, while notconsidered a pillar of the church, Andy Larson was known as a good, practicing Lutheran. But it was doubtful if the Lutherans, or any othersect for that matter, had sent missionaries this high into the heavensyet; the misbegotten flight he had been on had been only the fourth toreach this strange little planet of Abernathy since its discovery by thegood professor back in '92. So Andy was no longer a practicing Lutheran, if practicing meant going to church. But he had prayed more than onceduring the long outward journey. And he was praying now, while his earsstrained for sounds and his eyes strained for movement; praying forhimself, yes, but even more for his wife, and for someone he had neverseen. 

He couldn't help being afraid for Elsie; he had been gone from homealmost seven months, and she had been rocked with morning sickness forthe last three weeks before he left, moaning over her saltines andbegging him not to go even though she knew he couldn't and would notback out. She was afraid of the unknown he was going into, and he wasafraid of the unknown that awaited her--it was the first time for bothunknowns for both of them. 

In a little while he could stop straining his eyes. Greenish dusk wasslipping into night. Soon his ears would have to do all the work. Thethought of night-prowling creatures disturbed him somewhat; no-one knewfor sure yet what, if anything, lived in these thick, isolated jungles. Paralyzed as he was, he was fair game--his choice of words in thethought brought a grimacing smile to his face. He tried once again--wasit the thousandth time yet?--to move his arms, his legs, his hands, afinger, a toe. Earlier, he had thought he was moving the big toe on hisleft foot, but he couldn't raise his head to see past the twisted bulkof metal that lay across him, the toe had nothing to rub upon to give itfeeling, and there was absolutely no feeling between it and his head togive it any meaning anyhow. But it would have been a nice feeling justto know it was still there. 

He gave up the attempt when sweat beaded out on his forehead and wentback to listening and praying. He was tempted to pray for the miraclenow, for blackness blotted out even the pitiful remains of the ship, andthe whine of the patrol had muted to a singing hum in the distance. 

 * * * * *

The night turned cold and damp, but Andy Larson, in his sheathing ofparalysis, didn't feel it. The loneliness was on him, the awesomeloneliness of having to wait for death alone, with no warm hand to holdon to until the parting. He still felt no great fear or bitterness. Onlythe loneliness, and sadness. He would never know his son, or daughter, would never know that it loved him, that he was the biggest thing in itslife. And it--that was ugly; he would call it "he"; if he had a choice ason it would be--he, his son, would never know his father, or how muchhis father wanted to love him. And Elsie--how lonely it would be forher. Her time must be getting close now, and she would be frightened. The doctor hadn't told her what he had told him--that she was tooslight, definitely not built for child-bearing. But she knew. And shewould be brave, but frightened and alone. 

The hours of night trudged by. The few stars that peeped through thetrees were no help in telling the time, and Andy had lost interest in itanyhow. It was night, it had been night for what seemed like years, the blackness around him proclaimed it would be night still for manymore years. He dozed off and on, at times waking with a start, thinkinghe had heard something. For a few minutes he would listen intently, feverishly. But when nothing reached his ears but the little nightsounds he had become accustomed to, he would sink back into the lethargythat weighed upon his eyelids. 

He wondered if he could be dying. He thought he was getting weaker--buthow could he tell for sure? He could feel nothing, there was no pain, nomuscular failure, no falling weakly to the ground. There were no musclesleft and he was on the ground already. It was a Herculean effort to keephis eyes open, to listen as he had vowed he would. But that might beonly fatigue, the need for sleep. And shock! Of course. He had to besuffering from shock, and from exposure, too. So if he didn't die ofstarvation, and if some beast didn't devour him, and if whatever woundsand injuries he had didn't do him in, he would probably die anyhow frompneumonia. 

The thought was almost a comforting one. It took him off the hook, unburdened him of the need to worry about whether or not he lived. Thething was out of his hands, and no stubbornness on his part was going todo any good. He had prayed himself out before, prayed until the words ofthe prayers were nothing but imbecilic mutterings and mumblings, meaningless monosyllables swirling pointlessly and endlessly through histired brain. The thing was out of his hands. He--Andy Larson--he gaveup. He quit. He was nothing but a head that was hard and a body that wasdead. What right did he have thinking he had any control over whathappened to him? He was incapable of doing anything himself--he had towait until something happened to him. And he knew what was going tohappen. So that's what he'd do. He'd just wait. 

 * * * * *

He closed his eyes and saw Elsie, and before he realized he was going todo it he was praying again, talking to God about Elsie, and then talkingto Elsie about God, and then back to God again and to Elsie again, andhe knew he was crying because he could taste the tears, and he knew hewas going to die because there wasn't anything else that could happen, and he knew suddenly that he was mortally afraid. He could not layrigidly, tensely--there were no muscles to tighten. But the tension hadto go somewhere. He felt a numbness creeping up the back of his neck, felt his eyes bulging as if they would burst, heard a roaring in hisears. He opened his mouth, gasping, trying to breathe deeply, theroaring in his ears reaching a crescendo and then breaking into a coldsighing wind that loudened and softened with the regularity of a pulsebeat. He didn't know if he was awake or sleeping, dozing or dreaming, dying or dead. But he heard Elsie. 

She was calling him. Over the cold black nothingness that separated themshe was calling his name, her voice riding on the mournful wind sighingin his ears. He could hear her--it was as simple as that. He stilldidn't know if he was dreaming or dead. He didn't care. She was callingto him and he could hear, and although it wasn't the miracle he hadwanted to pray for, still it was a miracle. He didn't question it; thecomfort of hearing her voice after the terrible loneliness was enough. He didn't wonder how it could happen, didn't doubt that she could hearhim answering her, as he was doing now. At first, so overcome with joyand relief, so thankful for the miracle, he didn't even recognize thetones of pain in her voice. 

"Elsie, Elsie, Elsie, " he cried out with his mind, reaching for her, wanting to seize her and hold her and never let her slip away again. "Ihear you, my darling. I hear you!"

"Thank God!" Her voice broke, and the sound of sobbing carried on thewind reached his ears. For a moment it puzzled him. He had been crying, but her sobs were something different. The night suddenly seemed to turnmuch colder. "What is it, Elsie?" he called in fright. 

 * * * * *

The sobbing became a choking cough. He heard her grunt and gasp, andthen a small scream turned his blood into ice. After a long moment shespoke again, panting, her voice strained and scratchy. "Thank God youcan hear me, Andy. I've called and called. I prayed that I didn't carewhat happened, just so long as you could be with me. And you are, youare. It's a miracle and I don't know how. But you're with me and Iwon't be afraid any more. I won't ... Oh ... Oh ... "

 * * * * *

Andy suddenly understood. "Elsie, " he cried frantically. "Where are you?Are you in the hospital? Is everything all right? Is the doctor there?_Elsie!_" He shouted her name aloud, angrily, trying to force it throughthe immense absorbent space between them, cursing and screaming at hisown helplessness. 

"Be quiet, Andy, " she said at last. "Stop carrying on so. I'm all rightnow--it's just that the pain comes and sometimes I don't know what todo. "

"But are you all right? Did the doctor--?"

"Shhh, Andy. Of course I'm all right. I'm in the labor room and thereare lots of nice people to take care of me. Dr. Bell says it's like thisoften with first babies. And since I'm smaller than I should be--thatdoesn't help any. But I'm going to be all right. "

"You called me, though. You said you were afraid of something, andprayed that--"

"You know how big a sissy I can be sometimes, Andy. Remember the timethe wasp got in the bathroom while I was taking a shower, and how wegot tangled up in the shower curtain where I was trying to hide from himand you were trying to catch him? And remember what happened right afterthat? Right there in the bathroom?" She laughed lightly. 

To hear her laugh again! Andy smiled to himself, remembering. She hadbeen so soft and cool and pretty, snarled in the shower curtain, herhair damp and curly, her cheeks flushed, uttering little squeals andyelps and giggles that were exciting music, and suddenly he wasn'tchasing the wasp any more and she wasn't giggling because the wasp wastickling her. She had pulled his head under the shower, and he had gotsoaked anyway, so he climbed into the tub and she helped pull off hisclothes and they soaped each other into a lather and they rinsed andthey climbed out together, but they never got dried off and they nevergot out of the bathroom--at least not for a long time. And oh, how herlaugh had tinkled then, and how he loved her when she laughed. 

He thought of her laughing now, and a pain shot through his head. Hetried to visualize her now, as she laughed--the swollen, hurt-lookingbelly, the heavy breasts dragging her frail shoulders forward, thedrawn, pinched look he knew must be between her eyes as it was alwayswhen she felt unwell. He could visualize her this way, but not laughing. Then he heard her, and she wasn't laughing any more, and her moans wereneedles and her screams were knives. 

It lasted longer this time. It lasted so long he could taste the bloodwhere his teeth had ground through his lip, although he couldn'tremember the pain of doing it. She came back to him at last, groaningweakly, and they talked, he cheerfully for her sake, she bravely forhis. They remembered things they had done together, good times, happytimes. They talked of what they would do when he came home, and whatwould they call the baby? Andy Junior if a boy? Elsie if a girl? OrKaren, or Mary, or Kirsten, or maybe Hermione? They laughed at that, andthey laughed again at the thought of twins. But the laughs turned intogasps and cries of pain. And Elsie lay thrashing in the labor room of ahospital in New Jersey, and Andy lay rigidly under a rigidity not ofhis own making in a jungle far away. 

 * * * * *

She came back to him and told him the doctors had had a consultation, and had agreed to wait a little longer. She came back and told him theyhad decided they could not wait much longer, and would have to undertakea Caesarean. She came back and told him she had begged them to give hera little more time to try and do it herself, but she was afraid theywere going to give her something to knock her out. She came and shewent, but even when she was gone she was never so far away that Andycould not hear her. He wanted to stop his ears to the hystericaloutpourings, but he was helpless, and he hated himself for wanting to. 

When she came back the next time, with weakness turning her voice into ahoarse whisper, he begged her to take the drugs. But she wasn'tlistening to him. "Andy, Andy, " she said, "listen to me please. It'simportant. They've decided on the Caesarean, and I haven't got muchtime. I've been thinking of the way we've been talking, and I think ithappened because I needed you so much. That's how I got all the way towhere you are. I needed you with me with every part of me, and somehowpart of me found you. But Andy, you must have needed me, too. You musthave needed me, Andy, or how did you get back to me?"

 * * * * *

Despite the weakness of her voice, the fear in it rang out loudly. Hetried to laugh and told her he was perfectly fine, except for worryabout her. He made up a story about lying on his bunk, sipping a coollemonade and listening to soft music, trying to calm his nerves over theprospect of becoming a new father and wondering where he would get thecigars to distribute to the boys. 

But she wouldn't believe him. She insisted that he tell her the truth, pleading with him, crying out her love and her fear and her need. Atlast he told her of the crash, speaking lightly, pointing out that thepatrol ship would be back with daylight and all would be well. He didn'tmention the fact that he had no body below the neck, but he knew sheknew it was worse than he described. 

Then she was gone again, for so long a time he thought the operation hadstarted. But the wind still blew raggedly in his ears, and she cameback, slowly, but with new vibrancy in her voice. "Andy, you dope, " shewhispered with a brave attempt at sprightliness. "Why didn'tyou--tell--me--sooner?" She was gasping, but hurried on. "I can tell thedoctor, and he can telephone somebody and they can use the radio andtell the patrol where you are. Oh! Andy--where are you--? Hurry--"

She was going again, and as quickly as he could he told her of the riverand the jungle, and where approximately the ship had been just beforethe crash. Then she was gone and he closed his eyes and let the waves ofnear-hysterical relief wash over him. He was exhausted, the strain oflong concentration had drained his strength, but he could almost feelthe nerve ends in his dead body tingling with the exhilaration that sangin his mind. It was the miracle he hadn't dared pray for. It would bethe greatest miracle ever performed, and he had almost lost it, almostkilled it, almost thrown it away. But Elsie-- He prayed feverishly now, thanking, thanking, and praying for the miracle to really happen and forElsie and his son to be all right. 

 * * * * *

Then the wind was roaring blackly in his ears and the wind was turninginto a shrieking demon and above it he could hear her wild scream: "Theydon't believe me! They say I'm delirious. Andy! They're coming withsomething to put me to sleep. They don't believe me, Andy ... "

It ended. The wind stopped abruptly with her voice. The only things AndyLarson could hear were the blood pounding in his head and the grating ofinsects singing their last to the approaching dawn. It was all over, andhe closed his eyes to the lightening sky. It was all over, the miraclewas dead, the miracle never was, he was dead, he never was. Elsie-- Herocked his head back and forth, wanting to cry, to curse and shout outhis hatred of life. But nothing would come out, nothing was left. 

It was all over. He lay under his memorial, a junk pile of twistedmetal, inching his way toward death, the abortion of an abortivemiracle, alone, tearless, wifeless, sonless, helpless. 

A faint hum drifted to his ears. He looked up, wondering that the dawnhad come so soon. The sky was brilliant with light, but still he couldnot see the patrol ship, knew that it couldn't see him, no matter howclose the hum got. 

The hum came closer and closer, grew louder, and then he heard her softlaugh and the hum faded away. 

"Andy? Aren't you coming?"

He stared at the sky, his eyes bulging, his tongue swollen in histhroat. He couldn't see anything, the light was so bright. He thought hemust be dreaming--he had heard that people had strange visions when theywere dying. But her voice sounded so real. 

"Don't worry, honey, " she said softly. "Everything is all right now. Come on, we're waiting. "

He strained his eyes to see, and the phrase _we're waiting_ struck himjust as the other voice let out a cry. 

"What--?" he mumbled, stupidly, happily, afraid to believe. 

She laughed again, and little pieces of glittering silver tinkledthrough the gold of the sky. "I guess we'll have to call him Andy, after his father. He was a slow-poke too. "

She was there beside him now--or he was beside her--he didn't knowwhich, for he was suddenly free of the great weight that held him down, he had the sensation of floating lightly through the air. But they weretogether and she was radiant, and he was happier than he had everthought he could be, even though she couldn't put her arms around him ashe wanted her to because her arms were full of his son. His armsweren't full--only his eyes and his throat and his heart--and he putthem around her, holding her tightly. 

The baby howled a protest, and Elsie, laughed her wonderful laugh again. "He has a good voice, Andy, don't you think?"

"A lovely voice, " Andy agreed, and his own voice sounded to him as if hewere singing. 

THE END

Transcriber's Note:

 This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ December 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.