By Author [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Title [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Language
all Classics books content using ISYS

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon

We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month
fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

´╗┐Title: A Choice of Miracles
Author: Cox, James A.
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "A Choice of Miracles" ***

 A Choice
 Of Miracles


    _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. He
hadn't been able to move anything but that hard head for what he
estimated to be about three hours since he regained consciousness. And
in that time he hadn't heard anything that led him to believe anyone
else 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-away
whine of the patrol ship on its grid track search pattern. It had not
reached his area yet, and he wasn't at all excited about his chances of
being spotted when it did get nearer. He could turn his head, and he
could see the tangled interlacing of tree branches and vines above and
around him. He remembered, at the first moment of impact, just before
the ship began to break apart, a tremendous geyser of mud and water. The
picture was indelibly imprinted on his mind. He couldn't see the water
now, but he could hear it. The litter he could see by twisting his head
as far to the left as it would go told him they had crash-landed on the
water--a river by the sound of it--and had skipped drunkenly, in
something approximating flat stone fashion, into the forest lining the
river's bank. There had been no explosion and no fire, there was no wide
swath cut through the trees--and therefore no reason why he should
assume the patrol would spot him. There might be pieces of the ship
lying where the patrol could see them. But he doubted that, for the
river 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 one
hope--another survivor, and of necessity a mobile one. Someone to shout
and wave, to climb a tree, to find an open space and build a fire, to
light a flare, to do something--anything--that would attract the
patrol's attention. Andy Larson wasn't afraid of dying. He felt no
panic, no agonies of conscience, remorse or bitterness at the apparent
inevitability of the prospect before him. But if he was not destined to
die he needed a miracle or the assistance of that almost impossible--but
only almost--survivor. And instead of praying for the miracle, he
listened with all the hearing power at his command for the sound of
human life. That would be miracle enough, and he didn't intend to stop
listening until he couldn't any more.

Not that he didn't pray at all; back home in New Jersey, while not
considered a pillar of the church, Andy Larson was known as a good,
practicing Lutheran. But it was doubtful if the Lutherans, or any other
sect for that matter, had sent missionaries this high into the heavens
yet; the misbegotten flight he had been on had been only the fourth to
reach this strange little planet of Abernathy since its discovery by the
good professor back in '92. So Andy was no longer a practicing Lutheran,
if practicing meant going to church. But he had prayed more than once
during the long outward journey. And he was praying now, while his ears
strained for sounds and his eyes strained for movement; praying for
himself, yes, but even more for his wife, and for someone he had never

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

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

He gave up the attempt when sweat beaded out on his forehead and went
back to listening and praying. He was tempted to pray for the miracle
now, for blackness blotted out even the pitiful remains of the ship, and
the 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 of
paralysis, didn't feel it. The loneliness was on him, the awesome
loneliness of having to wait for death alone, with no warm hand to hold
on to until the parting. He still felt no great fear or bitterness. Only
the 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 its
life. And it--that was ugly; he would call it "he"; if he had a choice a
son it would be--he, his son, would never know his father, or how much
his father wanted to love him. And Elsie--how lonely it would be for
her. 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 too
slight, definitely not built for child-bearing. But she knew. And she
would be brave, but frightened and alone.

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

He wondered if he could be dying. He thought he was getting weaker--but
how could he tell for sure? He could feel nothing, there was no pain, no
muscular failure, no falling weakly to the ground. There were no muscles
left and he was on the ground already. It was a Herculean effort to keep
his eyes open, to listen as he had vowed he would. But that might be
only fatigue, the need for sleep. And shock! Of course. He had to be
suffering from shock, and from exposure, too. So if he didn't die of
starvation, and if some beast didn't devour him, and if whatever wounds
and injuries he had didn't do him in, he would probably die anyhow from

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. The
thing was out of his hands, and no stubbornness on his part was going to
do any good. He had prayed himself out before, prayed until the words of
the prayers were nothing but imbecilic mutterings and mumblings,
meaningless monosyllables swirling pointlessly and endlessly through his
tired brain. The thing was out of his hands. He--Andy Larson--he gave
up. He quit. He was nothing but a head that was hard and a body that was
dead. What right did he have thinking he had any control over what
happened to him? He was incapable of doing anything himself--he had to
wait until something happened to him. And he knew what was going to
happen. 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 to
do it he was praying again, talking to God about Elsie, and then talking
to Elsie about God, and then back to God again and to Elsie again, and
he knew he was crying because he could taste the tears, and he knew he
was going to die because there wasn't anything else that could happen,
and he knew suddenly that he was mortally afraid. He could not lay
rigidly, tensely--there were no muscles to tighten. But the tension had
to 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 his
ears. He opened his mouth, gasping, trying to breathe deeply, the
roaring in his ears reaching a crescendo and then breaking into a cold
sighing wind that loudened and softened with the regularity of a pulse
beat. 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 them
she was calling his name, her voice riding on the mournful wind sighing
in his ears. He could hear her--it was as simple as that. He still
didn't know if he was dreaming or dead. He didn't care. She was calling
to him and he could hear, and although it wasn't the miracle he had
wanted to pray for, still it was a miracle. He didn't question it; the
comfort of hearing her voice after the terrible loneliness was enough.
He didn't wonder how it could happen, didn't doubt that she could hear
him answering her, as he was doing now. At first, so overcome with joy
and relief, so thankful for the miracle, he didn't even recognize the
tones 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. "I
hear you, my darling. I hear you!"

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

       *       *       *       *       *

The sobbing became a choking cough. He heard her grunt and gasp, and
then a small scream turned his blood into ice. After a long moment she
spoke again, panting, her voice strained and scratchy. "Thank God you
can hear me, Andy. I've called and called. I prayed that I didn't care
what happened, just so long as you could be with me. And you are, you
are. It's a miracle and I don't know how. But you're with me and I
won'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 through
the immense absorbent space between them, cursing and screaming at his
own helplessness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thought of her laughing now, and a pain shot through his head. He
tried to visualize her now, as she laughed--the swollen, hurt-looking
belly, the heavy breasts dragging her frail shoulders forward, the
drawn, pinched look he knew must be between her eyes as it was always
when 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 were
needles and her screams were knives.

It lasted longer this time. It lasted so long he could taste the blood
where his teeth had ground through his lip, although he couldn't
remember the pain of doing it. She came back to him at last, groaning
weakly, and they talked, he cheerfully for her sake, she bravely for
his. They remembered things they had done together, good times, happy
times. They talked of what they would do when he came home, and what
would they call the baby? Andy Junior if a boy? Elsie if a girl? Or
Karen, or Mary, or Kirsten, or maybe Hermione? They laughed at that, and
they laughed again at the thought of twins. But the laughs turned into
gasps and cries of pain. And Elsie lay thrashing in the labor room of a
hospital in New Jersey, and Andy lay rigidly under a rigidity not of
his 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 they
had decided they could not wait much longer, and would have to undertake
a Caesarean. She came back and told him she had begged them to give her
a little more time to try and do it herself, but she was afraid they
were going to give her something to knock her out. She came and she
went, but even when she was gone she was never so far away that Andy
could not hear her. He wanted to stop his ears to the hysterical
outpourings, but he was helpless, and he hated himself for wanting to.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

Despite the weakness of her voice, the fear in it rang out loudly. He
tried to laugh and told her he was perfectly fine, except for worry
about her. He made up a story about lying on his bunk, sipping a cool
lemonade and listening to soft music, trying to calm his nerves over the
prospect of becoming a new father and wondering where he would get the
cigars 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. At
last he told her of the crash, speaking lightly, pointing out that the
patrol ship would be back with daylight and all would be well. He didn't
mention the fact that he had no body below the neck, but he knew she
knew it was worse than he described.

Then she was gone again, for so long a time he thought the operation had
started. But the wind still blew raggedly in his ears, and she came
back, slowly, but with new vibrancy in her voice. "Andy, you dope," she
whispered with a brave attempt at sprightliness. "Why didn't
you--tell--me--sooner?" She was gasping, but hurried on. "I can tell the
doctor, and he can telephone somebody and they can use the radio and
tell 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 river
and the jungle, and where approximately the ship had been just before
the crash. Then she was gone and he closed his eyes and let the waves of
near-hysterical relief wash over him. He was exhausted, the strain of
long concentration had drained his strength, but he could almost feel
the nerve ends in his dead body tingling with the exhilaration that sang
in his mind. It was the miracle he hadn't dared pray for. It would be
the greatest miracle ever performed, and he had almost lost it, almost
killed it, almost thrown it away. But Elsie-- He prayed feverishly now,
thanking, thanking, and praying for the miracle to really happen and for
Elsie and his son to be all right.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

"Andy? Aren't you coming?"

He stared at the sky, his eyes bulging, his tongue swollen in his
throat. He couldn't see anything, the light was so bright. He thought he
must be dreaming--he had heard that people had strange visions when they
were 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 him
just 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 tinkled
through 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 know
which, 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 were
together and she was radiant, and he was happier than he had ever
thought he could be, even though she couldn't put her arms around him as
he wanted her to because her arms were full of his son. His arms
weren't full--only his eyes and his throat and his heart--and he put
them 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 he
were singing.


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.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "A Choice of Miracles" ***

Doctrine Publishing Corporation provides digitized public domain materials.
Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians.
This effort is time consuming and expensive, so in order to keep providing
this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties,
including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files. We designed Doctrine Publishing
Corporation's search system for use by individuals, and we request that you
use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort
to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.