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  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.

  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