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.
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.