Tin Angel

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They both heard the sirens.

Angel’s eyes went wide. “Automobile accident, drunk driver uninjured in custody, man dead at the scene, pregnant woman, coming here, possible internal injuries, unconscious.”

Dr. C. Thornhart Benson looked sharply at his new protegee, momentarily surprised. She grinned and pointed a finger to her eyes. He smiled in spite of himself. Her eyes were infrared as well as optical receivers, and she was, of course, linked into every digital device in the hospital, including the comm net. He wouldn’t have to wait for the call. Too bad about whoever it was, but this was an opportunity to see what Angel could do.

“Let’s do it,” he said. They had been about to leave his stuffy, cluttered third-floor office at the medical center after a few minutes of paperwork and decompression following evening rounds on his patients. Instead, he put down his journal, Angel put down a half-finished stocking cap she was knitting, and they headed toward the emergency room.

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