Margo compressed her lips. “I’m fine.”
Sven eyed her. “You sure act squeamish for a kid about to try time scouting.”
She fidgeted in her chair, but refrained from comment:
”Speaking of time scouting,” Kit said, rubbing the side of his nose, “any thoughts about the answer to that question I posed?”
Margo glanced at Sven. She looked suddenly very young and uncertain. Then her chin came up. “Well …A time scout’s job is to find out where a gate leads.”
Kit shook his head. “I didn’t ask what a scout’s job was, I asked what a scout’s goals are. That’s a little different proposition.”
For a second, she looked so tired and hungry and miserable and confused, Kit thought she might cry. He prompted, “Just tell me what pops into your head What’s a scout’s primary goal?”
”To make money.”
Sven let loose an astonishing guffaw that startled diners in a circle three tables deep, then pounded Margo’s back with friendly affection. She nearly came adrift from her chair, but managed a sheepish smile. Kit grinned. “Money, eh? Well, yes, if you’re lucky. If the gate you push doesn’t lead to the Russian steppes in the middle of the last ice age. A few scientists might want a peek, but there’s not much commercial potential in a mile-high glacier. What else?”
”To stay alive,” she said, with a tiny toss of her short hair.
”Absolutely,” Kit agreed.
”You’re gettin’ there, girl. What else?” Sven asked, taking the burden of grilling her off Kit’s hands.
She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. “Learn stuff about where you are, of course. Do you take a camera?”