”The best way to win a fight,” Sven put in, “is to avoid fighting in the first place. The real kicker, of course, is learning how to avoid the fight.”
Margo chewed one thumbnail. “And if you can’t? I mean, what if some psychopathic kook jumps you?”
His cruel comments about Jack the Ripper had clearly made an impression. Kit refilled her wineglass. “That’s always possible, of course, and sometimes there may be nothing for it but to break a neck or shatter a kneecap, but most of the time your goal is to be invisible. If you can’t be, then your goal is to keep someone from breaking your neck or shattering your kneecap. And, of course, to get the hell back to the terminal in one piece. When it comes to scouts, heroes are just people who confuse cowardice with common sense.”
Sven gestured lazily with one thick hand. “Anybody knows that, Kit does. A real running expert on smash and skedaddle. And the only man on the station I can’t throw five out of five times, sparring.”
Kit chuckled thinly, drawing little circles in the condensate on the tabletop. “Only before I retired, buddy. I wouldn’t go near you, right now. -”
”Only proves you should,” Sven came back with a grin. “Keep you on your toes. Keep you young.”
”Don’t rub it in too deep,” Kit laughed. “You’re not that far behind me. Let’s see, how old will you be come June?”
”Old enough,” Sven said with a mock glower that fooled no one.
Margo was staring, oogle-eyed, from one to the other. Then quite suddenly she relaxed, as though she’d finally decided Sven didn’t plan to pick up his steak knife and do her in between the salad and the main course.