"Yes," Wright said. "The pygmies are more serious. They have wars."
Sears stopped humming and mumbled, "Don't, Chris...."
Mijok brought in his triumph, beaming and warm. "And my smallest woman?" Dorothy placed the naked morsel that was Helen in his waiting hands. Mijok was bemused. "How can anything be so small?"
Dorothy claimed: "Seven pounds at birth—that ain't hay, Mijok."
"Growing too," Elis said. The golden-furred girl Lisson tickled Helen's chest with the tip of a forefinger, and Mijok introduced the newcomers. One was timid. "Just a boy," Mijok explained. "Knows some words already, though. Danik?"
The giant boy whispered, "Good day." The other was older, black like Elis, trying to display stern indifference, but Surok eased him into relaxation with a few words in the old language.
For Mijok, speech had still the brilliance of newness but was wholly flexible; he reveled in colloquialisms, acquired mainly from Sears and Dorothy. "While the boys and I were out having a hell of a time, what's with local industries? The island, gentlemen?"
"Good," Sears said. "Better than I dared dream."
"And those tough babies in the south—anything new?"
Sears winced. "That part ain't good."