“Sit around and discuss metaphysics,” Melanie said.

“I just had an idea,” Kevin said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Maybe we should talk to the pygmy who takes out the food to the island first and hear what he has to say.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Melanie said. “Do you know his name?”

“Alphonse Kimba,” Kevin said.

When they reached the native village, they pulled to a stop in front of the busy general store and got out. Kevin went inside to inquire after the pygmy.

“This place is almost too charming,” Candace said as she looked around the neighborhood. “It looks African but like something you’d see in Disneyland.”

GenSys had built the village with the cooperation of the Equatoguinean Minister of the Interior. The homes were circular, whitewashed mud brick with thatched roofs. Corrals for domestic animals were made of reed mats lashed to wooden stakes. The structures appeared traditional, but every one of them was new and spotless. They also had electricity and running water. Buried underground were powerlines and modern sewers.

Kevin returned quickly. “No problem,” he said. “He lives close by. Come on, we’ll walk.”

The village was alive with men, women, and children. Traditional cooking fires were in the process of being lit. Everyone acted happy and friendly from having been recently freed from the captivity of the interminable rainy season.

Alphonse Kimba was less than five feet tall with skin as black as onyx. A constant smile dominated his wide, flat face as he welcomed his unexpected visitors. He tried to introduce his wife and child, but they were shy and shrunk back into the shadows.

Alphonse invited his guests to sit on a reed mat. He then got four glasses and poured a dollop of clear fluid into each from an old green bottle that had at one time contained motor oil.

His visitors warily swirled the fluid. They didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but they were reluctant to drink.

“Alcohol?” Kevin asked.

“Oh, yes!” Alphonse said. His smile broadened. “It is lotoko from corn. Very good! I bring it from my home in Lomako.” He sipped with intense enjoyment. In contrast to the Equatoguineans, Alphonse’s English was accented with French, not Spanish. He was a member of the Mongandu people from Zaire. He’d been brought to the Zone with the first shipment of bonobos.

Since the drink contained alcohol, which would presumably kill potential microorganisms, the guests cautiously tasted the brew. All of them made faces in spite of good intentions not to do so. The drink was powerfully pungent.

Kevin explained that they had come to ask about the bonobos on the island. He didn’t mention his concern that their number included a strain of protohumans. He asked only if Alphonse thought they were acting like bonobos back in his home province in Zaire.

“They are all very young,” Alphonse said. “So they are very unruly and wild.”

“Do you go on the island often?” Kevin asked.