"There is a note. Why don't you read, read, read?" sang the bird.
He looked, catching a glimpse of sunlight on metal. They had left something. He ran over to it, a few hundred yards away.
And there was a note. He seized it feverishly.
I made them leave this. You may not need it, but you deserve to know the answers.
Don't you understand? You were infuriating everyone, even me, and I liked you better than anyone on the ship. You were always changing things for the sake of that damn plant! It was too dry, so we had to have more humidity than we liked. Or the pilot had to keep the drive from vibrating. Or this, or that, on and on and on! Who cares, really?
A good plant mechanic ought to keep the plant alive for five months and then let it die. We can live the last month off the remains. We have to go back every six months for supplies anyway. It's expensive, I know, but until you can get a plant that reacts as we do, it will just have to die and be replaced.
I thought of staying with you, but I couldn't stand all those changes—rain and sun—all the things an uncontrolled planet has. And then there was that story of the bird. That was too much!
Don't think too badly of me. At least I kept them from killing you.
There was no signature, but there was no doubt who had written it.