"All of them," he muttered. Not just one man. Everyone, from the captain down. Larienne too. And they were safe. Who would bother to look for him when the captain recorded in the log that Richel Alsint had deserted because his plant was a failure? And, of course, it was going to fail.
"The crew of the craft was daft, and you were the only one who was sane?" said the bird. "Don't you believe it. There are people on countless planets just like them."
It was true. The crew was part of the civilization. On those planets where it was possible to have parks, no one went to them. They stayed in the cities as the crew stayed in the ship. And on other planets—roofed over against poisonous gases, and inhabitants who never saw the sun—those planets were not much better than spaceships. He was the one who was different, not they. They had a mechanical culture and they liked it.
He could see how he had irritated the crew in ways he didn't suspect. They had wanted to get rid of him and they had.
He looked down at the machine they had left him, robbed, at Larienne's insistence, from the major plant. Small, just large enough to supply one man, but containing all the necessary parts. A plant machine in miniature.
She really hadn't understood. He could live on the food this provided. But would he, on a world teeming with animals and covered with plants, real plants? He laughed bitterly.
"Now you know," said the bird. "In the past there were others marooned. Just like you. I came from them."
He looked up wonderingly. "Here? On this planet?" he asked eagerly.
A brilliant butterfly wandered past. The bird eyed it longingly and shivered into a rainbow of colors and darted away after it.
"Come back!" Alsint shouted. He couldn't find them unaided. He had to have directions.