The bird sidled along the branch. "What's the difference between plant and animal?" it asked.
There were countless differences, on any level Alsint wanted to think about. Cellular, organizational, whatever he named. But the bird had something simple in mind.
"There are some plants which can move a little," Alsint said slowly. "And there are some animals that hardly move at all. But the real difference, if there is any, is motion."
"Right. You'll get along fine," said the bird. "A hundred and twenty years ago, this couple—who by then had several children—put an animal together in a new way and got—pure motion."
That was what had been puzzling him, and now he knew. "Teleports," he said. "They can teleport."
"They can't," said the bird. "The mind's best for thinking—they say. And they've kept theirs uncluttered." The bird cocked a glittering eye. "I don't know about minds. I never had one."
If they couldn't teleport, how had the bird got here?
Alsint glanced at the bird. It wasn't perched on the plant machine and the wings were folded. Six feet off the ground it hovered, and not a breath of air stirring.
"Behind you," said the bird.
It didn't twitch a feather, but it was behind him now and he hadn't seen it move.