The bird _had_ been outside the visionport of the spaceship. If it could teleport itself, why not air too? That was only part of it. The bird had followed him, but how had it foreseen this end? "Did you know this would happen?" he asked. "Plant mechanics are always getting marooned," said the bird. "We've gathered up quite a few. They work with the plant and a plant belongs on a planet. The rhythm is different from that of a machine." * * * * * He knew that. He could feel it, though he had never put it into words. "Go tell them where I am," he said. "I can live until they send a ship." "A ship?" said the bird. "So slow? They don't believe in waiting. They've got all the beautiful planets that men don't want--just for the asking, though they don't have to ask. They need the right kind of people to live on them." They didn't believe in waiting. A shadow fell across his face. Alsint looked up. Something was dropping down from the sky. Not a ship--not the conventional kind, anyway. It was the kind _they_ would use. On planets on which all the food was grown naturally and no heavy elements were needed, what would be transported? People. Not moving a wing, it came down, first fast and then slow. It stood in front of him, towering, a giant abstract figure of a woman with wings. There was frost on it. He went to it and it covered him with wings. There was no sensation at all except cold, which lasted only a few seconds. When he opened his eyes, the strange, beautiful ship was dropping down on another planet, more pleasant than the last. Men and women were coming out of the houses to meet him. One of them looked something like Larienne. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Growing Season, by F. L. Wallace