He was already old when I met him, about two centuries into the voyage.

 

"Allergies," he explained. "They can't put me back into cold sleep; the chemicals would kill me. Evidently, the Company would prefer age to do the job instead." He chuckled, though I didn't see the humor.

 

He was Ship's Doctor; I was just a glorified janitor with an engineering degree, one of several awakened every few years to tend to routine maintenance while most of the colonists slept. I quite enjoyed our conversations, and after my shift, rather than hit cold sleep with the rest of my crew, I stayed awake a few days to keep him company. We talked literature and played chess, and he showed me his carefully hoarded library of honest-to-God physical books. "These fragments I have shored against my ruins," he quoted, and was pleased when I recognized the reference.

 

When my mini-vacation was over, I recorded a request to the next ship's officer to volunteer with other cleaning crews so I could keep Doc company. Permission was granted, and I next woke in three years.

 

The old man had grown more surly and withdrawn in the interim, but I could see he was pleased to see me again. I read more while he worked on research, but he still made time for chess and talk. He wouldn't discuss his work, saying that he didn't know enough yet and didn't care to worry me.

 

Every year for the next six it went about the same: I'd wake up, stick my head in to say, "Hi, Doc!", and then go off with the cleaning crew. I met plenty of new people, including Laura; she took a mini-vacation to hang out with me and Doc. I kinda neglected Doc toward the end of that week, but he understood.

 

It was that next year, after I told him about the now-sleeping Laura all over again, that he finally took me into his confidence about his project.

"You might have noticed some extra detritus this time around," he began.

 

We had, a thin, silvery dust that coated every surface and refused to stick to a cloth. We vacuumed as much as we could and made a note for the next crew to double-check the filters, which were evidently doing a terrible job of catching whatever-it-was.

 

Doc nodded. "As I thought," he said. "It's been getting worse." He jerked his head for me to follow, and we went into his lab. "I will show you fear in a handful of dust," he quoted, pointing at a display. I sat and read.

 

It didn't make a ton of sense to me, but one part was crystal clear. "You're telling me it's coming in through the hull?!"

 

Doc nodded. At that moment he looked a hundred years old . "Right through the joins in the plates. It's microscopic, nearly frictionless, and this part of space between systems is flooded with the stuff. Oh, and did I mention it's toxic?" He grimaced at my expression. "An entirely appropriate reaction, I assure you. We have no way to filter it, and it's starting to seep into the cryo tubes and affect the sleepers. I've spent fifteen years on the problem, and have concluded the ship will never reach the new colony."

 

I was aghast. "Have you told the captain?"

 

"Not yet," said Doc. "I wanted to exhaust all my options, which is why I'm telling you. You routinely handle vacuum equipment and power blowers, yes? And you've seen how it works on the dust."

 

"Yeah; pretty well, but not perfect. We can blast it off surfaces and into the air and collect some into cans. But if you're telling me our filters won't work... Maybe water? Oil?"

 

He shook his head. "Just floats off the surface and back into the air, which we can't filter. Here are two solutions I've come up with, but I don't much care for either."

 

The first would be to add a spiral-pattern mock spin to the ship; the centripetal force would gradually push out most of what came in. The change in gravity would be intolerable, but not for sleepers, and it could be spun down for maintenance. That wouldn't help Doc, though.

 

The second was even worse: Weakening the magnetic shield would open up gaps between the ship's plates just enough to let some vapor out. We wouldn't live long if we used breathing air, but we had an overstock of compressed helium for use as an emergency coolant. We could flood the corridors with that for several years and let it bleed out at low pressure -- and take the dust with it. Again, though, Doc wouldn't do well.

 

"The best plan would be to combine the two methods. That, plus a change in course, would give us time to reach a much closer habitable system -- not so nice, but liveable. We have two to pick from. Well, any thoughts?"

 

I had several and shared them with some vehemence; Doc just nodded. When I wound down we systematically went through every other possible solution I could come up with. We spent two weeks at it before I conceded and we woke the captain. She scowled and argued for another two days before giving in.

 

On the last day of prep work, Doc had a request for me. "I want you to take care of my library when I'm gone," he said, and smiled away my reluctance. "Shall I at least set my lands in order? Besides, you're my closest friend, and I'd like you to have it to remember me by."

 

We'll all remember Doc, and so will the mapmakers. Our new colony world is now named Dr. Eliot St. Regis World in his honor. Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, we buried him in the soil of our new home.

 

Quotes are from "The Waste Land", by T.S. Eliot