He found the locker which bore his name, and opened it. Six other lockers were open and empty, as were six tubs. He found that hard to believe. It had seemed only a night of deep and dreamless sleep, no more. But each empty tub stood for twenty-five years, each open locker meant a man had gone and lived his time with the new generations of the ship, perhaps had sired children, had died with old age.
At intervals of twenty-five years, they would arise to police the ship.
Eric found his clothing on a hook, took it down. Yesterday—he laughed mirthlessly when he realized that had been almost two hundred years ago—Clair had told him something about a note. He found it in the breast pocket of his jumper, stiff and yellow. He read:
Darling: I will be ashes in the void between the stars when you read this. That sounds silly, but it's the truth—unless I can give old Methuselah a run for his money; I sadden when I think that you will be gone tomorrow, the same as dead. But if they need ten and if you are one who can withstand suspension—what can we do? Know that my love goes with you across the ages, Eric.
I just thought of something. You'll be the seventh of ten, with the last one coming out at planet-fall. If you live to be a real gray-beard, you might even see the landing on the Centaurian planet. I love you.
Clair—
If Clair had married, her great-grandchildren might be alive now. Her great-great-grandchildren would be Eric's age. Clair's progeny, not Clair—because Clair was dust now, a light year back in space—