text: Dr. Hemmer rarely stirred in his sleep, and this night was no exception. The only movement on board was the slow rise and fall of the scientist’s chest, and the air from his lips rustling his long grey beard. Night? Did it say night? There was no night on the *Zoltan-V*, only the lights of the small spaceship turning on and off, revealing and obscuring the starry sky outside the window. The robot 9593 filed away this slip with a binary chuckle. The old scientist continued to sleep soundly as ever. When Hemmer awoke, the lights had already turned on. A bowl of cereal awaited him, sitting on the small plastic table against the wall on the opposite side of the room. He pulled on a button-up shirt and a pair of khaki pants and hobbled over to his breakfast. He ate in silence until the voice from the walls interrupted him. *Dr. Hemmer, I’ve detected trace elements of helium in the ship’s atmosphere.* This certainly managed to get his attention. He jerked his head up, first at the green light near the top of the wall, and then swiftly to his left, where a large monitor sat sunk into the ship’s wall. “9593, could you pull that up for me?” The default window was whisked away, and in its place sat a helpfully color-coded pie chart. “Looks like a pretty standard 76 / 23 -- now wait, hold on-” He paused for a second, and pinched the screen. The 1% “other” sliver was enlarged, and inside of it sat a worrying slice of pink -- helium. The doctor narrowed his eyes and leaned in, pulling his tiny spectacles close to his eyes. (Why did he insist on this? His vision was perfect.) “This may be a problem.” *I am aware.* “Is there an issue with the air filtration system?” *Presumably.* “Where did the helium come from? It’s not like it’s a byproduct of anything.” *Perhaps it leaked in from outside.* The man pursed his lips. *That would be troubling*, the robot added. He nodded. “9593, I have a question to ask you.” *Yes?* It said, with an almost imperceptible amount of anticipation. “Am I in any condition to perform out-of-ship operations?” *You could be the peak Zoltan specimen and I would still say no.* “I suppose that’s because I’m the *last* Zoltan specimen.” *Mhm. You are* the *Zoltan*. Hemmer nodded, disappointed but not surprised. He leaned back in his chair for a second, sticking the nail of his left thumb in between his teeth. “Could there be something wrong with the measurement?” He asked, looking up at 9593’s singular green light. He was a bit excited now; it had been so long since something truly *happened* on board. His face stayed unreadable in thought, but he bounced his right knee rapidly up and down. There was an unusually long pause in the computer’s response, about a quarter of a second. Hemmer didn’t notice. *It certainly would explain a lot*. “I’m gonna go check.” He got up from his seat, thrilled to finally be doing something important. He strolled over to the ship’s controls and dusted off a small metal box, adorned with a screen and a series of buttons and levers. “Let’s see if the manual test returns the same thing,” he said. 9593 did not respond. He booted up the small device, and after a few seconds, a table appeared. He scanned down the list. 76% nitrogen... 23% oxygen... and a negligible amount of helium. Hemmer’s heart sank. “No problem after all,” he told the computer routinely, scowling disappointedly. *Well, there is a problem. The ship’s measurement systems are broken, and the only thing that let us know was an antique show.* Hemmer nodded, but it didn’t seem to comfort him. “You know, 9593, I really thought we had something there.” The side of his mouth twitched in frustration. “We almost had something good.” *You mean something bad*. “Something different!” He snapped, in an unusual burst of emotion. 9593 paused for a moment. *You have plenty of things to do. The entirety of our civilization’s surviving media is at your fingertips. There’s enough old films alone to last a lifetime.* “Why would I want them to?” He said again, more in despair than in anger. The computer had no answer. Hemmer sat down and rested his head on his elbow. *I’ve been watching them, even if you haven’t*. “You have?” He said, disinterested. *I have*. “Which ones?” *There’s one called “Back to the Future.” It was incredibly popular some six thousand years ago -- one of the oldest in our collection.* “Fascinating,” the doctor replied, clearly not fascinated. *You don’t find the irony at least a little funny? That I’m watching a movie about going back in time thirty years, that itself is two hundred times that age?* “Mhm.” The two of them went about the rest of their day hardly speaking. The doctor spent the afternoon reading a mystery novel (the tenth time he had read it, 9593 noted). He ate a standard dinner, and turned off the lights and went to bed at an abnormally early eight o’clock. The stars were once again visible outside the window. 9593 couldn’t help but wonder at the futility of their mission. The likelihood of stumbling across a habitable planet before Hemmer passed away was astoundingly low. And then what fate for the computer? What fate for the ship? It sighed metallically. The only movement on board was the slow rise and fall of the scientist’s chest, and the air from his lips rustling his long grey beard. Dr. Hemmer had a dream, but he didn’t remember it upon waking. He pulled on a new button-up shirt and a new pair of khakis and trudged over to the table across the room. *How are you doing, Dr. Hemmer?* 9593 said as the doctor poured milk into his bowl. “I’m doing alright,” he responded with a neutral expression. “And you?” *I’ve composed a poem, Dr. Hemmer*. The old scientist looked up from his cereal at the green light on the wall. His eyebrows furrowed. “You have.” It was more of a statement than a question. *Do you want to hear it?* The doctor nodded, his puzzled expression not leaving his face. *Here goes.* The robot cleared its electric throat. *The sun shone down on her pink-cheeked face,* *And warmed without a care.* *And none could see, if given chance she,* *Would sit forever there.* The scientist smiled, pleasantly surprised. “It’s actually really good, 9593.” *Really?* There was a tinge of excitement in the monotone voice. Dr Hemmer nodded. “Really.