Chapter 1129 - The Calibrator
Dr. Zhong switched on his desk lamp and turned his attention to the calibrator—his "Complete Intellectual Property" design. Every component of this instrument was something Lingao's industry could currently produce, or would be able to produce in the near future.
Every component, that is, save one. The amplifier was a vacuum tube, and Lingao's industrial base could not yet manufacture such things. Dr. Zhong's tube had been requisitioned from the Planning Committee's warehouse, where Wude had solemnly cautioned him to use it carefully. Their stockpile was not large.
As for the paper tape used in traditional calibrators, he had substituted a frosted glass drum, with a drip head marking water droplets on its rotating surface. For this purpose, he had commissioned a batch of high-precision frosted glass drums from Xiao Bailang. The principle was elegant in its simplicity, but assembly proved unexpectedly difficult. Dr. Zhong was no trained fitter; his ability to fit and grind components remained amateurish at best. Wastage ran high, and he was forced to prepare considerable spare parts for prototyping.
While he worked, Zhong Xiaoying sat quietly at her own workbench, grinding tools. A clocksmith could purchase complete tool sets ready-made, but custom grinding and modification were essential skills. Knowing how to prepare tweezers, screwdrivers, and other basic instruments was foundational to the craft.
Tweezers had to be ground smooth and sharp—picking up components should not send them flying, damage delicate parts, or scratch baseplates.
Every watch movement employed screws with different slot widths, requiring adjustment of screwdriver blades to avoid damaging the screw heads. Screwdriver thickness had to match different screws precisely; the blade must be ground until it seated tightly in the slot, reaching all the way to the bottom.
Zhong Xiaoying had proven remarkably adept at this work. Dr. Zhong now delegated all his tool grinding to her.
"You should retire for the evening. It grows very late," he said without turning from his work. "Tomorrow brings a full day's labor."
"How could your daughter rest while Honorable Father remains wakeful? Besides, I am not tired. It pleases me to perform this small service."
Zhong Lishi smiled to himself. "Very well. Accompany me to the observatory later."
This was no spontaneous invitation. Dr. Zhong had submitted the proposal some time ago. To facilitate his work, he needed to grant his adopted daughter access to the Committee's most sensitive equipment. For this privilege, he had filed a formal application, then endured a lengthy wait. The written approval had arrived only days before.
Zhong Xiaoying's face flushed with excitement. The observatory had always been their "forbidden zone"—she knew that apart from Committee members themselves, no naturalized citizen had ever crossed its threshold.
That her Honorable Father trusted her so completely—that he regarded her as a true daughter—sent a surge of warmth through her chest. She set down her tools, walked to Zhong Lishi's side, dropped to her knees, and pressed her forehead to the floor three times in formal kowtow. "Thank you, Honorable Father!"
Dr. Zhong started, nearly dropping his instruments. Though the gesture was unexpected, it moved him deeply. He spoke gently: "Rise, child. Between father and daughter, such ceremony is unnecessary."
Before he could say more, the electronic timer on his desk began beeping. It was 23:45. He needed to reach the observatory before midnight to calibrate the time. Dr. Zhong stood and pocketed a wooden box from his desk.
Zhong Xiaoying had already fetched their wind coats. A corridor connected the workshop to the observatory, but it was not fully enclosed—wind and rain could intrude during storms.
Dr. Zhong donned his coat in silence. "Put on your jacket as well. The wind is fierce tonight."
"Yes. Thank you for your concern, Honorable Father." Zhong Xiaoying pulled on her coat, then took up a lantern to light the way—the corridor had no illumination.
Outside, wind and rain lashed the darkness. Cold and wet, the two groped their way through the corridor until they reached the observatory—a three-story red brick building. The brick-paved plaza before the main entrance bore the "Primordial Meridian" inlaid in bronze: the 110-degree east longitude line that passed through this precise location.
The corridor led to the observatory's rear entrance. Dr. Zhong produced his keyring and, working by touch, selected the proper key for the steel security door.
The observatory's central space was an atrium that soared to the third floor. The second level formed a gallery, with a spiral staircase ascending directly to the rooftop observation platform. The roof featured a manually operated retractable dome, beneath which stood the finest astronomical telescope the Committee possessed. By proper astronomical standards, it was merely amateur-grade equipment—but measured against this timeline's capabilities, it was nothing less than a divine artifact.
Dr. Zhong rarely handled that particular instrument. His daily work centered on the transit instrument precisely aligned with the 110-degree east longitude line. The transit instrument observed stars crossing the upper meridian—passing through the observatory's meridian circle—to determine the exact moment of crossing. From this data, one could derive the astronomical clock's error, establish universal time, calculate stellar right ascension, and fix the longitude of fundamental astronomical reference points.
The device itself had been invented in the seventeenth century, but at this moment in history, Lingao's transit instrument was unique in all the world—to say nothing of its twenty-first-century manufacture.
One of astronomy's most ancient purposes was timekeeping. Using a transit instrument for time determination and longitude calculation was a mature methodology. Under careful human observation at an established observatory, accuracy to the second was achievable.
The Science Department possessed complete longitude and latitude data. Combined with astronomical software, they could produce star charts of extraordinary precision. Paired with observations of sunrise and sunset times, they could provide timekeeping accurate to the second. Even in the twenty-first century, with the advent of atomic clocks, astronomical time remained essential for verification.
Until now, all this work had been performed by Dr. Zhong alone. Astronomical observation was tedious and time-consuming. He could not devote all his hours to it—not when the radio project still demanded his attention.
Xiaoying was meticulous by nature and possessed the rare ability to remain perfectly still for extended periods. He planned to train her gradually in astronomical observation and teach her the underlying principles of timekeeping. She was capable of becoming more than a clocksmith.
But tonight he would not take her to the rooftop. The storm outside made celestial observation with the transit instrument impossible. He activated the electric lights, and illumination flooded the cavernous space.
The observatory housed considerable high-precision equipment requiring electrical power, so the Planning Committee had generously installed both wind and solar generation systems. Electric lights served throughout the building—a fire prevention measure as much as a convenience.
He led Zhong Xiaoying to the base of the stairs. There, hidden in shadow, stood another door—a heavy security door of the same construction as the exterior entrance. Dr. Zhong unlocked it and switched on a light, revealing a descending staircase.
"Honorable Father—"
"Go on down." Zhong Lishi spoke, then turned to secure the door behind them.
They descended a dozen steps before Dr. Zhong activated another light. They had arrived at a spacious chamber—a semi-basement reinforced with sturdy concrete beams and columns. Thick thermal insulation and moisture-proofing materials lined the walls and ceiling.
Various pieces of strange equipment rested on purpose-built racks throughout the room, each protected beneath a glass case. Some she recognized—clocks from the workshop. Others were utterly foreign, their faces displaying blinking red numerals.
Dr. Zhong approached the wall and examined the temperature and humidity recorders—products from the old timeline, monitoring the basement's carefully maintained constant environment.
This basement housed the most critical elements in the Committee's entire timekeeping system: the reference clocks.
There was not merely one reference clock, but several. One was a backup unit from a PHS base station. Several others were marine chronometers salvaged from the Fengcheng. Together, they displayed with perfect accuracy both Beijing time and Greenwich time from another century.
Because of their irreplaceable importance, these clocks had always been kept in the Planning Committee's special warehouse on Gaoshan Ridge, maintained in a constant temperature and humidity environment, serving as the ultimate time standard. Only after Taibai Observatory was formally established were all Committee timepieces calibrated against these reference clocks.
(End of Chapter)