Chapter 1501 - A Journey by Rail

Second class was a cut above third for one simple reason: it was actually a carriage. Third class was nothing more than an open car with railings—it did not even have seats. But the price was low enough for anyone to afford, which made it the first choice for farmers heading out. Third-class cars were perpetually packed with local peasants, along with the fruits, vegetables, chickens, ducks, fish, and shrimp they were taking to sell at market, plus the sundry goods they hauled back.

Lin Ming was nimble enough to snag a seat the moment he boarded. Then he realized that the second-class car was filled almost entirely with shaven, uniformed "false Cropped-Hairs." His Ming attire stood out conspicuously among them, and Lin Ming groaned inwardly: A grave mistake! Had I known, I would have bought a third-class ticket.

The carriage was crowded, the seats not particularly wide. Lin Ming found himself squeezed tightly between two naturalized subjects, unable even to stretch his arms. He could only endure.

To his left sat a young woman. Her hair was not cropped short but plaited into two braids tied at the ends with red cloth ribbons. She wore a Cropped-Hair blue cotton dress that shamelessly exposed white cotton-stocking-clad calves below the knee.

By Lin Ming's understanding, white shoes and socks were mourning attire. Yet this young woman wore black shoes and sported red hair-ribbons—clearly not in mourning.

Red ribbons, white socks, bare calves—utterly incomprehensible! Lin Ming fumed silently. Yet he felt her thigh pressing firmly against his own, her warm flesh and springy firmness stirring certain physiological reactions in a man who had been away from home for months without a taste of the bedchamber's pleasures. Fortunately, Ming attire was loose enough that, so long as one was not endowed like a donkey, no embarrassment would show.

The girl carried a small yellow cloth satchel. The moment she sat down, she pulled out a booklet and began silently reading. Lin Ming's curiosity was piqued. Stealing a sideways glance, he saw a small book printed with block characters, and above each character were curving symbols that he recognized as Red-Barbarian script. Yet he could not imagine why they were superimposed on Chinese characters.

From her manner, the girl seemed to be learning to read. Lin Ming himself, when at leisure, sometimes taught his maidservants and concubines to read—but that was merely an "elegant amusement." Whether a woman possessed learning or not seemed immaterial to him. His own wife had been illiterate when she married him, and that had not prevented them from being devoted partners.

To his right sat a wiry, thin fellow in oil-stained blue working clothes, who tilted his head against the seat-back and began snoring the instant he boarded. His head kept lolling onto Lin Ming's shoulder, much to the latter's distress.

While he stewed in discomfort, whistles shrilled outside the window, followed by a long steam whistle. The seat beneath him lurched, and the train slowly began to move.

Years later, Lin Ming still found it difficult to describe the sensation of his first train ride. "Shock" might not be quite the right word—it was rather like his first time on horseback: thrilling yet terrifying. The locomotive rumbled; black smoke billowed from its stack as it pulled the carriages racing across Lingao's fields. The winter breeze, carrying a slight chill, blew against his face, producing a feeling of exhilaration.

The track from Bopu to East Gate Market ran alongside the Wenlan River. After almost five years of comprehensive renovation work, this river—once subject to wild seasonal fluctuations—had been essentially canalized. Thanks to sluice gates, dams, diversion channels, retention pools, and wind and steam-powered pumping stations, the Wenlan River could now maintain a fairly constant water level year-round. Besides ensuring stable power for the hydroelectric station, the river supplied daily, industrial, and agricultural water needs along its length and even permitted a degree of river transport. The water glittered in the sunlight. The embankment slopes were faced with fitted stone, already greening over with turf—planting trees would risk damaging the dikes, so trees grew only at the base of the slopes.

Because the Lingao Construction Corporation's planners had deliberately designated the riverbank as a "scenic corridor" for recreation and leisure, the riverfront outside the industrial and dock zones had been landscaped with flowers, trees, and a scattering of pavilions. Shallow-draft riverboats towed shoebox-shaped canal barges slowly along the waterway—the scene looked almost like a garden in miniature.

Lin Ming had never visited Lingao before and thus had no idea what the Wenlan River had once looked like. But he could tell the river had been substantially improved.

The Cropped-Hairs do possess a modicum of refined taste, Lin Ming mused as he gazed at the scenery. Naturally, Guangzhou boasted countless scenic spots, its vistas a hundredfold superior to this place. Yet the orderliness of the buildings along the way, the smoothness of the roads, the tidiness of villages and streets—in those respects, the difference was that of cloud and mud. Alas, the water was murky, and more than a little refuse floated on it—hardly a limpid stream.

When the train passed through the industrial district, the leisurely elegance of the riverbank vanished entirely. Huge red-brick buildings were coated in black coal soot; steel and ceramic pipes crisscrossed everywhere; heavy, rhythmic clangs and rumbling roars rose and fell. Chimneys were everywhere here, black and white smoke nearly blotting out the sky. Along the riverbank, staging yards held mountains of coal and ash. Innumerable sacks, barrels, jars, and crates of every size were stacked into towering heaps, covered with rush matting. Tall iron cranes hissed with steam as they loaded the goods onto barges in the river—where the water was littered with coal cinders and rubbish of every description.

Before Lin Ming could fully absorb the scene, a pungent cocktail of smoke, acid, and stench invaded his nostrils, setting him coughing violently. He hurriedly covered his nose, silently cursing the Cropped-Hairs for spoiling the scenery.

The train stopped and started. At each stop, a slender young woman in blue uniform, carrying a yellow satchel, walked down the aisle calling out the station name to remind passengers to alight. Some got off, others got on; the carriage remained full.

Still grumbling inwardly, Lin Ming noticed the train slowing once more. He observed more buildings and denser habitation along the roadside, more shops too, and deduced they were approaching a town. Sure enough, the attendant called out, "East Gate Market!"

This was a major stop, and more than half the passengers disembarked. Lin Ming squeezed out with the crowd.

He followed the flow of people out of East Gate Market Station. The exit opened onto a broad, well-paved plaza, where horse-carts, handcarts, and rickshaws stood waiting. Around the plaza gathered vendors, attendants, and porters, making a lively scene. As a large batch of passengers emerged from the station, those who had been squatting and chatting or dozing against posts all perked up and swarmed forward to drum up business.

Lin Ming slung his small bundle over his back and formally set foot in this "bandits' lair" he had long anticipated. He had learned in advance that East Gate Market was the largest and most prosperous town in Lingao. More importantly, it lay within arm's reach of the Cropped-Hairs' stronghold, "Bairren City," and many "true Cropped-Hairs" frequented East Gate Market. Thus, it was the optimal place for gathering intelligence about the Cropped-Hairs.

His sister-in-law was almost certainly trapped somewhere within that Bairren City. If he could establish himself here in East Gate Market, both gathering intelligence and mounting a rescue would become far easier.

While he was pondering these matters, the vendors and attendants in the plaza were already accosting him: "Fruit, sir? Fresh Australian-bred snow pears, five fen per jin!" "Australian ice cream! New fruit flavors!" "Lodging, sir! Ministry of Commerce three-star inn! Linens changed for every guest—no fleas, no bedbugs! And there are girls for massage—licensed ones!" "Going to the county seat? County seat—one fare! Leaving immediately!" "Budget inn special offer! Pay a month in advance, stay a month and a half!"

Amid the clamor, Lin Ming reflexively guarded his bundle. Wharves and stations were notorious haunts for rogues—robbers, pickpockets, and swindlers all liked to ply their trade in such busy places. Though he carried little money, losing it here would make life exceedingly difficult.

Yet despite the crowds, he saw no sign of such disorder. Vendors and attendants shouted their wares, but nobody overstepped. Lin Ming elbowed a path out of the throng and saw the reason why. In the center of the plaza stood a wooden stage with a gallows-like frame from which hung three or four bodies in various stages of desiccation, slowly swaying. At the four corners, wooden posts held iron-chained prisoners who had been flogged bloody. Dead or alive, each wore a placard inked with—presumably—the crime. Seven or eight Cropped-Hair "public servants" stood around the plaza, chests out, bellies thrust, watching the scene.

Long have I heard the Cropped-Hairs practice Legalist methods. So it is true. Lin Ming's heart tightened. He understood that this was a place where a single misstep was unforgivable, and he mentally rehearsed all the "Cropped-Hair regulations" he had gathered, lest he forget and inadvertently violate some "Cropped-Hair law."

Lin Ming quickened his pace and soon left the station plaza behind. Though unfamiliar with East Gate Market, he strolled along the streets, intending first to find lodgings and then look for employment opportunities.

Contrary to his expectations, Centurion Lin saw none of the cramped stalls and jumbled goods he had imagined. Instead, neat stone-paved streets were lined with shop fronts, inside and outside of which crowds surged—prosperous indeed. The streets were broader than those of Guangzhou. Down the middle ran a carriage lane reserved for horse-carts, handcarts, rickshaws, and livestock; the raised pavements on either side were for pedestrians.

Walking along the pavement, Lin Ming wished to remain inconspicuous, yet there were so many novel things in East Gate Market that he could not help gawking. Streetlamps, zebra crossings, rubbish bins, large plate-glass display windows—all made him stop and stare. Before he knew it, he had wandered near the Co-op General Store.

The Co-op General Store was the largest building in the vicinity, and its Art Deco architectural style was utterly unlike anything around it. Even Lin Ming, who had frequented foreign enclaves and seen European buildings, felt an immediate, powerful impact. Seeing the glass dome rising from the center of the structure, he froze in place.