Chapter 1951 - The Youth
The chattering girls meant nothing to Feng Shan. She knew none of them, nor wished to. They inhabited a different world entirely—one whose rhythms and preoccupations she neither understood nor cared to comprehend. As for the so-called affluent lives they led, she felt not the slightest flicker of envy.
The wait stretched long and tedious. From her bag she withdrew calculation paper and began working through a problem Feng Nuo had assigned the day before. He'd already sketched the general approach, but the specific methodology remained for her to discover. Ordinarily, once she began calculating, she would slip into that wondrous realm of pure logic and lose all track of time. Today was different. The impending meeting weighed on her thoughts, and the girls' ceaseless chatter shattered her concentration.
Lately, subtle changes had disturbed the ordered rhythm of her life, stirring something unfamiliar in this young woman who had spent years immersed in nothing but study. The letter that arrived several days ago had stolen an entire night's sleep—not because its contents were extraordinary, but because it had become a key, unlocking years of accumulated thoughts about herself, about Feng Nuo, about the Executive Committee and the shape of her future.
She set down her pencil and sat in contemplative silence.
The tea room's persistent chatter died abruptly. A young man had entered.
Store Number 43 catered almost exclusively to transmigrators' relatives, life secretaries, and household staff. Male visitors were rare outside the occasional transmigrator escorting a life secretary. There were, admittedly, transmigrators who kept male life secretaries, but such men were exceedingly uncommon and never showed themselves here.
This youth was patently not a transmigrator. Though he wore the Academy's black uniform, his insignia identified him as a member of the Fangshaodi Selection Group—meritorious talent, not noble blood. In theory, Store Number 43 imposed no barriers based on status; anyone with money could shop here. In practice, no naturalized citizen or local would dare cross its threshold unescorted.
The assembled shop girls immediately recognized what they were seeing: a transmigrator's disciple, student, or perhaps even foster son. The young man certainly fit the archetype—handsome features, sun-darkened complexion, close-cropped hair, a sturdy yet well-proportioned frame. His bearing radiated dignity and quiet confidence. He was the living embodiment of the "New Chinese Man" exalted in propaganda posters across the realm—an ideal few transmigrators themselves achieved, yet one their artists endlessly glorified.
Under the collective scrutiny of so many young women, the youth's dark face colored slightly. He scanned the tea room with a quick, practiced eye, declined the approaching waitress with a subtle headshake, and strode toward Feng Shan's corner table with the regulation eighty-centimeter gait.
"So handsome!"
The whisper cut through the sudden hush with startling clarity, followed by ripples of suppressed giggles. The young man's flush deepened. Affecting deafness, he approached Feng Shan and executed a precise fifteen-degree bow.
Following Fangshaodi protocol, Feng Shan rose and extended her hand. They exchanged a brief, formal handshake before separating.
"Please forgive my tardiness," he murmured.
"No matter. I've only just arrived myself." She tucked away her calculation notebook. "Please, sit."
They settled into their chairs. Feng Shan gestured to the waitress for another cup. The woman had been staring, transfixed, and started at the request before hurrying off.
The once-boisterous tea room fell into expectant silence. Every girl present strained to overhear what this unexpected stranger might say to the young woman in the life secretary's uniform—gossip being the universal currency of women everywhere. They would be disappointed. Feng Shan had chosen her corner seat with purpose, positioning herself far from prying ears. More critically, the pair simply sat in silence, each studying their own teacup, neither speaking.
Several minutes passed before the young man finally broke the stillness.
"Senior Sister Feng, summoning me here today—" He glanced around uncertainly. "Isn't this somewhat inappropriate?"
"It's fine. This place serves our purposes." Feng Shan poured him tea. "Please."
"Thank you."
"I've read your most recent letter." From her bag she produced a stack of envelopes bound with thin cord. "I understand completely what you're feeling."
Silence.
"But I cannot accept them." She slid the bundle toward him.
"You mean—"
"What's between us cannot be." Her tone remained measured, nearly clinical. "Surely you understand this."
"But Senior Sister, you told me..." Something flickered in his memory. "I could ask Teacher to intervene—"
"No need. What I told you that day was the truth." She placed one hand over her heart. "I didn't deceive you—we truly were happy together. My refusal has nothing to do with status. This uniform means nothing to me."
"Then why—"
"After our meeting the other day, I've been thinking constantly," Feng Shan said. "A person's time and energy are finite. I don't believe I can balance both my studies and... matters of the heart."
"Is studying really that important?!" A note of agitation crept into his voice.
"How could it not be?" she countered. "You and I—what sustains this worry-free life of scholarship we lead? The Executive Committee's grace, yes, but also our aptitude for learning."
"Even so, people need personal lives." He seemed incapable of grasping her reasoning, stumbling over the words. "The transmigrators themselves say that while learning and work are vital, personal life must be balanced alongside them."
"Perhaps for some. But for me, learning is my personal life." She lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry."
Despair and grief warred across his features. A long moment passed before he managed to force out the words: "Is it because of the transmigrator?"
Feng Shan nodded silently. "Compared to fleeting romantic happiness, I would rather devote my entire existence to exploring the infinite knowledge of the Executive Committee—and that applies to anyone, not only you. Take these letters and burn them. Keeping them might harm your future prospects. I intended to write you, but after several attempts, nothing felt right. In the end, I decided an honest explanation was better—a gentleman tolerates no private words."
When Feng Shan returned to the machinery factory, the dinner hour had already passed.
Feng Nuo was deep in conversation with an unfamiliar transmigrator—not Transmigrator Zhong, nor any of the regulars from the machinery factory or electrical sector, nor anyone from the project research team.
"Old Feng, this project carries significant weight. We'll be placing orders for several complete sets." The stranger's voice was businesslike.
"Ha! That puts considerable pressure on me." Feng Nuo grinned, showing no trace of actual concern. "But the system's essentially complete, and the sorting machine is finalized. The prototype arrives tomorrow. We'll validate the full system as quickly as possible and move a batch into production. Your order's not the only one—Social Welfare and Police Headquarters are both breathing down my neck." He paused for effect. "Quality guaranteed. Lifetime warranty."
"Excellent. Then it's settled. And please look after that Li Jianai matter for us."
"No problem at all, Old Wu. We'll absolutely support your work."
They shook hands, exchanged final pleasantries, and the unknown transmigrator departed.
Feng Shan felt a flicker of confusion. The visitor had clearly come regarding the punch card computer system—so why mention Li Jianai? She didn't probe, simply announcing, "Teacher, I've returned."
Feng Nuo gave a distracted hum of acknowledgment. Then his eyes sharpened. "Why are your eyes red?"
"Wind blew sand into them. I rubbed them." She blinked deliberately. "I've solved the problem you assigned. Please review it for errors."
"Leave it on the desk. We'll examine it together later."
Feng Nuo had been about to inquire further, but his mind remained elsewhere—still churning over the visitor's words.
The visitor had been Wu Fu, Director of the Technical Department for the Political Security General Bureau. Unsurprisingly, the Political Security Bureau harbored keen interest in establishing a punch card database and acquiring mechanical computer systems. They were, after all, the organization most obsessed with data collection and material aggregation, and traditional manual classification proved hopelessly inefficient when dealing with massive volumes. The trial production of mechanical computers represented welcome news indeed.
However, Wu Fu's secondary purpose involved the transfer of Li Jianai.
Although that habitually self-assured Deputy Director had waved off concerns about this "minor matter," internally the Political Security Bureau remained acutely anxious about Li Jianai's situation. This hidden asset's case had ensnared two transmigrators—Dugu Qiuhun and Lu Xuan—whose identities carried unfortunate sensitivities. The current impasse was giving Zhou Botao and his colleagues considerable headaches.
In truth, the entire affair was purely accidental. From the outset, the Political Security General Bureau had made crystal clear that it did not conduct "investigations" of transmigrators, much less harbor any intention of deliberately accumulating compromising material on them. This principle formed the very foundation of the Bureau's consistent claim that it never "investigated" transmigrators—after all, were such directives to exist, whether verbal or written, their eventual exposure would prove catastrophically troublesome.
Of course, they weren't entirely innocent either. The transmigrators existed within an ocean of naturalized citizens, and even absent deliberate intelligence gathering, the sheer ubiquity of the surveillance network yielded unintentional harvests. Materials concerning transmigrators' words and deeds flowed continuously onto Political Security desks—though for now, these items remained unprocessed, merely filed for the record. They had promised not to investigate transmigrators. They had never promised to destroy raw intelligence that happened to mention them.
(End of Chapter)