In the 90s, you could acquire max-level skills every 14 days.

The day after tomorrow, at 1:30 pm.

Zhang Yong rode his Flying Pigeon 28-inch motorcycle south along Dongsi North Street and turned into a narrow alley.

The alley was lined with old bungalows, with half-dried ivy climbing the blue brick walls.

Several clotheslines hung from the overhead utility poles, shorts and floral bed sheets swayed in the wind, the ground was covered with broken bricks, uneven and bumpy, and bicycles rattled and clanged.

Zhang Yong looked at the house number and walked in, thinking to himself that this place was really inconspicuous.

The October magazine office is located outside the North Third Ring Road in a six-story building with a sign in red lettering on a white background hanging at the entrance.

The editorial office of the Workers' Life Weekly was hidden in this alley, with a hole-in-the-wall restaurant selling noodles with soybean paste right at the entrance.

Zhang Yong pushed the cart into the yard and filled out a visitor form at the reception window.

He wrote three words in the visitor column: Zhang Wengong.

Behind the window sat a young man in his early twenties, wearing a white t-shirt and a towel draped around his neck. He glanced down at the visitor slip and scanned it casually.

Then his eyes froze.

"Zhang Wengong?!"

The young man suddenly jumped up from the stool, and the chair slid back half a meter.

He shouted at the top of his lungs towards the building.

"Here he comes! Zhang Wengong is here! Old Tan! Hurry up!"

His voice was so loud that the whole alley could hear it.

A series of thumping footsteps came from upstairs, and several people came running down.

The leader was a man in his forties, wearing a faded white vest, baggy gray shorts, and a pair of green rubber boots. He was also carrying a large bamboo fan, which whistled as he ran.

This must be Lao Tan, Tan Xingguo.

Tan Xingguo ran up to Zhang Yong, and before he could even stand up straight, his eyes scanned Zhang Yong's face from head to toe, his face beaming.

"Zhang Wengong, is that you? It really is you?!"

Zhang Yong nodded.

Tan Xingguo slapped his thigh.

"I knew it! I knew it! Heroes have always emerged from among the young! That old bastard Zhao Huaijin said you were eighteen."

"For an 18-year-old to write something like this, that's impressive!"

"I've been waiting in the yard since after lunch, and I've been waiting until now!"

He grabbed Zhang Yong's hand and shook it up and down several times with great force.

Several editors who followed also gathered around.

A tall, thin man wearing glasses and a polyester short-sleeved shirt reached out and shook hands with Zhang Yong.

"Hello Mr. Zhang Wengong! I'm Xiao Meng from the editorial department! I read your article about repairing tractors very carefully! There's a hand-operated tractor in my hometown, exactly the same as the one you described!"

A short, stout middle-aged man also came over.

"I'm Lao Lu! The one in charge of layout! Your handwriting is so honest! I couldn't bear to delete anything during the layout process!"

Zhang Yong was a little taken aback by the enthusiastic crowd surrounding him.

It's completely different from the editorial department of "October".

The entrance to the "October" section features black-and-white photographs of Lu Xun and Ba Jin. The corridor walls are painted green, and the editors wear Zhongshan suits, pausing to consider their words before speaking, creating an atmosphere as solemn as a classroom.

What about this side?

A straw mat was spread out in the courtyard, and a large broom leaned against the corner of the wall.

Even the office door was wide open, and when the wind blew, the papers on the desk flew around in a whistling sound.

No wonder Teacher Zhao said that Lao Tan likes to be easily startled.

That's how it is throughout the entire editorial staff.

Just then, a shout came from the gate.

"Make way! Make way! Don't block the way!"

A woman pushed a bicycle in. There were two net bags on the back seat, containing four or five watermelons.

The older sister propped the bicycle up with one foot, then bent down and took the net bag off.

Xiao Meng quickly ran over to help. "Sister Liu! Why are you carrying this yourself again? It must weigh forty or fifty pounds!"

"I bought these melons from Chongwenmen; they were cheap, so you big gluttons can have a taste!"

The older sister lifted her bamboo hat, revealing a rosy, round face.

"Women hold up half the sky! Why would I need you for this little bit of work? Don't anyone try to take it from me! The editing work can only be mine!"

Tan Xingguo laughed heartily and waved to Zhang Yong.

"Come on, come on! Don't just stand there! We have a special guest today, bring out the mats! Let's eat some watermelon!"

In no time, a few people set up a small table and mat under the locust tree in the yard.

With a single slice, Tan Xingguo cleaved the watermelon in two, revealing its red flesh and black seeds, with juice spilling all over the table.

The watermelon was divided into several portions, with each person holding a large slice.

Zhang Yong sat on a mat, munching on watermelon, listening to Lao Tan talk.

Old Tan's mouth never stopped.

I finished reading your article the afternoon it arrived.

"The section on how to identify counterfeit engine oil, in particular, is well-written. In short, it's practical!"

He counted on his fingers. "First, the light transmission color method—I specifically asked Old Sun, the mechanic downstairs, to verify it, and he said it's accurate. Second, the feel method—I went to the auto parts market that day and bought two different cans of oil to try, and they were indeed different. Third—"

"Director Tan," Zhang Yong interrupted him with a smile, "did you personally go to buy the oil and test it?"

"Of course!" Old Tan took another bite of watermelon, spitting the seeds far away.

"I come from a working-class family! My dad always told me that practice is the sole criterion for testing truth!"

"To be honest with you, our weekly magazine's circulation has been declining for the past few years. The content is all the same old stories about model workers and their exemplary deeds. I can't even bear to look at it myself."

"The moment I received your manuscript, I knew this was exactly what the workers wanted to see! It's practical, useful, and they can start working on it right away!"

After chatting for most of the hour, Tan Xingguo put the palm-leaf fan on his lap and got down to business.

"Zhang Wengong, let me be frank with you."

He stopped laughing, and his eyes became serious.

"Your article was discussed in our editorial department meeting, and it was unanimously approved for the front page."

"You don't need to worry about circulation. Our weekly is distributed to factories, mines, and employees' workplaces throughout Beijing and even to several surrounding provinces. Each issue has at least 200,000 copies, which is more reliable than those national-level publications."

He paused for a moment, then shook his palm-leaf fan a little embarrassedly.

"However, there's one more thing, and I'll be honest with you. Our weekly is a small organization, and we don't receive much funding from above. Your payment will only be thirty yuan per thousand words."

Thirty words per thousand characters, which is much worse than one hundred words per thousand characters in "October".

Zhang Yong nodded without hesitation.

"OK."

Tan Xingguo visibly breathed a sigh of relief and took two more bites of watermelon.

"Okay! It's a deal then! To be honest, we've already finished the pattern, just waiting for you to come, haha!"

"Tomorrow's front page, 'The Whisper of the Machine'! Please be well!"

He extended his right hand.

Zhang Yong shook hands with it.

With a flick of the palm-leaf fan, a breeze carrying the scent of watermelon swept over.

In the summer of 1990, a deal for royalties was struck.

---

The Workers' Life Weekly was published very quickly, and it was available at major newsstands the next day.

It's very hot.

As usual, Zhang Yong got up early and rode his bicycle to Old Zhao's iron shed at the cotton mill for practical training.

As soon as I entered the room, I saw several of Old Zhao's coworkers squatting against the iron frame, passing around a weekly magazine.

"Hey! Old Zhao! Have you seen this front page?"

"This guy named Zhang Wengong teaches people how to repair tractors!"

......