Literary Master: Starting with Refusing to Be a Child Star

Chapter 142 Private Meeting

This event, which the media portrayed as a "showdown," ultimately ended in a more peaceful manner than anyone had anticipated.

Data from the first week after *The Martian*'s release was gradually compiled and reached Luo Jinnian. It opened with an 8.9 rating on Douban, roughly the same as Robinson's new book's domestic rating. However, a significant difference emerged in the distribution of reader reviews—reviews of Robinson's new book focused on its "grand worldview" and "solid scientific details," while *The Martian*'s reviews unexpectedly featured phrases like "can't put it down," "read it all day," and "want to finish it in one go." This wasn't a difference in ratings, but rather a difference in the pace of the reading experience.

Robinson's books require readers to stop, think, digest, and savor them repeatedly; The Martian made readers turn the pages all night, eager to see the next page.

Among more hardcore science fiction readers, attention to "The Martian" is gradually increasing—professional readers who take "accurate technical accuracy in hard science fiction" as their primary standard are beginning to scrutinize every scientific detail in the book and are amazed by its rigor.

Luo Jinnian paused when he saw a long review from a space enthusiast forum. The main title of that review was only one sentence: "The technical details of this book stand up to scrutiny." The following dozens of lines broke down the data in the book regarding orbital mechanics, life support systems, and the Martian environment, and concluded with a paragraph: "I originally thought this would be a work written by a domestic author, using science fiction as a shell to tell a story. But its technical accuracy is so high that it can be read as a popular science book."

That passage was shared on several platforms, becoming a significant turning point in boosting the reputation of "The Martian." Meanwhile, Robinson's new book also received high praise from professional readers. However, that review, which leaned more towards a "thought experiment," and the "toolkit" style review of "The Martian" presented two completely different narrative rhythms on the same page—one like a slowly unfolding scroll, the other like a notebook with curled edges. They were opened by different people on the same table, leaving different reading marks.

Another turning point came in the third week.

The Martian's domestic sales did not decline in the third week; instead, they saw a slight increase.

It's not because of more publicity or resource investment, but because of the phenomenon of readers spontaneously recommending the product again.

After finishing the book, some readers began posting on social media to explain its scientific premise in detail, breaking down the knowledge about chemistry and orbitals in a popular way, and showing why the logical chain in the book is solid.

This sharing of real knowledge convinces more potential readers that "this is not a suspense story disguised as science fiction, but a true hard science fiction work."

Robinson's tweet appeared on Luo Jinnian's phone on a quiet weekend morning.

The tweet contained only the book title—*The Martian*—along with a link, and the caption: "I finally found the time to finish this Martian story from the East. Its scientific details made me stop and check my memory at certain passages. It's great to see hard science fiction being written in different languages."

The tweet contained no comparisons or judgments, only a simple and genuine recognition of a peer. However, its retweets surged rapidly after its release, and the comments section was filled with messages in various languages. Some said, "Your recommendation is a must-see," others shared their experiences reading *The Martian*, and still others posted screenshots of Robinson's tweet on Chinese forums with the caption: "He watched it."

"6

The media's tone shifted subtly at that moment. It went from a "confrontation" to a "dialogue," from "who's better" to "both are going far enough in their respective directions." One commentary later wrote: "King Stanley Robinson spent thirty years building a city; the author of *The Martian* pitched a tent in thirty days. The city inspires awe; the tent makes you want to live there."

When Luo Jinnian saw that comment, he didn't laugh, nor did he feel any sense of accomplishment. He recalled Robinson's tweet: those meticulously researched words were still written by a colleague in another time zone, writing in another language. He opened his laptop and sent Robinson a short email in English, plainly worded and without unnecessary embellishment: "Thank you for reading my book. Your work from thirty years ago was one of the starting points for my writing hard science fiction." After sending the email, he shut down his computer without waiting for a reply.

A week later, Robinson replied. His email was several times longer than Luo Jinnian's, sincere in tone, and offered specific observations on "the attitude of not treating science as a prop, but as a dialogue partner" in Luo's work. He concluded, "If there's an opportunity, I hope we can talk face-to-face at a conference."

Luo Jinnian looked at the last two paragraphs of the reply, slowly echoing those words in his mind in the same language. He didn't reply immediately, but let those sentences linger on the paper overnight, allowing them to fully settle into his tone and rhythm, before turning on his computer the next morning and beginning to craft his reply.

After sending that reply, Luo Jinnian didn't think about the follow-up. But a month later, Lin Yiming mentioned during a monthly communication: "Robinson is having a science fiction literature forum in London, and he asked if you would like to attend as a guest." Luo Jinnian was taken aback when he heard this and asked for confirmation: "Does he mean he'll be there too?" Lin Yiming said: "He's a guest at the main forum, and your invitation was conveyed to him by the organizing committee. They said that if you're willing to go, they can arrange a separate discussion session."

"6

Luo Jinnian thought for a moment and told Lin Yiming to first clarify the specific arrangements for the forum, without immediately agreeing. He needed to confirm that it wasn't an event packaged by the media as a "dialogue between two generations of science fiction authors"—such occasions easily turn genuine exchange into a showcase. A few days later, Lin Yiming's reply confirmed: the forum would have a public dialogue session, but would also reserve a private exchange time for the guests. Luo Jinnian looked at the arrangement and said, "Then I'll go."

Autumn in London is much cooler than in Zhanjiang. Luo Jinnian arrived in the afternoon. Lin Yiming's people picked him up and took him to the hotel. After he had rested for a short while, news came from the conference venue that Robinson had arrived. Luo Jinnian was wearing a dark coat and carrying nothing when he walked from the hotel to the venue. The venue was in an old building. Posters and photos from previous forums hung on the walls of the corridors. The lighting was warm-toned, contrasting with the gloomy sky outside.

Robinson was in the lounge. When Luo Jinnian entered, he was sitting in an armchair by the window, a half-empty cup of tea in front of him. He looked older than in the photos, with gray hair, thin-rimmed glasses, and a gray sweater, as if he had just come directly from his study to the meeting room. He didn't stand up when he saw Luo Jinnian enter, but extended his hand. Luo Jinnian went over and took his hand; it was thinner than he had imagined, but the palm was warm.

“You’re younger than I thought,” Robinson said in English, his tone devoid of surprise, simply stating a fact. Luo Jinnian sat down in the chair opposite him. “I started writing earlier than I appear.” Robinson looked at him for a moment, as if waiting for him to say more, but Luo Jinnian didn’t. A few seconds of silence followed, but it wasn’t awkward; it was more like both of them were confirming each other’s presence in their own way.

Robinson spoke first: "I stopped and calculated the part about the reaction between water and hydrazine in your book three times while reading it." Luo Jinnian said, "I also calculated that part three times while writing it." Robinson's lips twitched, not in a smile, but close to one: "Then you should also have noticed that if you substitute the atmospheric density data of Mars into it, the reaction efficiency will decrease by seventeen to nineteen percent." Luo Jinnian said, "I know. But I don't think readers need to know that seventeen percent difference. I need them to believe that the solution is logically feasible, not that it's flawless."

After listening, Robinson paused for two seconds, then picked up his teacup and took a sip. "You're right. Sometimes I linger too long on the details and forget that the story ultimately needs a grounding point." Luo Jinnian thought for a moment and said, "But without those details, there's no foundation for the exit. Your generation's work was laying the foundation for our generation."

I can pitch a tent on your foundation, but I wasn't even born when you were laying the foundation.

Robinson put down his teacup, looked at him, and said with a slightly more serious expression, "Do you usually talk to people like this?" Luo Jinnian replied, "Not often. You're the first person to ask me about my reaction time."

The distance between the two shortened slightly at that moment. Robinson began to talk about his research experience while writing the Mars trilogy, mentioning how he had consulted a meteorologist to accurately describe the impact of Martian surface wind speeds on the probe, and how a reader pointed out a data error after the book was published, and how he later proactively emailed the reader to thank them.

As Luo Jinnian listened to those narratives, he felt as if they were a route laid out on an old map, with coordinates and notes marked along the way by predecessors.

The closed-door exchange lasted for nearly an hour. At the end, Robinson stood up, reached out and shook Luo Jinnian's hand again, saying something Luo Jinnian would ponder repeatedly afterward: "Keep writing."

Luo Jinnian nodded and said, "I will," and then let go of her hand.

As he turned and walked out of the lounge, the lights on both sides of the corridor were brighter than when he arrived, as if the exit of some passage was slowly approaching.

The streetlights were already on, and the silhouette of Big Ben in the distance emerged in the twilight, like an ancient marker, steadily moving through time.

"grateful."

In the final moment before turning around, Luo Jinnian thanked the old man who had given him this piece of advice.

Robinson burst into laughter.