Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

"It can type, store data, and perform calculations. As for how to use it, we'll have someone teach you later. There's a young man in the hall who specializes in this; his surname is Ma. I'll have him teach you. You'll learn how to type, how to spreadsheets, and how to store and retrieve data."

Sun Deming turned his head and looked at Jiang Cheng, his eyes shining like light bulbs, his mouth stretching to his ears. "Brother Jiang, we're going to have a computer!" Jiang Cheng didn't speak, but his heart was beating faster. Not because of the computer itself, but because of the tone Han Zhiguo used when he said "next month"—that confident, unwavering tone, as if he were saying something that would definitely happen.

After the meeting, Sun Deming followed Jiang Cheng into the laboratory and closed the door. The laboratory smelled of machine oil and metal mixed with cleaning agents; it was stuffy, as if it had been sealed for a long time. The coating equipment in the corner was still humming, its indicator lights flashing, their red glow jumping around in the dim room.

"Brother Jiang, do you think this Director Han is reliable?" Sun Deming leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his tone carrying an indescribable feeling—he hoped the answer was "reliable," but he was also afraid the answer was "unreliable."

Jiang Cheng thought for a moment. "Whether it's reliable or not depends on whether he can keep his word. He mentioned three things, the first two of which are good. As for the third, the computer, if it can really be matched, that would be a huge success. The fact that the department approved something worth over ten thousand yuan shows that he's really putting in the effort."

"Aren't you afraid he's here to seize power?"

Jiang Cheng looked at him and suddenly laughed. "Seize power? Do I have power? I'm just a worker. Whoever becomes the director, I still have to work. A machine won't stop breaking down just because the director changes. You understand this better than I do."

Sun Deming scratched his head and remained silent. He took out a cigarette from his pocket, about to light it, but after glancing at Jiang Cheng, he put it back. His fingers rubbed the cigarette pack a couple of times, as if touching something he couldn't bear to use.

He now admires the decision made by the province. Just like in a popular TV series in his previous life, Li Yunlong was a great fighter, but he still needed a political commissar to assist him as the commander of the independent regiment. Now, he only needs to focus on the technical aspects. Anyway, Han Zhiguo is there to protect him and sometimes even take the fall.

Heh~ Thinking of this, Jiang Cheng chuckled.

Han Zhiguo kept his word. The first week, the sign at the entrance was changed. Yellow background with black lettering, the characters in regular script, neat and upright, much more impressive than the old one. The new sign was made of brass, heavy and making a metallic sound when tapped, unlike the old wooden sign which wobbled in the wind. Sun Deming stood under the sign for a long time, then read it aloud: "LN Province—Equipment—Modification—Technology—Promotion—Center." After reading it, he turned to Jiang Cheng and said, "Brother Jiang, this name is too long. We'll have to write a really long address when we write letters. It won't even fit on the envelope."

"Then just write 'Shenyang Promotion Center,' everyone will know where it is. It's not like we're sending a letter to aliens."

The following week, the staffing issue was resolved. The department approved fifteen positions, and Sun Deming, Lao Zhao, and Li Zhiqiang were all on the list. The news spread, and the group was overjoyed, like it was New Year's. Sun Deming treated everyone to a meal at a small restaurant, ordering eight dishes, drinking four bottles of baijiu (Chinese liquor), and finally adding two more bottles of beer to rinse their mouths. Lao Zhao, having drunk too much, grabbed Jiang Cheng's hand and said, "Master Jiang, I've worked for twenty-five years, and this is the first time I've had a formal position. Before, every time a factory director changed, I had to worry about whether I'd keep my job. Every time a factory director changed, I had to worry. But now, it's all good, I don't have to worry anymore." As he spoke, his eyes reddened, tears welled up, and he held them back.

The computer arrived in the third week. It was placed in the conference room, covered with a new red cloth, the edges still creased – a gift Han Zhiguo had specifically asked someone in the office to buy it. Han Zhiguo personally lifted the cloth, revealing the milky-white machine. The monitor was small, like a miniature television, its black screen reflecting images, and when off, it resembled a mirror. The main unit had two floppy disk drives, one large and one small, and several indicator lights on the panel that lit up when powered on – green, red, and orange. The keyboard was heavy; pressing the keys produced a crisp "click," like snapping a dry twig.

Sun Deming was the first to approach, touching the keyboard as if it were a rare treasure. He lightly pressed each key with his fingers, then withdrew them, as if afraid of breaking it. "This is a microcomputer? What can it do?" he asked in a low voice, as if speaking in a museum.

Han Zhiguo called over a young man, a technician from the department, in his early twenties, tall and thin, wearing plastic-rimmed glasses. He spoke very quickly, like a machine gun, each word echoing the previous one. He turned on the computer, the monitor lit up, and a cursor appeared, blinking like an eye. There was a line of English letters on the screen; he pressed a few keys, and the letters changed into a line of Chinese characters.

"This is the operating system. You need to learn to type first. You need to learn the Wubi input method and memorize the character roots. I brought the character root table with me, one for each of you. Go back and memorize it. Memorize one table every day. After you finish memorizing it, there will be a test. If you fail the test, you are not allowed to touch the computer." The young man's tone was very serious, like a teacher.

Sun Deming took the character root table, glanced at it, and his head started spinning. "This is harder than repairing a machine. At least you can see and touch the machine, but this character root table is like a book written in heaven."

"It's not difficult," the young man said. "You'll memorize it in a week. The key is practice. Practice for two hours every day, and you'll be able to type in a month."

Jiang Cheng didn't speak. He squatted down and looked at the microcomputer. He was all too familiar with this thing. Forty years later, the microcomputers he used were ten thousand times more advanced than this one—lighter, faster, with a larger screen, capable of internet access, video playback, 3D modeling, and running dozens of windows simultaneously without lagging. But now, this bulky machine, with a processing speed slower than a calculator, was the most advanced thing in the country.

He reached out and tapped a few keys. The words "Shenyang Promotion Center" appeared on the screen. He used Pinyin input, not Wubi, because he knew that for these fitters who had never touched a keyboard in their lives, Pinyin was much easier than Wubi.

The young man leaned closer and looked at the screen. "Master Jiang, do you know how to use Pinyin?"

"I know a little bit. You don't need to memorize the radicals for pinyin; you can type it if you can pronounce the characters."

"Pinyin is slow. Wubi is fast. A skilled Wubi typist can type more than a hundred words per minute."

Jiang Cheng smiled. "I'm slow, Pinyin is enough. The machine isn't in a hurry to use characters, it's the machine that's in a hurry." He wasn't telling the truth. Of course he knew Wubi, and not only Wubi, but also many other things that people in this era had never even heard of, but he couldn't say it. He could only squat in front of the computer, like a primary school student learning to write, typing one key after another, typing out a character, glancing at the screen, and then typing the next one.