Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

When Lao Zhou entered, He Yuzhu was wiping the table lamp. A layer of dust had settled on the lampshade, and he was wiping it round and round with a rag. On the third round, he heard someone in the yard call "Director He." He put down the rag, stood up, and walked to the door.

Old Zhou stood at the bottom of the steps, his face tanned a dark red, his shoes covered in mud. He shuffled along the steps a few times before climbing up. He pulled an envelope from his pocket; it was made of kraft paper, sealed with grains of rice, and had several creases along the edge.

"He Chang, Mr. Yuan asked me to bring this to you."

He Yuzhu took the envelope but didn't open it right away. He invited Lao Zhou into the house and poured him a glass of water. Lao Zhou took the glass but didn't drink it. He held it in both hands, his knuckles thick and his fingernails embedded with dirt that couldn't be washed off.

"Old Yuan couldn't stay there. He went to the fields every day, and we couldn't persuade him otherwise." Old Zhou put his cup on the table, the bottom of the cup making a dull thud. "At first, the people in the production team didn't believe him, but later they saw that the rice was growing taller than the others, and they all came to ask. Old Yuan would squat on the edge of the field and teach them, counting on his fingers. How much water to water when raising seedlings, how wide the spacing should be when transplanting, what kind of fertilizer to use. He spoke slowly, pausing after each sentence, waiting for them to finish remembering before moving on to the next sentence."

He Yuzhu sat opposite him without saying a word. Old Zhou looked up, glanced at him, and then looked down again.

"He eats irregularly, sometimes skipping meals. We tried to persuade him, but he said the rice in the fields couldn't wait, so he just ate a few bites and left." Old Zhou's voice lowered. "He's lost a lot of weight."

He Yuzhu stood up and walked to the window. The sky outside was overcast, looking like it was about to rain. The big-character posters on the courtyard wall had been replaced with new ones; the edges of the paper were curled up, rustling loudly in the wind. He looked at them for a while, then turned away.

"Tell him to eat on time. The rice in the fields is being taken care of; he shouldn't wear himself out."

Old Zhou nodded, stood up to leave. But when he reached the door, he stopped, gripped the doorframe, and turned back.

"Director He, Mr. Yuan also said something."

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue. Old Zhou didn't look at him, but stared at the polished cement floor, his voice very low.

He said, "As long as the seed is there, there's nothing to fear."

He finished speaking and left. His footsteps echoed a few times in the corridor, then disappeared around the corner. He Yuzhu stood by the window, watching his figure vanish at the courtyard gate. Darkness fell, the streetlights came on, and the dim yellow light shone on the courtyard wall, casting patches of shadow on the ground from the large-character posters.

He walked back to the table and picked up the envelope. The seal was tight, and he slowly scratched it open with his fingernail. Inside was a piece of paper, folded into four folds, and when unfolded, he could hear the soft sound of the paper fibers stretching.

I can recognize each character in Mr. Yuan's handwriting, but when they are put together, they are crooked and twisted, like rice seedlings in a field being blown by the wind.

"Comrade Xiao He: The seeds weren't lost, and the people have food to eat. This year's rice harvest was good, yielding 800 jin per mu. If the weather is favorable next year, it will be even higher. Take care over there."

He Yuzhu read that page three times. The first time he looked at the words, the second time at the meaning, and the third time at what was hidden in the crooked strokes. He folded the paper, put it back in the envelope, opened the drawer, and placed it on top.

There were a few things in the drawer: the library book, the little wooden horse Old Liu had made, and a few letters that Mr. Yuan had sent him before. He placed the envelopes next to those things and closed the drawer.

It started raining outside. Raindrops hit the window and streamed down the glass, blurring the ink from the big-character posters outside. He stood by the window, watching the colors slowly dissolve, turning from black to gray, then from gray to water, flowing down the wall.

When Yang Xiaobing came in, He Yuzhu was still standing by the window. He stood at the door, not coming in, and knocked twice on the door frame.

"Commander, we've received news from Vietnam."

He Yuzhu turned around. Yang Xiaobing placed a piece of paper on the table; it was copied in pencil, the handwriting messy, with ink smudges in a few places. "The US bombing has escalated. There aren't enough radars, and air defense weapons are also lacking. The higher-ups are asking if we can get another batch."

He Yuzhu picked up the paper and looked at it for a few seconds. He recognized the words on it, and he remembered the numbers. He put the paper down and walked to the window. The rain was still falling, pattering against the windowpane.

"Lin Jianguo left behind blueprints before he left. There are still enough materials in the factory to make a few more."

Yang Xiaobing stood by the table, hands in his pockets, and didn't say anything. He Yuzhu turned around and looked at him.

"Is the production line still running at the factory?"

Yang Xiaobing hesitated for a moment. "It can be transferred. It's just not peaceful. There have been disturbances, and it's been stopped a few times."

He Yuzhu took his coat off the wall and put it on. "Let Lao Lu keep an eye on it. The production line can't stop. The radar matter can't be delayed."

Yang Xiaobing responded and turned to leave. But when he reached the door, he stopped and looked back.

"Commander, would you like to go check on Professor Qian?"

He Yuzhu paused, his hand still on his shirt. "What's wrong?"

Yang Xiaobing said, "He couldn't stay in the guesthouse. He was calculating things all day long, and once he started, he forgot to eat. Lin Jianguo got him a computer, and he would just keep calculating. The lights would stay on until the early hours of the morning."

He Yuzhu buttoned up his shirt. "Let him calculate. Don't bother him."

Yang Xiaobing nodded and left. His footsteps echoed a few times in the corridor, then disappeared around the corner. He Yuzhu stood at the table, picked up the paper again, and looked at it once more. The US bombing had escalated, and the radar wasn't enough. He put the paper down, took the envelope from the drawer, and placed it on the table.

Two things were placed side by side. On one side was rice, 800 jin (400 kg), the seeds still intact. On the other side was radar, but it wasn't enough; the production line had stopped. He stood there, looking at those two things for a long time.

The voice in my head rang.

[Hidden Mission: Protect Hybrid Rice - Complete]

[Mission Reward: 100,000,000 points]

[Current accumulated points: Please check the system records yourself.]

He didn't look at the number. He put the envelope back in the drawer, folded the paper, and put it in his pocket. He walked out of the office; the corridor was dark, except for the green light on the emergency exit. He passed the file room door and paused. The door was closed and securely locked. The key was in his pocket, heavy with weight.

He continued walking and pushed open the door. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still blowing and chilly. He stood in the doorway, turned up the collar of his coat, and walked home.

He Nianhua was already asleep. Qin Huairu was sewing an old garment under the lamp, her stitches very fine, one stitch at a time. Seeing him come in, she put down what she was doing.

"You're back?"

He Yuzhu sat down in the chair. "You're back."

Qin Huairu looked at him. "Any news from Elder Yuan's side?"

He Yuzhu nodded. "Eight hundred jin per mu. He said the seeds are still there."

Qin Huairu didn't speak. She put away her needlework, stood up, went to the inner room, and took down the bundle of rice ears from the wall. They were golden yellow, heavy with grains, tied with red string, and had been hanging on the wall for months, yet their color remained as fresh as new. She placed the rice ears in front of He Yuzhu.

"Nianhua brought it back from school. She said it was given to her by her teacher so they could see what the grains looked like."

He Yuzhu picked up the handful of rice stalks and weighed them in his hand. They felt light, yet substantial. He remembered the night Elder Yuan boarded the train, clutching a handful of rice stalks in his hand, his knuckles white. Now that handful of rice had been planted, harvested, and yielded eight hundred jin. Next year, it would be even higher.

He placed the rice stalks back on the table. He Nianhua turned over, and a rustling sound came from the inner room, then silence returned. Qin Huairu turned the lamp up a little, and the light shone on the rice stalks, making each grain of rice gleam with a dark yellow light under the lamp.

"Go to sleep," Qin Huairu said.

The light went out. He Yuzhu lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to the wind outside. He Nianhua turned over, her small hand resting on his face—warm and soft. He closed his eyes, his mind racing with those two things. On one hand, there was the rice, eight hundred jin (400 kg). On the other hand, there was the radar, not enough.

With the seeds in place, there's nothing to fear. But on the battlefield, the seeds haven't been planted yet.