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

When the train arrived in Shanghai, it was just dawn. The platform lights were still on, casting long shadows on the people carrying large and small bags. Ma Yuejin followed behind, carrying a canvas bag, the strap leaving a deep mark on his shoulder. A young man wearing glasses ran over; he was thin, pale-faced, rubbing his hands together, and his breath steaming in the air.

"Director He? I've been waiting for over an hour, afraid of missing you. Director Zhou sent me to pick you up."

He Yuzhu nodded and followed him outside. The van was parked on the side of the square, and much of the red paint on the words "Shanghai Radio" on the door had chipped off. The young man started the car, turned the heater on full blast, and the car quickly warmed up. He gripped the steering wheel and glanced at He Yuzhu in the rearview mirror.

"Director Zhou didn't go home again last night; he stayed in the workshop all night. He has a stomach problem, and the doctor told him to avoid staying up late, but he didn't listen."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. The street scene outside the window flickered, and the old buildings on the Bund looked hazy in the morning light, as if they hadn't woken up yet. Ma Yuejin leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and soon began to snore.

The car turned into a narrow alley, flanked by dusty gray walls covered with withered vines. The old gatekeeper leaned halfway out of the guardhouse, holding an enamel mug, squinting at the license plate. Recognizing it as a factory vehicle, he slowly pushed open the iron gate. The van drove in and parked in front of the office building.

Factory Director Zhou stood on the steps, wearing a faded blue cotton jacket with frayed cuffs. He saw He Yuzhu get out of the car, took two steps forward, reached out, and shook hands. His fingers were thick, with prominent knuckles, calluses on the base of his thumb, and indelible oil stains embedded in his fingernails. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something, but he swallowed it back, finally managing to squeeze out only one sentence.

"It's good that you're here."

He Yuzhu looked at him. Director Zhou's face was more wrinkled, his cheekbones more prominent, and his eyes sunken, but his eyes were bright. He released his hand, turned around, and pointed to the factory buildings.

"Let's go take a look."

The lights in the workshop were all on, glaringly bright. The conveyor belt kept turning, silicon wafers going in from one end and coming out from the other, falling into the material bins with a clinking sound. The workers wore white lab coats, hats, and masks, only their eyes showing. Some were at the control panel looking at the instruments, some were inspecting the wafers under microscopes, and some were hunched over the table recording data.

He Yuzhu walked to a control panel, picked up a newly produced chip, and examined it under a light. It was tiny, about the size of a fingernail, dark green, with densely packed lines, finer than a strand of hair. He remembered the chip from the Galaxy-1 satellite project years ago; it was about the same size and the same green color, but the lines back then were much thicker, easily felt by hand. This chip, however, had lines so fine they were invisible; its integration density was at least several dozen times higher.

"Dean."

He Yuzhu turned around. Lin Jianguo stood behind him, wearing a white overcoat, unbuttoned, revealing an old military uniform underneath. Half of his hair was white, and his face was more wrinkled, but his eyes were still bright. He extended his hand, and He Yuzhu grasped it. His hand was thinner, with distinct knuckles, and stronger than before.

"You've lost weight," He Yuzhu said.

Lin Jianguo smiled. "It's good to be thinner; you don't get out of breath climbing stairs anymore." He pointed to the production line, "It's fully automated, from silicon wafers to finished products, no human intervention required. One lithography machine can produce a thousand wafers a day, with a 98% pass rate."

He Yuzhu walked to the lithography machine and reached out to touch its casing. It was silvery-white and cool to the touch. He remembered the machine tools he had imported from Switzerland years ago; they had the same color and texture. Those machine tools were now old and had been replaced by domestically produced ones. This lithography machine was designed and built by the engineers at the Shanghai factory themselves.

"What is the precision?"

Lin Jianguo held up three fingers. "Ninety nanometers. One generation behind the international mainstream, but it's enough. Our chips will have no problem being used in missiles, radar, and satellites."

He Yuzhu nodded. He continued walking forward to the testing workshop. The chips passed through the testing station one by one, automatically detected and sorted; good chips went into one bin, and defective chips into another. The testing equipment emitted a rhythmic beeping sound, like a heartbeat. He Yuzhu stood in front of the testing station, watching the chips move on the conveyor belt. Suddenly, the testing equipment emitted a long beep, and the red light illuminated.

The operator pressed a button, removed the defective chip, and set it aside. He Yuzhu picked it up and examined it; there was a tiny scratch on the surface, almost invisible to the naked eye.

"What is this ratio?" he asked.

Lin Jianguo walked over and glanced at the chip. "About one-thousandth. It was mainly damaged during transmission; we're working on fixing it."

He Yuzhu put the chip down without saying a word. Lin Jianguo stood beside him, waiting. After a while, He Yuzhu spoke.

"Let me mention one more point."

Lin Jianguo nodded. "Okay."

They went to the packaging workshop. The chips were packed into anti-static bags, sealed, labeled, and boxed. The boxes were printed with the words "Made in China" in both Chinese and English. He Yuzhu picked up a box, weighed it in his hand, and found it wasn't heavy.

"Which countries are they exported to?"

Factory Director Zhou followed behind. "Eastern Europe, Southeast Asia, Africa. Hungary, Poland, Vietnam, Thailand, Egypt—they all buy our products. They're cheap, sufficient, and the service is excellent."

"What about the United States?"

Factory Director Zhou shook his head. "We can't get in. They've blocked us. It's okay, our market is big enough."

He Yuzhu didn't say anything. He put the box back, turned around, and looked at Lin Jianguo.

"How much worse is it compared to the United States?"

Lin Jianguo thought for a moment, then took out a chip from his pocket, held it up to the light, and looked at it for a few seconds. He then clutched the chip in his hand.

"Our chips are a generation behind in integration and a little slower. But they are more durable. They can withstand high temperatures, high humidity, and high vibrations, which the Americans might not be able to handle."

He Yuzhu nodded. "That's enough."

At lunchtime, they ate in the canteen. He Yuzhu sat in a corner, holding an enamel mug. Director Zhou sat opposite him, ate a few mouthfuls of rice, put down his chopsticks, took a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and pushed it in front of He Yuzhu.

"Director He, this is our factory's production data for the past ten years. Please take a look."

He Yuzhu took the paper and read it line by line. The numbers increased every year, from low to high. The last number was fifty times that of ten years ago. He folded the paper and handed it back.

"Keep it safe."

Factory Director Zhou stuffed the paper into his pocket and patted it down. He Yuzhu stood up and extended his hand. Factory Director Zhou grasped it tightly, refusing to let go.

"Director He, where are you going next?"

Ansteel.

Factory Director Zhou nodded. "I heard there was some trouble over there, technical stuff. You'll find out when you get there."

He Yuzhu looked at him. "What is it?"

Factory Director Zhou shook his head. "You can see for yourself."

He Yuzhu didn't ask any more questions. He walked out of the canteen and stood at the factory gate. The wind blew by, carrying the smell of chemical reagents. The old gatekeeper peeked out from the guardhouse, glanced at him, and then withdrew. The bread truck started, its exhaust pipe sputtering white smoke. He Yuzhu got on and leaned back in his seat. Ma Yuejin sat beside him, holding his canvas bag in his arms.

"Dean, what did Director Zhou mean by his last words?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer. The car drove out of the gate and onto the highway. Rows of factory buildings outside the window receded into the distance, their chimneys billowing white smoke, conspicuous against the hazy sky. He closed his eyes, Zhou's words echoing in his mind: "Something's happened, technically." Ansteel? What happened?