Courtyard House: I Rely on Time-Space Trade to Build a Nation

March 30, 1949, Beiping (Beijing).

When the door opened, Zhao Ping'an was hunched over a pile of drawings, holding a half-pencil in his hand. The paper was covered with the detonation lens curves that Qian Lao had just derived the night before. Qian Lao sat opposite him, his glasses stained with ink smudges from who-knows-when, and he still held the worn-out fountain pen in his hand.

The windows were closed, and the air was filled with the smell of old paper and the weariness unique to those who stay up all night.

The leader stood at the door, looking at the two disheveled men, and remained silent for three seconds.

Then he spoke.

"Comrade Ping An. Comrade Xue Sen."

The two of them looked up at the same time.

The leader pointed to the calendar on the wall that no one had ever opened from beginning to end, and said in a low voice:

"Do you remember what day tomorrow is?"

Zhao Ping'an froze. He subconsciously looked at the corner of the wall—the calendar was still set to September 23, the date when he brought the documents to see Mr. Qian.

Mr. Qian was also stunned.

The leader sighed.

"The guards have been reporting to me for three days that the lights in your room have never been turned off, and the food that's been reheated three times hasn't been touched. I'm thinking that if no one comes soon, you might miss the grand ceremony too."

A grand ceremony was held.

These four words struck Zhao Ping'an's mind like a bolt of lightning.

He stood up abruptly, not even noticing his knee hitting the corner of the table.

Mr. Qian also stood up, and the pen in his hand fell onto the drawing paper, leaving a small ink stain.

"What's the date today..." Zhao Ping'an's voice was a little dry.

"September 30th," the leader said, looking at him. "Tomorrow, October 1st."

The room was so quiet that you could hear the ticking of the wall clock.

Zhao Pingan looked down at himself—his military uniform was wrinkled, his cuffs were stained with some kind of machine oil, and one of his collar buttons was fastened crookedly.

Mr. Qian was in no better shape; he hadn't taken off the coat he brought back from America for three days, and a layer of fine paper scraps had settled on his shoulders.

The leader walked to the window and pushed open the window that hadn't been opened for three days.

The cool autumn breeze blew in, carrying the faint fragrance of osmanthus blossoms in the courtyard.

"Take a shower, shave, and change into clean clothes." The leader, with his back to them, spoke in an unusually gentle tone, "Tomorrow, we'll go to the city gate together."

At 2 p.m. on October 1, Zhao Ping'an and the disguised Mr. Qian stood on the viewing platform on the west side of Tiananmen Gate.

The sun was shining brightly, neither too hot nor too cold. The autumn sky over Beiping was a clear, unblemished blue.

Zhao Ping'an looked down.

For a moment, his breath caught in his throat.

People in Tiananmen Square.

A sea of ​​people.

He had never been before, but the scene was all too familiar to him—a scene that had appeared repeatedly in textbooks, documentaries, and countless black-and-white images. But when he actually stood beneath these city walls and saw it with his own eyes, he realized that no image could replicate even a fraction of this moment.

That's not 300,000 people.

Those were three hundred thousand beating hearts, three hundred thousand pairs of eyes looking in the same direction, and three hundred thousand suppressed cries about to burst forth.

The PLA soldiers, dressed in gray cloth uniforms, stood ramrod straight, their rifle butts striking the ground to leave neat white lines.

The workers, dressed in blue overalls, wore Mao Zedong badges pinned to their chests and held up paper red flags with their rough hands.

Farmers in black cotton-padded coats walked dozens of miles from Baoding, Tongxian, and Daxing to come here, their feet blistered and bleeding, but their faces were still beaming with smiles.

The students waved homemade banners, the female students had red ribbons tied to their braids, and the male students' Zhongshan suits were buttoned up meticulously.

The child rode on his father's shoulders, clutching a colorful candy wrapper he had picked up from somewhere, which glittered in the sunlight.

An old woman stumbled as she was jostled by the crowd. A young woman, a complete stranger, grabbed her and tucked her small stool under her bottom.

Several young soldiers who had just arrived in the city were separated from their ranks by the surging crowd. The squad leader was sweating profusely with anxiety, but an old man next to him cheerfully pulled them back, saying, "Don't worry, don't worry, it's the founding ceremony, it won't fall apart!"

Zhao Ping'an saw an old farmer wearing a patched cotton-padded coat squatting on the steps at the edge of the square, touching the dust in the cracks between the paving stones with his chapped hands.

He seemed to be muttering to himself, his voice very soft, with a heavy Hebei accent:

"This is our own land now..."

2:50 p.m.

The announcer's voice, trembling slightly with excitement, echoed over the square:

"XXX is here! XX has begun!"

At that moment, 300,000 people fell silent simultaneously.

That silence wasn't deathly stillness. It was the holding of breath, the clenching of fists, the frantic beating of countless hearts in unison. Even the wind had stopped, and the red flag hung limply, as if waiting in its own time.

Zhao Ping'an saw that Old Qian's hand was gripping the railing tightly, his knuckles white.

Footsteps came from the west side of the city gate.

A figure dressed in a Zhongshan suit walked towards the microphone.

Zhao Ping'an stood there, looking at the face he had seen countless times in books, videos, and commemorative medals.

The face I had seen several times before was now appearing in front of me again in real time.

The memories seemed to overlap.

Zhao Ping'an found himself unable to breathe at that moment.

Then, that voice rang out.

Speaks with a Hunan accent, slowly and solemnly, each word like a hammer striking a steel anvil:

"The People's Republic of China—the Central People's Government—is established today!"

Without warning, without any foreshadowing.

Three hundred thousand people erupted in a thunderous cheer at the same time.

The cheers were like a tsunami, like thunder, like ten thousand drums beating simultaneously. Red flags waved everywhere, forming a red ocean. Shouts of "Long live Chairman Mao!" and "Long live the new China!" rose and fell, wave after wave.

Zhao Ping'an saw the old farmer who was squatting on the ground suddenly stand up, swaying slightly, and someone next to him helped him up. The old farmer opened his mouth, wanting to shout but unable to make a sound, and turbid tears streamed down the lines of his face, washing away the dust and leaving two muddy streaks.

He saw the child riding on his father's shoulders, who covered his ears in fright at the huge noise, but still stared wide-eyed at the red he had never seen before.

He saw a wounded soldier with a missing arm, biting his empty sleeve in his mouth, desperately waving a red flag with his only remaining hand. Tears soaked the medals on his chest.

He saw a group of female students hugging each other, crying and laughing. Their braids were undone, their hair ties were nowhere to be found, and their makeup was a complete mess.

He saw those generals who had emerged from the hail of bullets now clapping and shouting like children, their voices hoarse but they wouldn't stop.

That was a voice that had been suppressed for a hundred years.

That was the roar of 400 million people.

That was the first cry this nation uttered to the world as it rose from the ruins.

Zhao Ping'an stood there, his throat feeling like it was blocked by something.

He wanted to shout, but no words came out. He just stared at the sea of ​​people, at those unfamiliar, ordinary faces that were now incredibly radiant.

Zhao Ping'an suddenly understood.

All the equipment, blueprints, tanks, airplanes, steel, oil, potatoes, fertilizer, centrifuges, and accelerators I had previously exchanged—

All of this was for this moment.

So that these people will never have to kneel again.

The military parade has begun.

The tank rolled along Chang'an Avenue, its cannon barrels pointing towards the azure sky. Those were Type 59 tanks, the first batch Zhao Ping'an had personally exchanged for. The tracks rolled over the cobblestone pavement, producing a deep, powerful roar.

The truck was full of dashing soldiers, their young faces visible beneath their helmets.

Those were Jiefang trucks, made in Shenyang. The workers cried all night when the first assembled truck rolled off the production line.

The plane flew over Tiananmen Square, its silver fuselage reflecting the autumn sunlight.

That was a fighter jet, the one that copied the Mustang. Pilot Liu Yucheng quietly wiped away a tear in the air.

Every time a weapon passed by, thunderous applause erupted in the square.

In a daze, Zhao Ping'an seemed to recognize some familiar faces in the crowd.

An old technician from Ansteel, wearing borrowed new clothes, pointed excitedly at the truck towing the artillery, gesturing to the person next to him: "This truck, this truck uses steel plates from our Ansteel!"

A coal miner from Fushun, his face flushed from washing, pointed to the tank tracks: "That's steel made from coal from Fushun!"

The young apprentice at the Shenyang Machine Tool Factory stood on tiptoe, watching the rumbling tanks drive by, his eyes shining like stars.

They didn't know who brought the equipment.

All they knew was that they had created it themselves.

XXX stood on the city wall, looking at the bustling crowd in the square, at the sea of ​​flags and the sea of ​​people.

He slowly raised his right hand to greet the people.

Then he said something.

That sentence seemed light, but it carried immense weight.

But amidst the tremendous cheers, it was a wake-up call.

Zhao Pingan heard it.

Old Qian, who was next to him, also heard it.

Many people on the city wall heard it.

The words traveled through the microphone to the square and into the crowd.

First, the people in the front row were stunned, and then the sound spread outwards like waves.

"Long live the people!"

"Long live the people!!"

"Long live the people!!!"

Three hundred thousand people shouted at the same time. It was not that countless throats merged into one voice, echoing repeatedly between heaven and earth.

Zhao Ping'an's vision blurred.

He saw those workers, farmers, soldiers, and students—those he had calculated and planned countless times on blueprints, in data, and in plans, and who had spent countless sleepless nights working on them.

They stand tall and proud on their own land.

The celebration ended in the evening.

The crowd slowly dispersed.

Zhao Ping'an and Qian Lao stepped down from the viewing platform.

Mr. Qian walked very slowly. He remained silent for a long time, then suddenly spoke:

"Comrade Ping An."

"Um."

"worth."

Just those two words.

Zhao Ping'an did not answer.

He remembered the wooden crate, the ten tons of blueprints, the equipment he had redeemed from the system, and the centrifuges, accelerators, and reactors that were still unfinished.

He thought of the countless people who spent their youth in anonymity.

He recalled those 300,000 faces from just now.

"Yes. It's worth it."

In the distance, the setting sun bathed Tiananmen Gate in a golden-red hue.

The sun will rise as usual tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the blueprints will continue to be organized, the equipment will continue to be installed, and the factory will continue to operate.

But everything is different now.