Chapter 122: Technical Ban · Courtyard Turmoil

The door handle moved again.

Zhao Jianguo stayed silent, his fingers slowly closing as the wrench in his tool bag grew hot in his grip. The shadow outside the classroom halted for two seconds, turned, and walked away, footsteps as light as stepping on cotton.

He glanced at his watch: 1:17 a. m. Su Qing had gone home with the child, He Yushui had also left, and he was the only one still sitting by the podium. The formula on the blackboard was untouched; moonlight slanted in, stretching the words "magnetic field strength = magnetic flux ÷ cross‑sectional area" into a long line.

Before six in the morning the next day, Zhao Jianguo got up. He pulled a red cloth from under the bed, fetched several bamboo poles and a coil of hemp rope, and shouldered them out. No one moved in the central courtyard yet; only Sha Zhu's coal stove smoked, a whiff of burnt soot drifting in the air.

He erected a bamboo pole in the middle of the courtyard and hung the red banner, the four characters still wet with ink: **Technical Mutual Aid Association**.

A paper was pasted beside it, reading: "Anyone willing to learn Mechanical Lesson or repair appliances may attend Free Teaching Sign every evening at 7 p. m.; no charge whatsoever."

Qin Huairu came out carrying a basin of water, stared at the banner and blurted, "Jian Guo, isn't this… just like Night School?"

"It's different." Zhao Jianguo brushed the dust off his hands. "Night School is organized by a group; this is us ordinary folks doing mutual aid ourselves. If your son wants to learn welding circuits, I'll teach him; if anyone's electric fan breaks, bring it over for repair, we only charge for parts. That's technology sharing."

"But what if the street office says…"

"I quoted Article 3 of the *Interim Regulations on Popularizing Workers' Technology*. " He pulled a paper from his pocket. "It clearly states that the masses have the right to spontaneously organize technical exchange activities, provided they are non‑profit and do not spread erroneous theories; no one may block them."

Qin Huairu gave him a quick look and muttered, "You really have a copy of that, huh."

"Not only a copy, I have the certificate too." He patted his chest. "Provincial Model Worker, you can trust my word."

As soon as he finished speaking, Sha Zhu pushed his steamed‑rice cart through the gate. The cart's side bore the bold lettering "Steel Rolling Factory Innovation Project," its surface gleaming. Spotting the banner, he grinned, "Yo, the battle's on?"

"Just opening the first act."

"Alright, buddy, I just finished retrofitting this cart—energy saving up by thirty percent, the factory's technical department signed off." Sha Zhu slid the cart toward the courtyard gate. "Anyone who wants to tear down your banner, take my equipment away first! Dare they?"

Zhao Jianguo laughed, "What you have isn't a steamed‑rice cart, it's a tank."

"Even tanks are light compared to this—it's a bunker!"

While they were talking, Jia Dongxu emerged from the house cradling a machine. The contraption looked like a metal box attached to several funnels and turntables, with electric wire coiled around it.

"This is my automatic grain‑sorting machine," he said in a steady voice. "It can sift rice, remove sand, and separate grains by size. If every grain depot in the city used it, we'd save a few thousand jin of waste each year."

"Why are you carrying it?"

"In case they try to confiscate the equipment." Jia Dongxu looked up at Zhao Jianguo. "If they order me to move, I'll jump from the roof."

Zhao Jianguo didn't stop him. He knew Jia Dongxu wasn't bluffing; he truly had the guts to act.

At half past eight, the sun just crept over the eaves, and three people arrived.

One wore a duck‑bill cap, a blue uniform, and a paperclip in hand. The leader's face was as hard as sheet metal; he stopped in front of the banner, opened a red‑headed document, and began to read:

"According to higher‑level notice, recent investigations have found that some residents have independently organized civilian technical training activities without approval, the content of which poses risks of disseminating non‑standard theories. Effective immediately, all related activities are ordered to cease, promotional signs removed, and teaching equipment sealed. Failure to comply will be reported to public security for legal action."

After finishing, he closed the folder and said, "Comrade Zhao Jianguo, please cooperate."

Zhao Jianguo stood beneath the bamboo pole, unmoving.

"What exactly do you mean by 'non‑standard theory' just now?"

"For example, technical models discarded by capitalist countries, and foreign textbooks that don't match current production realities."

"May I ask—does the number of coil turns in a fan affect the magnetic field, is that a capitalist idea?"

"Theoretically that's not wrong, but…"

"And the motor speed being proportional to voltage—should that be investigated too?"

The other side stalled.

The crowd grew larger. Xu Da Mao crouched at the wall base smoking; hearing this, he quickly chimed in, "Whoa, if my busted radio had to meet that standard, it would have been sent to the crematorium long ago!"

"Exactly!" Qin Huairu also stepped forward, "My son just learned how to replace a fuse yesterday and saved fifty cents in repair fees—does that count as a crime?"

The duck‑bill‑cap wearer's face darkened, "We're on a mission, not here to argue."

"No one's arguing with you." Zhao Jianguo stepped forward. "We never run a formal training class; this is neighborhood mutual aid. Look—who's taking money? Who's issuing diplomas? Who's printing textbooks to sell?"

"But gathering people can easily cause order issues."

"Then the Steel Rolling Factory's technical‑reform briefing, attended by hundreds, counts as an order issue?" Sha Zhu suddenly shouted, pointing at his steamed‑rice cart, "My cart bears an official seal! If you want to tear down the banner, first ask Director Wang at the factory whether he agrees!"

The man glanced at the lettering on the cart and furrowed his brows.

By now Jia Dongxu had already climbed onto his own roof, cradling the sorter on a tile, a speaker raised in his hand.

"Attention, neighbors!" his voice rang across the courtyard. "I spent three sleepless nights building this machine; it lets grain‑depot workers bend less, choke less ash, and waste less food! If anyone insists on removing the equipment or shutting the class, I'll jump off from here! I can't believe a technology that serves the people could be deemed a crime!"

A roar of uproar rose from below.

"Dong Xu, come down!" Qin Huairu urged.

"Don't act rashly!" Xu Da Mao shouted.

Yet Jia Dongxu stayed seated, the machine pressing on his legs, the wind making his coat's hem tremble.

The duck‑bill‑cap man turned to glance at his two subordinates, whispered something low. One pulled out a notebook and began recording; the other stared toward the gate, as if waiting for backup.

Zhao Jianguo stepped in front of him. "You may take notes, you may report upward. But I'll tell you—today's banner will not be taken down, the evening class will go on as scheduled. We won't cause trouble, nor fear it. Technology belongs to everyone; no one may try to block the hands or minds of the common folk."

"We'll report the situation to higher authorities," the duck‑bill‑cap man said, closing the folder. "But this isn't over."

"I know it isn't over," Zhao Jianguo nodded. "I'm waiting as well."

A group of people left, their footsteps heavier than when they arrived.

The banner still fluttered in the wind, the red cloth's corners snapping against the bamboo pole.

Sha Zhu came over, patted Zhao Jianguo's shoulder, and asked, "What's the next step?"

"Keep teaching," he said. "And teach even louder."

After noon, people kept bringing broken radios, faulty light switches, and electric irons. Zhao Jianguo set up a desk in the central courtyard, dismantling and repairing on the spot while explaining the principles. Children gathered in a circle, adults stood behind listening.

An elderly woman holding an old electric fan asked, "It hums but doesn't spin—are the wires burnt?"

"Not the wires, the start‑up capacitor is dead." Zhao Jianguo unscrewed the back cover, pulled out a small cylinder, "Just replace this, two‑yuan‑five‑jiao."

"Whoa, so simple?"

"Not simple—no one taught you before."

At four in the afternoon, Jia Dongxu came down from the roof, the machine moved back inside, but he stood perfectly upright. He walked up to Zhao Jianguo and handed over a blueprint.

"This is the improved sorter I drew last night, with an anti-jamming structure added. Take a look—can you use it for the lecture?"

Zhao Jianguo took the drawing, glanced at it, and nodded: "It's usable, and we need to emphasize it."

"Then let's post it." Jia Dongxu pointed to the bulletin board: "Let more people know that technology isn't something only immortals can touch."

As dusk approached, the Central Courtyard filled up again. There were off-duty workers, students just out of school, and neighbors from the adjacent Hutong who had heard the news and come over. Zhao Jianguo stood by the table and cleared his throat.

"Today's first lesson: how to use a multimeter, the most basic thing. Once you learn it, you won't need to ask for help when household appliances break down."

He had just opened the Toolbox when he suddenly heard a commotion outside the courtyard.

It was those three again, and this time they brought a camera.

The person in the flat cap stood at the entrance, raising a folder: "I've received an urgent notice—all civilian technology gatherings are to be suspended effective today; violators will be deemed as opposing policy."

Zhao Jianguo didn't stop; he continued assembling the multimeter probes.

"Then tell me, where does the policy say that ordinary people aren't allowed to help each other fix appliances?"

"This isn't a matter of wording; it's about grasping the spirit."

"Then I've misunderstood." He lifted his head, looking at the other person, "All I've grasped is this: the working people must master technology."

"You're twisting words to win an argument."

"I'm not arguing; I'm acting." Zhao Jianguo handed the assembled multimeter to a young person nearby: "Come, try measuring this battery's voltage."

The youth's hand shook a little, but he read out the number: "1.5 volts! Normal!"

Applause broke out in the crowd.

The flat cap's face turned livid; he raised his hand to signal a photo. As the photographer lifted the camera, Sha Zhu stepped forward boldly, blocking the lens with his broad back.

"What are you filming? Do I have counter-revolutionary slogans on my face?" He bellowed, "If you want to film, then film the whole class! Film how we learn to fix things, how we save money, how we can live like individuals without relying on our work units!"

Zhao Jianguo continued lecturing, his voice steady: "Next, we'll discuss the series and parallel rules of resistors..."

The crowd pressed in tighter, forming a human wall.

The banner fluttered in the evening wind, a corner of red cloth brushing Zhao Jianguo's shoulder. He reached out to steady the bamboo pole, then from the interlayer of his tool bag pulled out a piece of metal fragment—this was something he'd found a few days ago among Jia Wu's belongings, its edge serrated, like part of a Gear Set.

He didn't look at it long, just shoved it into his pants pocket.

On the podium, the multimeter's display glowed green, the current reading fluctuating steadily.