Chapter 329: Space Agricultural Station Design · Invitation from the Space Bureau

A military-green jeep stopped at the dedicated passage entrance on the east side of the Space Bureau Main Building. Zhao Jianguo was about to push the door open and get out, but the driver in the passenger seat reached out first and grabbed the door handle.

"Chief Engineer Zhao, the Space Bureau says you don't need to go in." The driver turned his head, tone calm, "They're holding a technical demonstration meeting today and have temporarily adjusted the agenda. Your son Zhao Xing has already arrived; he's giving the main presentation inside."

Zhao Jianguo paused, his fingers still resting on the seatbelt, not rushing to undo it. He glanced at the building entrance; the glass doors slid open automatically, and several technicians in white lab coats hurried inside, clutching folders, their expressions solemn.

"Zhao Xing?" he asked.

"Yes, Zhao Xing." The driver nodded, "They said you asked him to bring the plan—the one for the space agricultural station."

Zhao Jianguo's mouth twitched slightly; he said nothing and slowly unfastened his seatbelt. He leaned back in the seat, looked up at the towering building ahead—its walls were gray-white composite panels reflecting the morning sun, not glaring but quite bright.

"Alright." He finally said, re-fastening his seatbelt, "Then we'll wait for him to come out."

The driver smiled, said nothing more, reversed the car half a meter, and pulled into the temporary parking area.

At the same time, in the third-floor meeting room, the projection screen had already been lowered.

Zhao Xing stood at the front, wearing a dark-blue work jacket, his hair cut short and neat, holding a touch pen in his hand. He wasn't tall, nor did he speak loudly, but every word was clear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Zhao Xing, the design lead for the Closed-loop Space Crop Cultivation System." He paused, scanning the people seated around the table, "In the next ten minutes I'd like to talk with you about—how to grow rice in space."

As soon as he finished speaking, an engineer in the back row burst out laughing.

"Growing rice in space? Are you crazy?" His voice wasn't low, tinged with teasing, "We haven't even fully realized self-heating meal boxes for astronauts, and you're already thinking about transplanting seedlings?"

Several people around him also laughed, and the atmosphere instantly loosened.

Zhao Xing didn't rush to refute, nor did he pretend to be deep. He simply tapped lightly on the pen in his hand, and the image on the screen changed.

A video began to play.

The camera pushed forward into the interior of a sealed cabin. Silver-white metal walls, several rows of transparent planting trays neatly arranged. The trays held a shallow nutrient solution; the roots floated within, fine as a spiderweb. A rice seedling was slowly unfurling its leaves—in the microgravity environment, the stem didn't shoot upward but extended in a spiral.

"This is the growth process simulated in a space‑station environment." Zhao Xing's voice was steady, "From sowing to heading, the whole cycle takes ninety hours with no external supply."

The footage continued: the artificial light source switched to a blue‑purple spectrum to simulate night; sensors showed carbon dioxide dropping and oxygen slowly rising; on the third day, spike‑like inflorescences appeared, pollen trembling slightly in the still air, completing self‑pollination.

"Zero gravity doesn't affect flowering." Zhao Xing said, "But we added a low‑frequency vibration device to simulate wind disturbance, boosting the pollination rate. Actual tests show an eighty‑two percent success rate."

The video ended, freezing on a line of data curves: photosynthetic rate stable, biomass increasing by an average of 3.7 grams per day, water‑recycling utilization rate reaching ninety‑four percent.

The meeting room fell silent for a few seconds.

The engineer who had just laughed lowered his head, flipped through the documents in front of him, and frowned: "What about the cost? Your system takes up volume and consumes energy—how much would it cost to launch one ton of equipment into space? Isn't it far more expensive than sending supplies?"

"Indeed it's expensive." Zhao Xing nodded, "But in the long‑run accounting, it doesn't lose money."

He pulled up a second chart: on the left, the traditional cargo‑supply model requires launching three cargo spacecraft each year, each carrying two tons, mainly for food and water; on the right, his agricultural‑station model needs only a single initial investment, after which only trace nutrients need replenishing and filters replaced.

"Calculated over a ten‑year cycle," he said, "transportation costs are saved by sixty‑eight percent. Moreover—" he pointed to an upward curve on the chart, "plants can purify the air and reclaim condensate, amounting to an extra life‑support module."

Someone else spoke up: "What about radiation resistance? Space radiation is intense; ordinary rice seeds can't survive more than a few days."

"We're using a genetically modified strain." Zhao Xing opened the third document, "Codenamed 'Grain Boat No. 1', it incorporates a radiation‑resistant protein expression sequence derived from extremophile microorganisms. In ground‑simulation tests, after thirty days of continuous exposure, the germination rate remains at seventy‑six percent."

He paused, then added: "This data comes from the Northwest Plateau Radiation Laboratory, where we ran the tests last week; the original records are available for review at any time."

People in the meeting room began to whisper to each other.

The Space Bureau representative sat in the chief seat, silent throughout. He was about fifty, with a square face and thick brows; as he listened, he gradually straightened his posture.

"Does your father know about this?" he suddenly asked.

Zhao Xing glanced at him: "Comrade Zhao Jianguo knows. He's the project's chief advisor, but I'm responsible for the actual execution. Today's proposal is something I dared to bring out only after he gave his approval."

The representative nodded, asking no further questions.

At that moment, the engineer who had earlier doubted spoke up again: "Even if you can grow it, how do you harvest? In a weightless environment, the grains scatter at the slightest touch, floating everywhere—would astronauts have to wear nets on the job?"

Zhao Xing chuckled: "We've designed a negative‑pressure harvest cabin. When mature, the entire planting tray is moved into a sealed zone, a micro‑suction field is activated, and the grains automatically gather into the collection bag. In simulated experiments, the loss rate is under three percent."

After saying that, he played a short video: a mechanical arm slowly advanced, the planting tray slid into the harvest area, the light turned red, and the tiny rice grains seemed to be lifted by an invisible hand, falling one by one into the lower container.

"It's not like harvesting wheat." Zhao Xing said, "It's more like… picking up sesame."

When he finished saying that, someone in the room let out a soft chuckle.

The representative raised his hand, signaling for quiet.

"Your project," he said, looking at Zhao Xing, "if it gets approved, what's the next step?"

"First, build a ground‑based full‑environment simulation chamber." Zhao Xing answered succinctly, "Complete the prototype within three months, then apply for an opportunity to test it in orbit. Ideally, we'd hitch a ride on the next cargo spacecraft and validate it for a month on the space station."

The representative didn't respond immediately. He lowered his head, flipped through the materials Zhao Xing had submitted, and his finger stopped on a certain page.

"You're only twenty‑eight?" he asked.

"Twenty‑seven; my birthday is next month."

The representative lifted his gaze to him, then glanced at the nearby experts: "Any opinions?"

Nobody spoke.

The engineer lowered his eyes to the printout in his hand, which held several screenshots of rice flowering in microgravity. He stared at them for a while, then suddenly asked: "This video… is it really a simulation? Not an animation?"

"It's actual footage." Zhao Xing said, "Taken during short‑term microgravity tests on a parabolic‑flight aircraft, each run twenty seconds, then stitched together."

The engineer had no further questions.

The representative closed the folder, gave the secretary a nod: "Arrange the project liaison team to issue a preliminary cooperation intention letter next week. Technical details will be discussed in a separate special‑topic meeting."

He stood up, extended his hand to Zhao Xing: "Little Zhao, welcome to the Space Mission System."

Zhao Xing shook his hand, giving a firm grip: "Thank you—we'll make sure the seedlings are planted properly."

As soon as he said that, the room finally relaxed completely, and someone burst out laughing.

The meeting adjourned, people filing out. Zhao Xing stood where he was, gathering his portable terminal and data packet. The secretary approached and said, "The Space Bureau will contact your team shortly to request additional materials."

"All right, I'll get ready as soon as I get back." He replied.

His phone buzzed—a message from his assistant: "The WHO hopes you can join next week's medical‑robot ethics review meeting; time to be determined."

After reading it, he locked the screen, slung on his bag, and headed for the exit.

The corridor was bright, footsteps crisp. Just as he reached the elevator entrance, he bumped into his father coming up from the stairwell.

"You're out?" Zhao Jianguo asked.

"Hmm, the talk went okay." Zhao Xing handed over the phone, "They want to cooperate."

Zhao Jianguo took the phone, glanced at it, said nothing, just patted his son's shoulder.

"Not bad." He said, "Much stronger than my first report back then."

"How were you back then?"

"Me?" Zhao Jianguo chuckled, "I went up and got the data wrong, the whole place fell silent for three minutes, I didn't dare lift my head."

Zhao Xing also laughed.

The elevator arrived, and father and son walked in together.

The numbers jumped to 1, the doors opened, and outside the sunlight was just right.

Zhao Jianguo walked out a few steps, suddenly stopped, turned back and glanced at the building.

"If your mother knew you were farming up in the heavens," he said, "she'd surely say you took after the old farmer in her family's ancestral grave."

"And you?" Zhao Xing asked.

"Me?" Zhao Jianguo lit a cigarette, the flame flickered, "I just feel that our family's check-in system ought to be renamed 'Farming Specialist'."

As his words fell, he exhaled a puff of smoke, turned and walked toward the parking area.