Chapter 79

Zhao Jianguo's fingers still rested on the edge of the bulletin board's tape, his fingertips dusted with gray; he didn't wipe it, just slowly withdrew them, slipping them into his pant pockets. The sun had already shifted west, shadows in the Courtyard stretched long, Er Lengzi was still there brushing the window frame, brushing especially seriously, as if he wanted to polish every corner to shine.

But Zhao Jianguo's feeling of determination, which had felt solid just moments ago, now seemed like water ruffled by the wind, a bit off.

He lowered his head to glance at the duty roster; Er Lengzi's name had been crossed out in red ink, and beside it a small line appeared: "Do you really think everyone wants to be Sha Zhu's second?" The characters were crooked, as if deliberately written ugly, but the meaning was clear.

He remained silent, peeled off that sheet of paper, folded it twice, and slipped it into his pant pocket. Turning, his gaze swept over the Courtyard—Sha Zhu's apprentice Xiao Chen, who had promised this morning to help sweep the courtyard, still hadn't shown a trace. Outside the electrician's room, a few lightweight bricks were missing from the pile, though the registration book recorded nothing. While Uncle Wang was fixing the roof, he could still hear someone muttering from the west house: "Now duty lasts ten days; what about the future? Listening to his arrangements for a lifetime?"

Before he finished speaking, the crowd dispersed.

Zhao Jianguo stayed silent, pretending not to have heard. But this Courtyard was no longer yesterday's Courtyard.

The next morning, he went as usual to the canteen to deliver meal boxes. This wasn't his duty, but he deliberately made the trip. When he handed the meal box to Aunt Li, he casually asked, "Where's Xiao Chen?"

"Oh, he said he was working overtime in the workshop, so he didn't come." Aunt Li replied while taking it, "But I heard Sha Zhu say he's been hanging out with a few new young workers lately, always whispering behind the warehouse."

Zhao Jianguo grunted, didn't ask further, turned and walked toward the canteen. By the window there was a Desk, several young workers were sitting around it eating; their voices were low, but their words drifted over.

"Instructor Zhao's lectures are too slow, going over and over the load-bearing ratio of lightweight bricks—who can't figure that out? It's like teaching elementary school."

"His technical Night School is just a way to round people up. Whoever listens to his lessons must follow his Rules Sign."

"I heard the hydraulic pump modification last month was drafted by him alone, and even the factory's technical department hadn't reviewed it. If he's really capable, why not make it public?"

Zhao Jianguo stood by the window, not showing his face, only hearing the loudest voice say: "My dad was also a technician back then; he was sent down just because of his background issues. Now seeing this 'red‑blooded' monopoly really makes me angry."

This person was Li Weiguo, a grade‑3 worker, transferred in last month. Zhao Jianguo remembered the name.

He didn't go in, didn't interrupt, just silently put his meal tin on the windowsill, then turned and left.

At noon, the Night School was supposed to start class. Zhao Jianguo carried the newly compiled *Mechanical Lesson Basics Speed‑up Lecture Notes* into the Classroom, pushed the door open, and found it empty except for He Yushui sitting in the front row, head down, knitting a sweater.

"Where are the people?" he asked.

He Yushui lifted her head, glanced at him, and lowered her voice: "I heard Li Weiguo and the others set up a 'technical exchange meeting' over at the warehouse, saying they want to research equipment improvements on their own, so they're not coming."

"Who organized it?"

"Li Weiguo is heading it, with Xiao Chen, Liu Zhiming and a few others. He also roped in two night‑shift electricians from the factory."

Zhao Jianguo nodded, not angry and didn't say more. He placed the lecture notes on the podium, arranged them neatly, and wiped the Blackboard clean.

"Tomorrow's lesson is on hydraulic transmission." He said in a normal tone, "Whoever wants to listen, the door stays open as before."

Having said that, he turned and left.

On the way back to the Courtyard, he deliberately made a detour to the Garbage Rule bin behind the west wing. That place usually sees no one, but today a half‑burned scrap of paper was sticking out of the cinders. He picked it up, blew off the ash, pieced it together, and could make out a few lines: "……can't let him monopolize technology……we also need a say……the next meeting is set for Wednesday night, warehouse room two……"

The edges of the paper were scorched black, as if it had been hastily burned and not completely consumed.

Zhao Jianguo folded the paper neatly and slipped it into his pants pocket. He stood under the Chinese parasol tree at the corner of the Courtyard, not heading for the notice board. Sunlight dappled the bark; he looked up at the west wing's windows, the curtains drawn, but a whiff of smoke seeped through the gaps.

He knew this time it wasn't about money, nor about power.

What these people wanted was, "On what grounds do you get to decide?"

In the evening, Second Fool ran up after him, holding up a red armband newly sewn by Aunt Li, a bit bigger than Sha Zhu's.

"Jianguo! Look! I've got one too!" he grinned, "Tomorrow's my shift—I promise I won't miss a single word!"

Zhao Jianguo squatted down, helped him pin the armband on his arm, and said with a smile, "All right, tomorrow I'll check the accounts—don't you get anything wrong."

"No way I'll mess up!" Second Fool thumped his chest, "One plus one equals two—I practice it every day!"

Zhao Jianguo nodded, watching him bound off.

He stood where he was, took out the anonymous note from his pocket, unfolded it. The back was blank; the front still read, "Do you really think everyone wants to be a second Sha Zhu?" He stared at it for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed.

After laughing, he folded the note neatly, then took out the half‑burned paper slip, and clipped both together into the register.

At night, he sat in the electricians' room, flipping through the factory's technical files. When he reached the page on the hydraulic pump, he paused, picked up a pen, wrote a few lines of formulas in the blank space, and drew a simple diagram. After finishing, he tore it off, folded it, and slipped it into the interlayer of the lecture notes.

He knew someone would come tomorrow.

Or maybe no one would come.

But as long as they were still secretly researching, it showed they hadn't completely shaken him off.

At noon on the third day, Zhao Jianguo made another trip to the warehouse. The door was ajar, no one inside, and a few rough sketches lay scattered on the table—drawings of a modified transmission shaft, lines rough but the logic clear. One page had a note in the corner: "Refer to Engineer Zhao's previous talk on torque distribution," with a question mark drawn beneath it.

He didn't touch anything on the table, just stood at the doorway, glanced twice, then turned and left.

Returning to the Courtyard, Sha Zhu was squatting at the door peeling potatoes; seeing him come back, he looked up and asked, "I heard Li Weiguo's gang held another meeting last night?"

"Mm." Zhao Jianguo stopped, "What did they say?"

"They said your lecture was too basic, not keeping up with actual production. They also said technology shouldn't be dictated by one person."

Zhao Jianguo smiled, "Then how do they plan to decide? By vote?"

"Pretty much." Sha Zhu snorted, "They also said they want to set up a 'Workers' Technical Research Group' and run the Night School themselves from now on."

"Oh." Zhao Jianguo nodded, "Let them do it then."

Sha Zhu blinked, "You're not going to interfere?"

"What's there to manage?" Zhao Jianguo countered, "If they really can produce something, the factory will be delighted before they know it. If they can't, they'll naturally disband."

Sha Zhu stared at him for a long while, then broke into a grin: "You really can keep your cool."

"What's the rush?" Zhao Jianguo patted his shoulder, "Trees that grow fast have shallow roots."

In the evening, Zhao Jianguo sat on the little bench in front of the notice board, holding the register. Moonlight shone on the paper, the characters clear. He turned page after page—from material intake to duty logs—everything matched up.

But when he got to the last page, he stopped.

There was a new slip pasted there, with the same handwriting as this morning's note, reading: "You think being on duty roster is the end? The real contest has only just begun."

He stared at that line for a long time.

Then he closed the register, gently set it on the table, Standing Up, walked to the notice board.

He didn't tear off the slip or write a reply; he just reached out and touched the edge of the wooden frame. The tape was still there, stuck firm.

He turned and headed for the electricians' room.

Halfway there, he stopped again, looked back toward the west wing.

The curtain twitched.