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

The train swayed across the Gobi Desert for three days.

The car window wasn't closed tightly, and wind, carrying fine sand, seeped in through the cracks. He Yuzhu sat by the window, squinting at the outside. At first, he could see a few clumps of camel thorn, but later only sand remained, a bright yellow expanse stretching to the horizon. The sunlight shone on it, so bright it hurt his eyes.

Across from me sat Technician Zhou. He was constantly calculating, flipping through his notebook, his pencil worn down to a stub. He would calculate for a while, then glance out the window before looking down again to continue. Black grime was embedded under his fingernails, and his cuffs were worn shiny.

"Dean He, we're almost at the base."

He Yuzhu nodded.

When the base emerged from the horizon, he thought it was a cluster of abandoned mud-brick houses.

As the car drew closer, it became clear that it was a tent, dusty and faded by the wind and sand. It lay askew on the sand, next to a row of dugouts with only half of the wooden doors showing, weighed down by stones.

He got out of the car, his feet sinking half an inch into the sand. A gust of wind blew, the sand stinging his face. He squinted as he walked forward, hearing the tent flapping in the wind.

A man was squatting on the ground, using a stone to weigh down a blueprint. The edges of the blueprint were being blown up by the wind, and he was using his elbow to hold it down while writing on it with his other hand. Two people stood nearby, wearing cotton-padded coats and their faces covered in sand, arguing about something.

An old man emerged from the tent.

He saw He Yuzhu, paused for a moment, and then walked over. His gray hair was disheveled by the wind, and sand was embedded in the wrinkles on his face. He reached out and grasped He Yuzhu's hand.

Those hands were very rough, with cracked knuckles all over.

"Dean He, I've heard so much about you." His voice was a little hoarse.

He Yuzhu nodded.

"Mr. Qian, you're too kind."

It was warmer inside the tent. A kerosene lamp hung in the middle, its flame flickering in the wind.

Several tables were pushed together, piled high with blueprints and documents. Some had their edges curled up, others had holes burned into them by cigarette butts. A large map was nailed to the wall, densely marked with red and blue dots.

Old Qian poured him a glass of water, but the enamel mug was too hot to handle.

"Dean He, that machine of yours has been here for three days without a break."

He Yuzhu held the jar but didn't drink.

Old Qian pointed to the side. The second-generation computer was on the table, covered with an oilcloth, with only the control panel showing.

"It used to take us three days to solve a problem. Your machine does it in three hours."

He paused.

"Three hours! With that saved time, how many more solutions can we calculate?"

The tent flap was lifted, and a middle-aged man wearing glasses slipped in. He was holding a stack of papers, his face beaming with barely concealed excitement. Upon seeing He Yuzhu, he nodded and handed the papers to Old Qian.

"Professor Qian, I just calculated it. It matches the actual measurement."

Mr. Qian took the paper, glanced at it, and handed it to He Yuzhu.

He Yuzhu took it; it was full of numbers that he couldn't understand. But he noticed the man's hand was trembling.

The man saw it too and smiled.

"Exciting! Things that couldn't be calculated in six months before, can now be done in three days. Who wouldn't be excited?"

He Yuzhu returned the paper.

"Mr. Qian, is there anything else you need here?"

Old Qian looked at him.

Outside the tent, the wind was still blowing, making the tent fabric rustle. The flame of the kerosene lamp flickered, then steadied itself.

"We need so many things," Qian Xuesen said, "but what we lack most is computing power. If you could make the computers a little faster..."

He didn't finish speaking.

He Yuzhu nodded.

"Go back and figure something out."

That night, He Yuzhu slept in a dugout.

He tossed and turned, unable to sleep. It wasn't the cold, but the stillness. The night in the Gobi Desert was eerily quiet; not even the chirping of insects could be heard. With his eyes closed, he could hear the wind howling through the dugout outside, a mournful sound, like someone crying in the distance.

He suddenly remembered Changjin Lake.

It was just as quiet, and just as cold. Lying in the snow waiting for the bugle call, he asked Old Li next to him, "Do you think we can make it back alive?" Old Li didn't answer, but just stuffed a frozen bun into his mouth.

He was lying in his dugout, covered with a quilt, with an enamel mug next to him, half-filled with hot water.

But those people were still squatting in the sandstorm, pressing down on the blueprints with their hands, spending half a year solving a single problem.

He opened his eyes and looked at the dark ceiling.

I haven't done anything for a long time.

The next evening, a quarrel could be heard outside the tent.

He Yuzhu went outside to take a look. Two young men were squatting on the ground, shining flashlights on the blueprints, their faces flushed red. One said the formula was wrong, the other said it was right, and neither could convince the other.

Mr. Qian walked over, squatted down, picked up the blueprints, and looked at them for a few minutes.

"Both are correct," he said, "but they only work when the two formulas are combined."

The two young people paused for a moment, looked at each other, and stopped arguing.

Old Qian stood up, patted the dirt off his knees, and gave He Yuzhu a wry smile.

"It's like this every day. Endless arguments, countless calculations."

He Yuzhu looked at the two young men. They had already lowered their heads and continued to use their flashlights to write and draw on the blueprints.

"Mr. Qian, this place is more tiring than fighting a war."

Mr. Qian shook his head.

"War is over once it's over. This, however, is never-ending."

He Yuzhu stayed at the base for a week.

The wind was even stronger on the day he left than when he arrived. Old Qian saw him off to the outside of the tent, holding his hand tightly.

"Xiao He, your work on computers has been a huge help."

He Yuzhu looked at that face. It was roughened by the wind and sand, with prominent cheekbones, but the eyes were very bright.

"Take care, Mr. Qian."

Mr. Qian nodded.

"You too. Be careful on your way back."

He Yuzhu got into the car. Technician Zhou closed the car door.

The vehicle started moving, passing in front of the tents and heading deeper into the Gobi Desert.

He looked back out of the car window.

Old Qian was still standing there, his cotton-padded coat billowing in the wind. Several people were standing nearby, all looking in their direction. One of them, wearing glasses, was still holding the stack of papers in his hand.

The car drove further and further away. The people grew smaller and smaller until they became just a few black dots, disappearing into the sandstorm.

He Yuzhu leaned against the car window, not moving.

A thought suddenly flashed through my mind.

1964 years.

Qian Xuesen and his colleagues wanted to get the work done before 1964.

Five years left.

He sat alone on the train back to Beijing.

Outside the window, it was still the Gobi Desert—sand dunes, camel thorns, and a hazy gray sky, all receding into the distance. He stared at the sand, Qian Xuesen's words echoing in his mind: "If only it could go a little faster."

Hurry up.

He thought of the people at the research institute. Lin Jianguo, Ma Yuejin, Sun Xiaomei—they were also working tirelessly. Tanks, chips, rockets—the work never stopped, wave after wave.

He took off the gloves and looked at them. Qin Huairu's pair were old, with frayed edges, but they were still wearable.

He put it back on.

Outside the window, a cloud obscured the sun, darkening the Gobi Desert before it brightened again.

That thought was stuck in my mind like a nail, and I couldn't get it out.