Chapter 101: The Basement Equipment Room and the Late Spring Cold Snap

At one o’clock sharp, Lin Chen turned and headed for the northwest corner of the campus.

The rain had not let up. If anything, the wind had made it worse, driving it slantwise into him. The water on the asphalt had already risen past the tops of his shoes. With every step, his soaked cotton socks clung to the tops of his feet, bringing a sticky, icy chill. The swollen part of his left foot had been soaked through by the rain, and the edges of the bandage were beginning to soften. He adjusted his breathing and shifted all his weight onto his right leg. His left foot served only as a point of balance, toes touching down, heel lifted off the ground. One breath every five steps, one stride adjustment every ten. He did not think about the pain. He treated his body as nothing more than a machine that needed calibration. The parameter was distance, the variable was the slick road surface, and the constraint was thirty minutes.

Laboratory Building C was an old gray-brick structure in the Soviet-built style, its outer walls covered in dead ivy. The basement entrance was by the side door, half a flight of steps swallowed by shadow. He pushed the door open, and a rush of mixed smells—mildew, machine oil, and old paper—hit him in the face. There were no lights in the stairwell. Only the green glow of the emergency exit sign at the far end gave off a dim light. One hand against the rough concrete wall, he started down.

The steps were steep, their edges worn smooth into curves. Right foot planted firmly, left leg dragged half-suspended. On the seventh step down, the toe of his left foot accidentally scraped against a slick patch of moss, and his body lurched hard. He shot out his right hand against the wall, his knuckles bracing in the cracks between the bricks as he steadied himself. He did not pause. He kept going. His knee was beginning to ache, and the muscles in his thigh trembled faintly from bearing the load on one side. He clenched his back teeth and fixed his attention on the rhythm of breathing. Inhale, lift the leg, exhale, plant the foot. Mechanical, repetitive, no room for error.

At one twenty-five, he pushed open the basement’s iron door.

The corridor was lit by harsh white fluorescent tubes that gave off a faint hum. Closed wooden doors lined both sides, their plaques marked “C-301” and “C-302.” He walked to the end and pushed open the door marked “Basement Equipment Room.”

The room was not large, about forty square meters. Two rows of old long tables stood against the walls, with several circuit diagrams, a few oscilloscopes, and multimeters scattered across them. The air was damp, and where the wall paint had peeled away, dark yellow water stains showed beneath. Seven or eight other examinees were already seated at the tables, most of them in neat school uniforms or jackets, their faces drawn tight. Lin Chen walked to the seat against the wall in the last row and sat down. His left foot could not bend, so he could only keep it stretched straight out against the lower crossbar of the desk. From an inner pocket, he took out his admission ticket and identity card and laid them flat at the upper right corner of the desktop.

At one thirty, the door opened, and a graying man in a blue-gray work uniform walked in. He said nothing at first. He only set a stack of exam papers and an answer sheet on the lectern. “Fundamentals of Electronic Information. Ninety minutes. Closed book. No talking. Begin.”

Lin Chen opened the test paper. The first page was analog circuit analysis: calculate the quiescent operating point of a common-emitter amplifier circuit, estimate the reactance of a coupling capacitor. The second page was digital logic: implement XOR using NAND gates and draw the truth table. The third page was a comprehensive problem: given the schematic of the intermediate-frequency amplifier section of a simple radio receiver, indicate the direction of signal flow and identify which bias resistor should be adjusted if the output waveform showed cutoff distortion, and why.

The questions were not difficult, but they demanded clear steps and rigorous logic. He took out his pencil and sketched the equivalent circuit for the first problem on the scratch paper. His fingertips were stiff with cold. He made a fist, tucked his hand under his arm to warm it for ten seconds, then relaxed it again. The pencil tip touched the paper with a dry rustle.

He did not need to recall formulas. He only needed to consult the notebook of mistakes inside his head. For the past three years, he had broken down every physics problem he had gotten wrong, every circuit-analysis question that had stalled him, into the smallest possible units, marking the cause of the mistake and the path to correction. At this moment, those paths unfolded automatically in his mind. Quiescent operating point: calculate the base current first, then the collector voltage. Capacitive reactance: plug in the frequency and capacitance value, watch the unit conversion. He wrote quickly, but every step left space for checking. When he ran into an uncertain parameter, he drew a small question mark beside it, pushed forward with the derivation, then returned at the end to verify it by working backward from the boundary conditions.

Time passed second by second. In the basement room there was only the sound of pen tips scraping across paper and the occasional cough. The wall clock pointed to two forty-five. Lin Chen put down his pencil and checked everything from beginning to end. No skipped steps in the calculations, units fully marked, and in the comprehensive problem, the distortion analysis cited the conclusion from Chapter Three of the textbook. He picked up his eraser, rubbed out the unnecessary construction lines on the scratch paper, and finished shading the answer sheet.

At two fifty-five, he raised his hand and handed in the paper.

The man in work clothes took it and gave it a quick scan, his eyes pausing for two seconds on the derivation steps in the comprehensive problem. He made no comment, only nodded. “Go back and wait for notice.”

Lin Chen stood up. The numbness in his left foot had completely receded, replaced by a deep, throbbing swelling pain. The bandage had been soaked through with sweat and rainwater, and dark yellow tissue fluid had seeped out at the edges. He steadied himself with one hand on the edge of the desk and slowly made his way out of the room. The corridor air was even colder than inside. He shivered and quickened his pace.

At three-oh-five, he walked out of Building C. It was still raining, but the wind had stopped. He looked at his watch. Three ten. The last long-distance bus from the provincial capital’s northern suburban station to the county left at four o’clock. From campus to the station, walking plus waiting for transport would take at least forty minutes. Margin: fifty minutes.

He retraced his route. His pace was slower than before, but the rhythm did not break. Every time his right foot hit the ground, the soreness in his knee had already spread up to the root of his thigh. He did not think about it. He kept his attention fixed only on the next patch of dry pavement. Avoid standing water. Go around potholes. Calculate step frequency.

At three forty, he reached the bus station ticket hall. There were not many people inside. A few travelers were dozing on the benches. He walked to the departure board. The black letters on white plastic clearly listed the afternoon routes. His gaze stopped at the line for “County South — Provincial Capital.”

Four o’clock. Departure.

But below the board, an A4 sheet of paper had been taped up with clear tape. The handwriting was rough but legible: “Per notice from the Transportation Bureau: due to roadbed collapse at K14+200 on Provincial Road 302, emergency repairs are underway. All routes passing through that section this afternoon are uniformly delayed by forty minutes. Service restoration time to be announced separately.”

Lin Chen’s fingers tightened slightly. Forty minutes. The last bus would now leave at four forty. If he caught it, he would arrive at County South Freight Station at six forty. It would be dark, the roads slippery. Riding back to the repair shop to retrieve his bicycle, then rushing back to school, would put him there no earlier than eight o’clock. Evening self-study attendance was taken at seven thirty. Among the conditions for the homeroom teacher’s signature, there was one unspoken bottom line: a deferred exam was acceptable, but he had to return to school the same day and attend evening study, proving the trip remained under control.

He stood motionless before the timetable. Rain dripped from the eaves of the ticket hall, striking the concrete and splashing into tiny droplets. He took out his ledger and flipped to a blank page. With his pencil he drew a new timeline: depart at four forty. Arrive at six forty. Reach school at seven twenty. Fifty minutes late. Evening-study absence record. The homeroom teacher’s signature chain broken. Plan B invalid.

He closed the ledger. His eyes shifted to the curtain of rain outside the hall. The collapse on the provincial road meant the normal route had been cut off. A detour would add another twenty kilometers, and there was no direct bus. Hitchhiking violated his safety threshold and carried too much uncertainty. He needed a route that did not depend on the bus, or else an alternative way to prove that even if he was late, the trip was still under control.

He lowered his head and looked at his left foot. The shoe was completely soaked through, and the bloodstains at the edge of the bandage had mixed with mud and rainwater. He drew in a deep breath. Cold air stabbed into his lungs. Then he turned and walked toward the ticket window.

“Comrade,” he said evenly, “for the four-forty bus, can it be moved up to three fifty? Or is there any short-route vehicle that goes by the national highway and doesn’t pass through Provincial Road 302?”

The ticket clerk did not even raise his head, his fingers still flicking the beads of an abacus. “No. That collapsed section is unavoidable. The national highway is farther around, and there’s no scheduled bus. Wait for notice.”

Lin Chen nodded and did not press further. He went back and sat on the bench. Rainwater ran from his hair onto his collarbone, cold as ice. He closed his eyes and began rearranging the parameters in his head. The road collapse was force majeure, but the rule did not say he had to take the bus. If he could prove that, even with the bus delay, he could still reach school before seven thirty, then the signature chain would not break.

He needed a faster form of transport. Or a node that could shorten the physical distance.

He opened his eyes. In the corner of the hall stood a public telephone. Beside the coin slot was a faded strip of paper: Long-distance direct dialing, 0.1 yuan per minute. He felt in his pocket. Three coins remained, and one banknote. Just enough for one call.

He stood and walked to the phone. He picked up the receiver and dialed the number he had memorized long ago: the Academic Affairs Office of County No. 1 High School.

“Hello?” A female teacher answered, her voice still carrying the drowsiness of a lunch break.

“Hello, teacher. I’m Lin Chen from Senior Year Class Seven. Today I attended the provincial polytechnic verification exam. Because of a road collapse on the provincial highway, the last bus has been delayed to four forty. I am expected to arrive in County South at six forty. I may be late for evening self-study. I already reported my deferred exam to my homeroom teacher. Could the Academic Affairs Office issue a certificate stating that the delay was caused by force majeure? I can submit it after I arrive at school.”

There was silence for a few seconds on the other end. “Lin Chen? Your homeroom teacher didn’t come by Academic Affairs today. As for the certificate, you’d have to speak to the grade-level director. But...” The female teacher paused. “That collapsed section really is closed. Be careful. We can talk about the certificate tomorrow.”

“Thank you, teacher.” Lin Chen hung up.

He could not get the certificate. But there had been no rejection in the teacher’s tone, only procedural delay. That meant that as long as he appeared at the classroom door before seven thirty, even if he was late, the homeroom teacher’s signature would still hold. The core of the rule was not punctuality. It was control.

He looked at his watch. Three fifty-five. Forty-five minutes remained before departure. Within that window, he needed to find a way to reach County South before six o’clock without relying on the bus.

He walked out of the ticket hall and stood under the eaves. His eyes swept across the parking lot. Several long-distance buses were parked in the corner, their drivers gathered under the awning smoking. At the exit stood a battered farm tricycle, its cargo bed piled with burlap sacks. The owner was squatting beside it with a cigarette in hand.

Lin Chen walked over. Rain darkened the legs of his trousers. He crouched down so they were at eye level.

“Master,” he said, “headed to County South? Taking the old dirt road by the old forest farm, not going through 302. Can it be done?”

The driver blew out a stream of smoke and sized him up. “That dirt road’s in terrible shape. Slippery in the rain. You alone? Eight yuan.”

Lin Chen did not bargain. He reached into his pocket and took out his only three coins and one crumpled banknote. Exactly eight yuan.

“Leave now,” he said.

The driver stubbed out the cigarette and got to his feet. “Get on. Hold tight.”

Lin Chen climbed into the cargo bed of the tricycle and sat down on the burlap sacks. His left foot hung in the air while his right hand gripped the side of the vehicle tightly. The engine roared, and the tricycle drove out of the parking lot and turned onto a muddy side road.

In the curtain of rain, the wheels cut through standing water and sent up murky sprays of mud. Lin Chen closed his eyes and began silently reciting the outline for evening self-study review in his head. The parameters were changing, the route was changing, but the goal had not changed. All he needed to do was press his body and his will into this jolting dirt road.

The cargo bed bucked violently. The swelling pain in his left foot surged back again. He clenched his teeth and did not let go.