What the security guard opened was a small iron door in the four-meter-high, four-meter-wide, rust-stained door of the metalworking workshop. Accompanying the creaking sound of the small iron door’s rotation was a flock of sparrows startled in the workshop, chirping and fleeing outside like headless flies. But even with all these sounds, the vast workshop remained eerily quiet. When the small iron door uttered its final “creak,” Liu Jun inexplicably felt that the cold, indifferent winter sunlight outside was so warm, yet such warm sunlight couldn’t penetrate the dirty windows that looked like frosted glass. Cold dampness filled the dim, vast workshop, rolling toward Liu Jun, this chill penetrating through all his capillaries, striking straight to his heart, making him involuntarily place his hand over his chest and shiver.
Inside the workshop was still the layout familiar to Liu Jun. The only difference was that the grime on the floor seemed to have thickened a bit more. Liu Jun casually picked up a screwdriver and hammer scattered on top of a toolbox, and forcefully chiseled downward, strike after strike, each blow pushing out a solid chunk of mud. Only when he had chiseled to a depth of three centimeters did the screwdriver tip finally touch the hard cement underneath.
“What are you looking for?” Qian Hongming didn’t understand and joked: “Searching for lost memories?”
“No, searching for the reason why such a large factory shuts down during broad daylight—Rome wasn’t built in a day, and ice doesn’t freeze three feet thick overnight. In our manufacturing workshops, the floors are painted and gleaming.”
Qian Hongming smiled tolerantly: “The products are different—how can you generalize? Manufacturing plants like this are pretty much all the same everywhere. The university-run factories we experienced in college weren’t much better either.”
Liu Jun pointed out meticulously: “I might have thought the same way before, but now I know this is an equipment problem. Look, although this shaper is maintained fairly well, you can still see it leaks oil seriously. With a shaper like this, its machining precision is questionable. There are also management problems—managing the head but not the feet. When these two problems combine, the factory’s output is bound to be slipshod.”
“You can’t hold the same standards for a factory producing screws as for one producing spacecraft.”
“Manufacturing can only have different standards, not different attitudes.”
Qian Hongming smiled unhurriedly: “If the market universally demands negative tolerances, short dimensions, and cheap prices, then do you chase the market or chase ideals?”
Liu Jun found it difficult to answer for a moment. People aren’t saints—who doesn’t pursue profit? He looked at Qian Hongming, then surveyed the vast, dim workshop, hesitating: “Holding onto ideals is a very luxurious thing. Especially when you can’t demand it of others.” He extended his finger and walked along, sliding it across one ancient machine tool after another. He was familiar with all these machine tools—they had been here since he could remember, unmoved for over twenty years. He didn’t need to bend down to recite the model years marked on the machine tool nameplates. For instance, under his finger now was the youngest piece of equipment in the entire workshop—a 1973 bench drill press, yet this newest and simplest machine was ironically the most difficult to use. With a drill press like this, what kind of hole precision could you expect it to achieve? Liu Jun, with his scientific attitude, didn’t believe that human will could triumph over nature.
The cold feeling transmitted from the cold iron lumps, fingers connected to the heart, chilling to the bone and lungs. Liu Jun began to somewhat understand why his father had heart attacks whenever the factory was mentioned—facing these things every day, his father’s heart had long been frozen through. Thinking of his pitiful father on the hospital bed and looking at the dilapidated workshop before him, Liu Jun’s heart began to waver.
Qian Hongming didn’t follow along. He silently watched Liu Jun walk toward the dark depths of the workshop, involuntarily recalling the new suburban factory of Shi Yiji he had seen not long ago. All steel-structure workshops, every design detail that he could see as a semi-expert, maximally pursued convenience, energy efficiency, safety, and cleanliness. Especially those imported machine tools—never mind anything else, the fact that operators could wear sky-blue work clothes said it all. Thinking that Liu Jun had just come from equally bright and clean German factories, his inability to adapt to the gloom before him was naturally understandable. Moreover, this Qianjin Factory was the Liu family’s enterprise—how could a man of spirit remain unmoved watching his family business decline?
Only Qian Hongming was mentally calculating for Liu Shitang—supposedly, the income from the row of storefronts by the main gate should be considerable, enough to pay the entire factory’s wages and various expenses. Moreover, other similar machinery factories weren’t seen to be so dilapidated currently. How exactly had Liu Shitang managed things to end up holding a golden bowl but having no food to eat? Supposedly, Liu Shitang was quite a character—in his early years, he jumped from being a technician to running external affairs, then quietly contracted the Qianjin Agricultural Machinery Factory, quietly swallowing the entire factory bit by bit. He was considered an old master who had been rolling in the industry for years and knew all the ropes. Could it be that the hero was in his twilight years? But calculating it, Liu Shitang was only in his fifties, precisely the time for building a career. But then again, heroes fear being worn down by illness. When Liu Shitang was beyond his capabilities, this kind of small factory where one person called all the shots would naturally collapse when the tree fell.
So, as someone capable of saving Qianjin Factory, what would Liu Jun consider at this moment? This was what Qian Hongming most wanted to know now, and he had been making guesses based on his past understanding of Liu Jun. He knew that although Liu Jun appeared tough on the outside, he was gentle and sentimental inside. He didn’t know how much Liu Jun had changed after six years, but a leopard can’t change its spots—Liu Jun’s insistence on touring Qianjin Factory wouldn’t be without reason.
Qian Hongming waited patiently and quietly for Liu Jun to return, even when his phone vibrated in his pocket, he only glanced at the number without answering. The workshop was too quiet, quiet like a dead place, quiet enough that it couldn’t tolerate any noise. Finally waiting for Liu Jun to emerge from the darkness, he squinted slightly and saw the conflict on Liu Jun’s face. He didn’t inquire about the details, only asking: “Want to walk around the workshop next door?”
Liu Jun seemed to be awakened from a trance, stared blankly for a while, then said: “The small one next door is the foundry workshop. After a round in there, your wife would chase me away—you can’t come out without picking up at least four pounds of dust. Let’s go.”
Getting into the car, Liu Jun couldn’t help but sigh. Having his father drag his sick body to continue operating Qianjin Factory, judging from the condition of the metalworking workshop, would only lead to a more certain death, and his father would have plenty more opportunities for hospitalization in the future. But having his father give up the operation, last night had already shown the result. Going left or right, both seemed to be dead ends for his father. What to do?
Qian Hongming voiced Liu Jun’s inner struggle: “On one side is the responsibility of family affection, on the other side is the responsibility of sweet love. Loyalty and filial piety cannot both be fulfilled.”
Liu Jun’s brow furrowed in knots. For the first time in his life, he encountered the major problem of “choice.”