But failure was a good thing.

“BG4MXH, why is failure a good thing? OVER.”

“BG4MSR, because failure eliminates certain possibilities. It’s just like conducting experiments. Though most scientific research has theory preceding practice, we’re doing practice before theory. Continuous failure brings us closer to the truth. OVER.”

“So what possibilities have you eliminated now? OVER.”

“I’ve confirmed one thing and have some deductions, but I’m not sure if they’re reliable or feasible yet. Still need to try. OVER.”

“What thing?”

“Can’t tell you yet. I’m planning to consult someone more knowledgeable tomorrow. OVER.”

“Tell me.”

“No, let me ask the expert first. OVER.”

“BG4MXH, who’s this more expert?”

“A physics professor at Nanjing University.”

“Nanjing University… physics… professor?”

The little head on the other end clearly couldn’t comprehend what these three words meant together.

The next morning, Bai Yang took subway line 2 transferring to line 1, boarding at Mu Xu Yuan Station, and getting off at Gulou Station, heading to Nanjing University’s Gulou Campus. His mom used to take him past the university’s north gate, always pointing at those four golden characters on the gray marble, saying he should study hard to get in there. But back then, Bai Yang was still debating between Tsinghua and Peking University, quite arrogantly paying no attention to the local Nanjing University. How different from now—if Nanjing University would give him an acceptance letter, he’d kowtow from Purple Mountain to Xuanwu Lake.

Following his memory, Bai Yang walked along the path, passed the stadium and turned right, then past the Southwest Building and Graduate School, winding here and there, finally finding the Physics Building—a gray old structure with three golden characters reading “Physics Building” on the entrance lintel.

Then he caught Zhao Bowen right at his office door.

“Oh my, Yang Yang!” Zhao Bowen was a bit surprised. He was about to leave, a book tucked under his arm and a glass water bottle in hand. “What wind blew you here?”

“Uncle Zhao!”

Bai Yang’s gaze lingered a few extra seconds on Zhao Bowen’s head. Although Zhao Bowen was a Nanjing University physics professor with a high-IQ brain, for some reason he always maintained a full head of black hair. Even though Uncle Zhao was about the same age as Dad and Uncle Wang, among the three he looked the youngest.

“How’s your dad?”

“He’s good.” Bai Yang got straight to the point. “I have a question to ask you.”

“Want to ask me something? Let’s walk and talk.” Zhao Bowen put his arm around Bai Yang’s shoulders, walking with him through the bright corridor. “Any question you could have just messaged me on WeChat, why come all the way here… Oh, hello Professor Liu, heading to class?”

“The question is complicated, can’t explain it in a few words.”

“Oh? Not about high school physics problems?”

“No.” Bai Yang shook his head.

“Then tell me.”

“Uncle Zhao, do you think super-temporal communication is possible?” Bai Yang asked. “Like modern people contacting people in the future, or connecting with people from the past?”

Zhao Bowen frowned, glancing at him sideways. “Are you writing science fiction?”

“No, no, I just want to ask.”

“Hmm… I think this question would be better for Liu the Electrician since I don’t research science fiction questions.” Zhao Bowen stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Based on my limited understanding, I think it’s impossible—at least none of the theoretical foundations humans currently possess support such an occurrence.”

“It’s impossible?”

“Not necessarily. If you involve higher dimensions, more supernatural realms that humans can’t understand, then who knows.” Zhao Bowen pushed up his tortoiseshell-framed glasses. “You know our current understanding and exploration of this world is still very superficial. But that’s the realm of science fiction, like ‘Back to the Future’ and ‘Interstellar.’ I’m just a poor, weak, helpless associate professor who can’t even see promotion to full professor on the horizon—how would I know about such things?”

“Well Uncle Zhao, let’s assume such a situation exists,” Bai Yang said. “If you made contact with someone from the future…”

“Then I hope they could tell me which real estate prices are going to skyrocket.”

“If you made contact with someone from the future, you’re twenty years apart, and you need to send them something—send a time capsule,” Bai Yang said. “Uncle Zhao, what method would you use?”

“Bury it underground.” Zhao Bowen said. “Did you study that text in elementary school called ‘Kolya’s Little Wooden Box’? The People’s Education Press textbook—was about a child who buried a wooden box while fleeing from war, and then dug it up after the war ended… They’ve removed that text now, haven’t they?”

Bai Yang paused.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Not that simple?”

“It would fail.” Bai Yang nodded. “The recipient wouldn’t get it.”

“How do you know it would fail? Have you tried?”

“Uncle Zhao, suppose after burying it, you made contact with that future person again, but they tell you they didn’t dig it up,” Bai Yang said. “What would you do?”

“Then maybe it was disturbed by construction in the future.” Zhao Bowen said. “Just dig it up and bury it somewhere else…”

As he spoke, he suddenly stopped, and then slowly shook his head.

“No, that’s not right.”

“What’s not right?”

“This reverses cause and effect.” Zhao Bowen said. “You dig it up because they didn’t find the capsule, but it’s precisely because you dug it up again that they couldn’t find it… See? This is why super-temporal communication is impossible in our universe where nothing can exceed light speed. Our universe doesn’t allow such things to happen unless you can move faster than light and break the basic rules of the universe.”

“Let’s assume super-temporal communication has already happened, that some unknown thing has broken the universe’s basic rules.”

“Now you’re just being stubborn.”

“Fine, I’m being stubborn. Uncle Zhao, if you had to send a capsule to someone in the future and ensure success, what would you do?”

“Then this becomes a hypothetical question.” Seeing that Bai Yang wasn’t asking serious questions, Zhao Bowen decided not to be serious either. “I’d prepare ten thousand time capsules and bury them all over the world—they’d have to receive at least one.”

“It needs to be practical.”

“Then eliminate all possible interference.” Zhao Bowen said. “You’re the one who buried the time capsule, so the biggest uncertainty is yourself. To prevent yourself from impulsively digging it up again, and prevent interference from road paving or construction, choose a place where you can’t dig it up and others won’t dig either. Bury the time capsule there, secure it in place, fixed for twenty years.”

Bai Yang slowly nodded.

“Why are you asking me these questions?” Zhao Bowen asked. “Yang Yang, have you made contact with someone from the future?”

“Yeah.” Bai Yang nodded. “But don’t know if it’s real or fake yet.”

Zhao Bowen was startled, then burst out laughing.

“Good, good, good! Remember to have them tell you which property prices will rise next year!”

Can’t dig it up myself.

Won’t be dug up by others.

These were the principles Bai Yang followed in his fourth attempt.

He dug up the time capsule he’d buried last night, preparing for his fourth attempt—when he dug up the capsule, his heart sank.

Bad news.

He’d dug it up again.

Bai Yang stared blankly at the mud-covered stainless steel capsule in his hand.

No wonder last night’s attempt had failed.

It seemed no amount of psychological preparation would work. It was like destiny—as if some invisible force in the vast universe was controlling him. Bai Yang thought he was acting on his own free will, his subjective initiative, but his subjective initiative happened to make things develop toward the predetermined outcome. Even if no one forced Bai Yang to dig, he would dig it up himself.

Relying on himself was useless; he had to rely on external forces.

That afternoon, Bai Yang spent two hours traveling to a far-off furniture and building materials market, buying a bucket of white latex glue used for bonding glass and wood. He had wanted to buy cement, but it was truly difficult to buy cement in the city, so he had to settle for a small bucket of white glue instead.

That night, after digging the hole and burying the time capsule, Bai Yang poured in the prepared latex, letting the thick glue completely submerge the stainless steel capsule.

Once the latex solidified, the capsule would be completely fixed in the hole. They say Japanese yakuza make human pillars of their enemies by encasing them in cement and sinking them in Tokyo Bay to destroy the evidence—even the gods couldn’t find them. Bai Yang couldn’t get cement, so he had to achieve a similar effect with white glue. He would make a capsule pillar; once the white latex completely solidified, even he wouldn’t be able to dig up the capsule.

Now he wouldn’t have to worry about his future meddling. Even if he wanted to dig it up later, he couldn’t.

This time it should be foolproof.

This was Bai Yang’s fourth attempt at time delivery.

And the result of the fourth attempt?

Without a doubt, it naturally failed again.