Major Heavy Industry: Starting with a Fake Marriage

Chapter 44 You Intellectuals

Jiang Cheng's heart tightened, but he remained outwardly calm: "No, I just like to think things through. When I was repairing machines at the factory, I always thought about why they broke down and how to fix them. The more I thought about it, the more I figured it out."

Teacher Fang nodded and didn't ask any more questions. But there was a clear increase in appreciation in his eyes.

What truly made Jiang Cheng famous in the college was a practical class in the third month after the start of the semester.

The practical lesson involved analyzing the causes of a malfunction in an old-fashioned lathe. This lathe, salvaged from scrapped equipment by the college, was riddled with problems and deliberately placed in the lab for students to practice on. Thirty students were divided into five groups, each with one machine, and given two hours to practice on.

The lathe assigned to Jiang Cheng's group was the most dilapidated of the five. The guide rails were severely worn, the spindle clearance was too large, there was an abnormal noise from the gearbox, and even the lever was bent. The group members circled around it several times, but no one knew where to start.

"Can this thing still be repaired?" Sun Deming asked, scratching his head.

Jiang Cheng didn't speak. He squatted down, listened to the sound, touched the guide rail, and then cranked the handle. He stood up, walked to the blackboard, drew a simple structural diagram, and marked a few points on it.

"There are three problems," he said. "First, the guide rail is worn, which is visible. Second, the main spindle bearing clearance is too large, which can be heard by sound. Third, one of the gear teeth in the gearbox has peeled off; I just shook the handle and felt a slight sticking."

He turned around and looked at the team: "We can fix the problems with the guide rails and spindle. The gearbox problem requires disassembly to check. But we don't have enough time today, so let's fix the first two first."

The group worked together, some disassembling, some cleaning, and some adjusting. Jiang Cheng was responsible for the most crucial part—adjusting the spindle clearance. He felt the clearance with his hands and adjusted it little by little, making three adjustments before finding the perfect position.

Two hours passed. Teacher Fang came with several teaching assistants to inspect the machines, checking them one by one. When he got to Jiang Cheng's group, he looked at the lathe, then at Jiang Cheng, then took out a dial indicator from his pocket, marked it on the spindle, and shook it vigorously.

The pointer remained completely still.

Teacher Fang's expression changed. He then checked the parallelism of the guide rail and the axial movement of the lead screw, and each item was within the acceptable range.

"Who adjusted this lathe?" he asked.

"Me," Jiang Cheng said.

Teacher Fang looked at him, her gaze both scrutinizing and admiring: "You used to work in a factory?"

"I worked there for two years. As a mechanic and fitter."

Teacher Fang nodded, wrote something down in her notebook, and then moved on to the next group.

After class, Teacher Fang called Jiang Cheng back: "Jiang Cheng, would you like to help me with a project?"

Jiang Cheng was taken aback: "What research topic?"

"Research on the accuracy recovery of machine tools," Professor Fang said. "I have a project that needs someone with extensive frontline experience. If you're interested, you can give it a try."

Jiang Cheng's heart skipped a beat. He knew this was an opportunity. But he also knew that he was here to learn, not to show off.

"Teacher Fang, I'll think about it."

Teacher Fang nodded, without pressuring her.

That evening, Jiang Cheng returned to his rented room and wrote a letter to Zheng Yanxi. He mentioned the college, Professor Fang's invitation, and inquired about her health. At the end, he hesitated for a moment, then added a line: "What have you been studying lately?"

What he didn't know was that when the letter arrived, Zheng Yanxi was sitting at her desk at home, worrying about a book called "Basic Nursing".

Ever since Jiang Cheng said those words the day he left, she had been pondering it. The factory's medical station was small, but it had quite a few patients. Normally, she was just a nurse giving injections and dispensing medicine; if there was a serious illness, she could only send the patient to the city hospital. She had considered taking the nursing exam, but she couldn't get through the books after just a couple of pages—the technical terms, human anatomy, and pathology were completely different from her usual work.

But she didn't give up. Every evening after get off work, she would read for an hour. She would underline anything she didn't understand and ask the station manager the next day. The station manager, surnamed Liu, was an elderly nurse in her fifties. Seeing how hard she worked, she was happy to teach her.

"Xiao Zheng, why have you been so attentive lately?" Station Master Liu asked.

Zheng Yanxi blushed slightly: "Since I'm just idling around anyway, it can't hurt to learn something."

Station Master Liu smiled and didn't ask any more questions. But she could tell that this usually aloof girl had something on her mind.

Jiang Cheng returned home on the weekend. As soon as he entered, he saw several medical books spread out on the table, and a notebook next to them, filled with notes.

"Have you started learning?" he asked.

Zheng Yanxi poked her head out from the kitchen: "Yeah, just started."

Jiang Cheng walked over and flipped through the notebook. The handwriting was neat and tidy, and every point was remembered clearly. There were even diagrams in some places—human skeleton, blood circulation, injection sites. Although the drawings were rough, it was clear that he had put a lot of effort into them.

"It's well drawn," he said.

Zheng Yanxi brought out the dishes, glanced at the notebook in his hand, and quickly snatched it away: "Don't look at it, you haven't finished writing yet."

Jiang Cheng laughed: "Okay, I won't look. Let's eat."

During the meal, he asked her what she had learned, and she told him. When she talked about the human skeleton, she held up her fingers and gestured on her arm: "This is the ulna, this is the radius. When giving injections, you have to avoid the nerves, you insert the needle here..."

As Jiang Cheng listened, he suddenly realized that the way she spoke was different from before. She used to be quiet, answering only questions briefly. Now, when she spoke, her eyes shone brightly, as if she were a completely different person.

"Yanxi," he said.

"Um?"

"Do you want to be a doctor when you grow up?"

Zheng Yanxi paused for a moment, then shook her head: "I can't. I just want to get my nursing license. That way, when the factory's medical station is upgraded, I can do more work."

Jiang Cheng nodded, saying nothing more. But he knew in his heart that she was working so hard not only for her job, but also to keep up with him. She didn't say it, but he could tell.

Days passed by like this. Jiang Cheng attended classes and worked on research projects at the college, and went home to be with Zheng Yanxi on weekends. One of them was studying engineering, and the other was studying medicine. They were both busy, but they would exchange letters every night. The letters were short, sometimes only a few sentences—"I studied calculus today, and I have a headache." "I memorized twenty acupoints today, and I have an exam tomorrow."—but every letter was written carefully, and every reply was sincere.

Sun Deming once saw Jiang Cheng writing a letter and asked curiously, "Who is he writing to?"

"My wife."

"Write every day?"

"Write every day."

Sun Deming clicked his tongue twice: "You intellectuals are just different. My wife and I barely talk on the phone once a month."

Jiang Cheng smiled but didn't speak. He didn't know how to explain to Sun Deming that those letters weren't for anyone else, but for himself. Writing them was like talking to Yan Xi. If there was anything left to say, he'd say it tomorrow.

As time went on, letters became a part of daily life.