Chapter 571: Unfinished Business

Meanwhile, in St. Petersburg.

When Morozov walked into the old office building, it was much livelier than he had expected.

There were a few leather suitcases in the corridor, and two men were struggling to carry a wooden box full of books to the doorway.

Behind the registration desk sat a staff member wearing glasses, having already checked off more than half of the list in their hand. Next to them, a young mother lowered her head, patiently tightening the woolen scarf around the dozing little girl in her arms.

Morozov looked at his watch.

From the afternoon until now, they had already rushed through the previous few scattered locations.

This old building was the last stop, totaling a dozen or so researchers who had transferred through compliant procedures, along with accompanying family members, making a total of over twenty people.

Most of them came from the State Optical Institute (GOI), the State Applied Chemistry Design Bureau, and the subordinate engineering departments of the Red Banner Shipyard.

They had all signed their employment arrangements and were prepared to be accommodated at the port area first.

The two covered heavy trucks in the yard were loading luggage, and the bus used for picking up and dropping off personnel was idling, its exhaust pipe puffing out thick white clouds of diesel water vapor in the minus-teens nighttime cold.

Six subordinates were scattered around the outer perimeter of the gate and intersections, guarding the empty streets.

He had originally thought that before leaving, there would always be someone crying or making a fuss because they were unwilling to leave.

As a result, in a large office at the end of the corridor, he first heard a fierce argument.

"Your model is just a pile of scrap iron when it comes to engineering implementation! The static backlash of mechanical transmission simply cannot be squeezed down to the arcsecond level!"

"I’ve said it three times already, this is closed-loop feedback! Large-stroke coarse adjustment must be handed over to the stepper leadscrew; you can’t use static stiffness to judge dynamic response!"

"What about environmental thermal drift? If a sea breeze blows or the temperature difference changes by two degrees, the optical axis will skew all the way to the heavens! What, do you plan to have the entire ship’s sighting cabin fighting while submerged in a constant-temperature oil bath?!"

Morozov looked over following the sound.

Around the long table in the middle of the conference room gathered four or five men wearing thick sweaters and pilling jackets.

The middle-aged man in the center wearing thick-bottomed nearsighted glasses was tightly gripping a pencil, rapidly sketching a mechanical profile on the back of an unfolded piece of paper; opposite him, a stocky man with his shirt sleeves rolled up high was fiercely poking the paper with his finger, his glasses almost sliding down to the tip of his nose.

Next to them, two other researchers holding tea mugs not only didn’t persuade them, but instead stretched out their necks to watch the excitement.

"What’s going on?" Morozov slightly frowned, turning his head to ask the accompanying liaison officer.

The clerk poked his head in for a glance, wearing a look of finding it nothing out of the ordinary.

"A few engineers who just met, seemingly arguing about some positioning device."

"Just met?"

"Yes. The two of them weren’t in the same confidentiality system before; sitting here waiting for the car this afternoon, they casually started chatting about something... seems like a positioning mechanism called a spectral reflector, and after talking for less than five minutes, they argued into this state."

Morozov glanced inside again.

The person drawing came from the Optical Institute, and the one with the loudest voice next to him was said to have worked on ship control systems.

The two originally only talked about the adjustment mechanism of the precision reflector, but in the end, one complained that the mechanical transmission clearance was too large, while the other felt that although piezoelectric ceramics could make tiny displacements, they were not suitable for undertaking large-stroke adjustments.

The third person listened for a long time and thought that they both ignored the deformation of the metal bracket caused by temperature changes, so he simply borrowed a pen and added a few lines to the drawing.

"Did you two eat the thermal expansion coefficient of the material? When winter arrives and the base metal contracts from the cold, the internal stress alone can jam this set of slide rails. Without waiting to fire a shot, just this damned weather can make you go back and recalibrate!"

"We can add temperature-measuring thermistor elements for software compensation!"

"What are you going to use to compensate? Are you going to force formulas onto non-linear deformation at minus thirty degrees? Believe it or not, system divergence will directly burn out the servo motor!"

"Then you tell me how to do it! If you can do it, you draw it!"

"Draw then! Turn the paper over!"

The few people argued until their faces were red, and an older researcher nearby finally put down his tea mug and slowly interjected a sentence.

"You young people... why must you stack the coarse adjustment mechanism and the micro-piezoelectric on the same set of stress axes?"

The roaring in the room suddenly choked off.

Afterwards, the man who was drawing suddenly raised his head.

"Wait, could you say that again?"

The old researcher sighed and walked over to take the pencil.

Morozov stood by the door, watching inexplicably as this group of people gathered around in a circle again.

His deputy leaned over, lowering his voice:

"Comrade Major, should we have them quiet down and form up to get on the vehicle?"

"What time is it?"

"Fifteen minutes to go."

"Then wait a little longer."

Morozov took off his gloves and leaned against the doorway.

He really didn’t quite understand this bunch of intellectuals.

The day before yesterday, they might have just collected the final discounted meager rubles from their original unit; yesterday, they were probably still enduring cold stares in the black market for their family’s three daily meals; and tonight, they were going to leave their homeland, board a bus arranged by a foreign consortium, and drive toward an unknown border.

If it were his own subordinate officers, it would probably be hard for them to talk about work with such zest at a time like this.

But those gentlemen in the room obviously didn’t think so.

As soon as the old researcher added a few strokes to the paper, the rest of them crowded around again, discussing back and forth. Even the old researcher who had originally prepared to leave sat back down in his chair.

Morozov looked at the wall clock and suddenly felt a bit doubtful whether this group of people would simply forget about moving tonight if no one reminded them.

Just at this moment, the radio placed on the windowsill suddenly transmitted a familiar name.

Gorbachev.

The few people who were still arguing didn’t pay attention, but a young researcher sitting by the window suddenly raised his head and reached out to turn up the radio’s volume a bit.

"Wait, listen."

The voices in the room gradually faded away.

"...This is Moscow. Central Television and the All-Union Radio are now broadcasting a TASS report: At nineteen hundred hours this evening, Soviet President Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev delivered a televised speech, formally announcing the cessation of his duties as Soviet President..."

The radio occasionally emitted a few bursts of static, but the announcer’s voice remained steady throughout.

The scientists who had been arguing until their faces were red had stopped at some unknown point.

Some were still holding pencils, some were holding half-drunk black tea, and everyone’s gaze fell upon that dusty little plastic box by the windowsill.

"...The Soviet Union flag over the Kremlin was lowered at nineteen thirty-eight."

Morozov stood by the door and didn’t speak for a moment.

He had known this day would come long ago.

From the moment of the withdrawal from the Baltic states and Grigory handing over the US dollars and the list, he had known.

But when the news truly reached his ears, his chest still couldn’t help feeling a bit stuffy.

The others in the room weren’t doing much better.

The few engineers who had been arguing furiously just now had all fallen silent at this moment. One of them looked down at the half-drawn blueprint on the table, seemingly having forgotten what he wanted to say just now.

The young person guarding the radio listened blankly, until the radio waves switched to other news, and then, as if afraid of disturbing something, he reached out a finger and gently turned the volume knob to the minimum.

Someone sighed, and someone else stared out the window without speaking for a long time.

However, such silence ultimately did not last too long.

Living in the shortages and turbulence of the past two years had honed most people into a numb yet efficient tolerance.

A female researcher with a child took the lead in bending down to retie her child’s scarf, then picked up the travel bag placed beside the chair.

The others also gradually came back to their senses and began packing their things.

The sound of suitcases opening and closing gradually echoed in the room, but no one continued that passionate argument from earlier.

After quite a while, that old researcher who had been drawing on paper just moments ago slowly put down his pencil.

He stared blankly at the radio for a while, then neatly arranged the papers filled with calculation formulas on the table and put them into his briefcase.

After finishing this, he picked up the overcoat draped over the back of the chair and walked over to Morozov’s side.

"You must be... Major Morozov, whom Comrade Grigory mentioned?"

"It is me."

Morozov slightly nodded, "Viktor Alekseyevich Morozov."

"Sokolov. Pyotr Andreyevich Sokolov."

The old man extended a hand whose knuckles were slightly deformed by rheumatism, "I’ve spent most of my life mucking about in the State Optical Institute."

Morozov clasped the cold, calloused hand.

"Comrade Major, may I ask... how do you feel right now?"

"Do you mean... about the end of the Soviet Union?"

"Yes."

Morozov fell silent for a moment, then shook his head.

"I don’t know... I haven’t quite processed it yet."

Sokolov looked at him, the corner of his mouth tugging into a faint smile.

"Neither have I."

He pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and slowly slipped them on.

"I entered university at seventeen, and went straight to the research institute after graduating. At first, I assisted my professor with optical glass, then worked on glass-ceramic mirror mounts for deep-space telescopes, and later led my own team... Thirty-four years flew by in the blink of an eye."

"I always thought I’d work there until retirement."

The old man paused, his gaze dropping to the tips of his shoes.

"There’s an experiment we’ve been running for over a decade. A few years ago, we finally saw a glimmer of hope. I was thinking that if Moscow would just approve two more special grants and give me two or three more years... maybe we really could produce something that would make the whole world open their eyes and take notice."

Morozov looked at him.

"And now? Can you continue doing it in the future?"

"Perhaps. The Japanese promised to provide new equipment and research funding, but the exact arrangements will have to wait until we get there."

Sokolov looked down and adjusted the cuffs of his gloves.

"I just never imagined I would leave like this in the end."

Morozov listened without replying.

How was he any different?

More than a decade ago, when he first put on his uniform, he had never imagined that one day he would be working for a foreign company, much less that his very first assignment would be escorting away scientists whom his country had nurtured for decades.

Sokolov looked out the window and suddenly asked again:

"Tell me, will people like us still be considered Soviet scientists from now on?"

Morozov pondered for a moment.

"At least your skills are still yours."

Sokolov turned back, seemingly not expecting such an answer.

Stunned for a moment, he nodded gently.

"That’s true enough."

The old man looked down at his hands, and after a moment, seemed to remember something.

"Come to think of it, there’s actually one thing worth being happy about."

"What’s that?"

"Someone is finally willing to buy us a new interferometer."

Morozov looked at him with some surprise.

But Sokolov spoke with utter earnestness, even lowering his voice as if bragging about an incredible secret:

"That antique in our institute was made in East Germany back in the seventies. The guide rails jammed once a month, and every repair shut down work for two weeks."

"If going there really lets us get our hands on new machines... my students won’t have to cross themselves and pray to the machine before every measurement like I did when I was young."

As he said this, a genuine spark finally lit up the old man’s eyes.

At the end of the corridor, the heavy thud of an aide’s military boots approached briskly.

"Comrade Major, all luggage has been loaded onto the vehicles."

Hearing this, Sokolov bent down to pick up the heavy cowhide suitcase tied with thick hemp rope at his feet.

Seeing that his other hand was still tightly guarding the briefcase stuffed with draft derivations, Morozov reached out and lifted the heavy leather suitcase.

"Allow me, Professor."

Sokolov paused, then gave a slight nod. "Thank you, Major."

One after the other, their boots crunching on the creaking steps, the two stepped out into the swirling, snowy night.

...

The night had grown late.

The bus pulled away from the old office building, driving slowly along the icy streets toward the port district. Two vehicles carrying luggage flanked it front and rear. Morozov sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, looking back from time to time to make sure no one had fallen behind.

Inside the bus, some dozed, some cradled sleeping children, and others discussed writing home as soon as they reached their new quarters.

The image of the old man named Sokolov kept flashing before Morozov’s eyes.

In Afghanistan’s Panjshir Valley, he had seen countless fanatical mujahideen, ferocious paratroopers, and smugglers who stopped at nothing to survive, but he had almost never truly come close to someone like Sokolov.

The country had collapsed, and the red flag had fallen; sadness and bewilderment lingered in their eyes, yet the moment a brand-new guide rail or a dual-frequency interferometer was mentioned, they could miraculously come back to life.

Morozov’s past upbringing had taught him that the state had mobilized all its might to build the institutes and provide the equipment, so it was only natural for them to dedicate everything to their post under the red flag.

But now, this country couldn’t even provide a decent bowl of hot soup, let alone an interferometer that didn’t go on strike.

As for why the Japanese were willing to spend so many US dollars, he seemed to understand a little now.

The crates hauled in the rear vehicles could hardly hold much of the superpower’s former wealth.

The wealth that truly made the world salivate, the wealth that could outlive national borders and epochs, was not packed onto those trucks.

It resided entirely within these people’s gray hair, their chilblain-covered fingers, and their stubbornly obsessed minds.

As long as these people lived, the soul of that nation had not entirely perished.

Screeech—

At the intersection ahead, the red traffic light cast a hazy glow through the driving snow. The convoy slowed to a halt at the deserted crossroads.

The bus behind them came to an equally smooth stop.

By the murky beam cast by a streetlamp, Morozov glanced through the rearview mirror toward a window seat in the bus’s second row.

Under the light, he vaguely made out Sokolov sitting by the window, flanked by two researchers. The old man seemed to be explaining something, gesturing with his hands before tracing several lines on the fogged-up windowpane with his finger.

Another person quickly leaned in, raising a hand to add a small box.

Morozov watched for a moment, then shook his head with wry helplessness.

The country was gone.

Yet these lunatics... were still calculating their damn figures.

The light turned green, and the convoy set off once more.

He drew back his gaze and looked toward the lights of the port district brightening ahead.

At least for tonight, he had to see these people safely to their destination.

...

December 26th, Tokyo.

Early morning, Saionji Main Residence.

Satsuki was seated at the dining table having breakfast when Chizuru entered carrying a fax that had just arrived from Saint Petersburg.

"Milady, the first batch of researchers and their families have been settled, and the remaining personnel are being evacuated in stages according to plan. Mr. Saeki reports that everything is currently going smoothly."

"Mm. Just let them proceed according to plan; there’s no need to rush."

Satsuki took the fax and briefly skimmed through it.

This time, she had successfully intercepted a vast pool of Soviet Union talent right under the noses of various international powers.

Without her intervention, these scientists might have been recruited by the Americans, absorbed into European research institutions, or forced to abandon their careers due to a lack of funding.

Now, a significant portion of them would be integrated into Saionji’s scientific research apparatus.

Furthermore, beyond this talent, she had poured massive capital into Saint Petersburg. From ports and cold storage to hospitals, logistics facilities, and employee housing currently under development, Saionji had already taken deep root in the region.

As Satsuki listened to Chizuru reporting the follow-up arrangements, she couldn’t help but ponder.

Just how much change would her actions bring to future history this time?

At the very least, these investments should provide plenty of local jobs and a steady supply of goods. If all went well, it might even ease Russia’s upcoming, arduous economic transition just a little.

But in doing so, what would follow?

Scientists who would have otherwise left remained; enterprises that might have collapsed received new capital; even the fates of certain individuals had been altered.

How many people would these changes affect, and what kind of chain reaction would they trigger?

Satsuki thought for a while, ultimately abandoning the attempt to project further.

After all, there were simply too many variables influencing the course of history. No matter how clever she was, calculating every subsequent development with certainty was impossible.

Forget it.

Since she had already done so much, she would take things one step at a time and see what happened.

With that in mind, Satsuki closed the fax, handed it back to Chizuru, and picked up her breakfast once more.

The morning sun outside had already begun filtering through the windows into the dining room.

In Tokyo, a new day had begun.