Chapter 52 Difficult Choice

As the setting sun slanted westward, Chen Xueming walked out of the base alone.

Lin Mo's final words, "Welcome to the team," were still echoing in his ears, but he hadn't agreed on the spot. He had only said, "Teacher Lin, let me think about it."

Lin Mo hadn't pressed him, merely nodding. "As you should. Contact me whenever you've decided."

And so, he walked out of that door.

The streets of the small town were exceptionally quiet at dusk. A few children on bicycles whizzed past after school, leaving behind a trail of laughter. In the distance, cooking smoke curled upward, and the aroma of dinner drifted through the air.

Chen Xueming walked aimlessly, his mind a tangled mess.

Join them?

Before today, he hadn't even dared to entertain the thought. Twenty-four hours ago, he was still pointing at Lin Mo's data in a review meeting, questioning its validity; twelve hours ago, he was in a teahouse pouring out his miserable past to Lin Mo; and now, he was actually seriously considering whether or not to join that team.

He shook his head with a bitter smile.

When he reached the edge of the town, he stopped.

Before him lay the vast expanse of the Gobi Desert, the setting sun slowly sinking below the horizon. The sky was dyed orange-red, with a golden rim lining the edges of the clouds. The distant Kunlun Mountains appeared exceptionally majestic in the sunset's afterglow, like a silent barrier.

Chen Xueming sat down on a rock and looked at the scenery before him.

But his mind was entirely occupied by the day's events.

Lin Mo's gaze.

He remembered that gaze very clearly.

It wasn't a condescending handout, nor was it a polite formality; it was a sincere, open, and equal gaze. It was the look one gave a colleague worthy of respect, not a dejected failure.

It had been four years.

In those four years, he had seen too many kinds of gazes. There were those of pity, those of schadenfreude, those of condescension, and those of perfunctory dismissal. He had seen everything except this—one that was sincere, open, and equal.

Chen Xueming pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, and lit it.

He didn't smoke often, but right now he needed something to calm his nerves.

The smoke rose slowly in the twilight and was quickly dispersed by the wind.

He thought of what Lin Mo had said:

"My team needs someone as meticulous as you."

Meticulous.

Over the past four years, this word had been his biggest label and his heaviest shackle. Everyone said: You're too meticulous, that's why you hit walls; you're too meticulous, that's why you don't fit in; you're too meticulous, so you deserve it.

Yet Lin Mo said: We need someone as meticulous as you.

Ash fell; he flicked it away and continued thinking.

There was also the millet porridge in Li Xiao's thermos, the handwritten notes Zhang Zhe handed over, and Zhao Gang's remark: "Once you're here, you have to give it your all."

Those people, those details, flashed through his mind like movie frames.

He remembered when he walked into the laboratory, Li Xiao looked up and called out, "Good morning, Dr. Chen"—so naturally, just like calling out to an old colleague.

He remembered Zhang Zhe's nonchalant expression when handing over the notes—as if they weren't the result of years of hard work, but just a common set of documents.

He remembered the seriousness with which Zhao Gang wrote "Project Team Member" on the registration form when taking him to get his entry permit.

These people truly treated him as one of their own.

Chen Xueming took another puff of his cigarette and exhaled slowly.

But—

But could he let go?

Could he let go of these four years of resentment, these four years of stubbornness, and the pride that said, "I, Chen Xueming, don't need anyone"?

If he joined Lin Mo's team today, tomorrow people would gossip: Look, that Chen Xueming who was pointing at people's noses and questioning them at the review meeting ended up crawling over to join them after all.

Could he endure those looks?

And—

Was he really worthy?

Lin Mo's team had national support, military protection, and top-tier equipment and personnel. They had achieved 1450, while he himself, after four years, had a best sample of only 780.

If he went, what could he do? What could he prove? Or would he just be riding on their achievements?

The cigarette burned down to his finger; Chen Xueming felt the sting and snapped back to reality.

He stubbed out the cigarette butt on the rock and threw it into the small bag he carried with him.

It was almost dark. The last glimmer of the afterglow was fading, and stars began to emerge on the deep blue canopy of the sky.

He stood up and walked back.

By the time he returned to his lodgings, it was completely dark.

He turned on the light and sat at his desk. Li Xiao's thermos was still there; he had heated and eaten the millet porridge inside at noon, and the cup was washed and placed back in its original spot.

Beside it was Zhang Zhe's handwritten notes.

He opened the notes and read through them page by page.

The dense handwriting recorded failed experiment after failed experiment, directions corrected time and again, and late-night reflections. In some places, the handwriting was scribbled, clearly capturing fleeting inspirations; in others, there were crude diagrams annotated with crowded formulas.

This wasn't just a set of notes; this was the lifeblood of a researcher.

As Chen Xueming read, his eyes grew warm again.

He closed the notes and stood up to walk to the window.

Outside, the lights of the base were scattered like stars. He could see toward the laboratory building, where a few windows were still lit—someone was working overtime.

He stared at those lights, the day's events replaying in his mind.

Lin Mo said: "What I need is someone who is meticulous."

Lin Mo said: "Let's do something truly valuable together."

Lin Mo said: "It's not that you don't believe; you just need evidence. That is the true scientific attitude."

Those words struck his heart like a hammer.

He thought about his persistence over the years.

Why be meticulous? Because if he wasn't, that data would have been measured for nothing, those achievements would have been misappropriated, and those efforts would have been in vain.

Why was he indignant? Because he clearly could have done better, yet he was always delayed by messy, extraneous matters.

Why was he still persisting? Because—

Because he really wanted to accomplish something.

Not for titles, not for funding, not for those hollow fame and fortunes. Simply, he wanted to use his own brain and his own hands to create something truly valuable.

This point, from Stanford until now, had never changed.

Chen Xueming stood by the window for a long time.

Then he returned to his desk and sat down.

He picked up a pen, wanting to write something, but didn't know what. In the end, he just stared blankly at the thermos on the desk.

The cup was white, printed with a cartoon bear, next to which was written "Happy Every Day."

He stared at that little bear, and a trace of a smile unconsciously appeared at the corners of his mouth.

That girl Li Xiao was truly simple-hearted. Bringing him porridge, preparing materials for him, leaving her contact information—when she did these things, she certainly wasn't thinking about social politics; she just simply wanted to be kind to a new colleague.

How long had it been since he'd met someone like that?

At Stanford, everyone was calculating: who would be the author of this paper, who would lead that project, who would benefit from this collaboration. After returning to China, it was even more so: whose connections for this project, whose background for that funding, whose face for this review.

Everyone wore a mask, saying things they didn't mean, doing things they didn't want to do.

But Lin Mo's team seemed a bit different.

They didn't wear masks.

Lin Mo was open, Li Xiao was simple-hearted, Zhang Zhe was honest, and even that fierce-looking Zhao Gang called a spade a spade, never hiding anything.

If he joined them—

Chen Xueming shook his head violently.

There it was again. He was thinking about it again.

He stood up and paced in the small room. From the door to the window, eight steps. From the window back to the door, another eight steps.

He walked many laps.

Two voices were fighting in his head:

One said: Go! This is an opportunity! Haven't you been waiting four years for a place like this?

The other said: Don't go! Going is admitting defeat! Since when did you, Chen Xueming, need to rely on others?

One said: This isn't admitting defeat; this is collaboration. They're sincerely inviting you.

The other said: Sincerity? How many sincere people have you seen? Sincere today, but what about tomorrow? What about the day after? What if one day they decide you're useless and just kick you aside?

One said: Lin Mo is different. You can see it in his eyes.

The other said: Can eyes put food on the table? Back at Stanford, your supervisor looked at you with that same kind of gaze, and in the end?

Chen Xueming stopped pacing and leaned against the wall.

Yes, in the end?

In the end, his achievements became someone else's, his name was listed as the second author, and all his hard work only earned him the phrase "helping each other out."

He closed his eyes, and those past events surfaced again.

The conversation in the supervisor's office:

"Chen, you are an international student; you need a recommendation letter. He is a local student; he needs this paper. Helping each other out is a fair trade."

"But this is all my work—"

"I know. But you also have to understand, this circle is just like this. You help him now, and he will help you in the future."

The future? What future was there?

After the senior got the paper, he never contacted him again. When they met at the graduation ceremony, the man pretended not to know him, his gaze passing over him to look elsewhere.

This was the "help" he had received.

Chen Xueming opened his eyes and let out a long breath.

He walked to the window and pushed it open.

The night wind blew in, carrying the dry scent unique to the Gobi. The lights of the distant base were still on, and shadows moved in the windows of the laboratory building.

He stared at those lights, suddenly remembering the last thing Lin Mo said:

"Contact me whenever you've decided."

It wasn't "I'll give you three days," or "You'd better decide quickly," just "Contact me whenever you've decided."

He had been given complete freedom, without any pressure.

Such a person...

Chen Xueming leaned against the window frame, looking at the night sky.

The stars over the Gobi Desert were exceptionally bright, densely covering the canopy of the sky. In the city, he had never seen a starry sky like this.

He watched for a long time.

Then he remembered something, turned back to the desk, and opened a drawer.

In the drawer was an old envelope containing a few things he had saved over the years—several rejected project applications, a few failed review opinions, and a photo he had brought back from Stanford.

He took out the photo.

In the photo was him six years ago, standing at the entrance of a Stanford laboratory, wearing a white lab coat, with a brilliant smile. Back then he was still young, still believed that hard work would be rewarded, and still felt that the world was fair.

He stared at that photo for a long time.

In the photo, there was light in his eyes.

And now?

He looked at the reflection in the window glass. In the dim light, that face was tired and weathered, the light from those years no longer in his eyes.

In these four years, he had lost not just projects and opportunities, but also the self that once believed in everything.

Chen Xueming put the photo back in the drawer and slowly closed it.

He sat back at the desk and stared at the thermos.

The little bear on the cup was still smiling cheerfully, looking carefree.

He suddenly remembered what Li Xiao said this morning:

"I'm used to waking up early. Since I was cooking porridge anyway, I just made an extra portion."

Just made an extra portion.

Such a simple sentence, yet it sent a warm current through his heart.

It wasn't because of the bowl of porridge, but because of the meaning behind those words: Since you're here, I've included you.

This was the first time in four years that someone had included him.

Chen Xueming's eyes grew warm again.

He took a deep breath, stood up, and walked to the window.

The night grew deeper, and most of the base's lights had gone out, with only a few windows in the laboratory building still lit. Those people were still working overtime for that "truly valuable thing."

He stared at those lights, a thought suddenly popping into his head:

If he refused today, would he regret it tomorrow?

In five years, in ten years, would he regret it?

When he was old, looking back on this moment, what would he think?

Would he think: That night, I stood by the window, looked at the base's lights, and then chose to refuse. From then on, I continued to be alone, continued to hit walls, and continued to doubt everything.

Or would he think: That night, I stood by the window, looked at the base's lights, and then decided to set aside my pride and give it a try.

Chen Xueming closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

When he opened his eyes again, there was a certain resolve in them.

He turned and walked to the desk, picking up his phone.

The screen showed the time: 23:47.

It was so late; Lin Mo should be asleep, right?

He hesitated for a moment, then still tapped on his contacts and found the number he had saved earlier that day.

His finger hovered over the screen, not pressing down for a long time.

Just then, the phone suddenly vibrated.

It was a message.

Sender: Li Xiao

Content:

"Dr. Chen, for breakfast tomorrow, would you like porridge or soy milk? I'll cook them together~"

Chen Xueming was stunned.

He looked at that message, at the smiley face emoji, and at the phrase "I'll cook them together."

Then he laughed.

This girl really didn't treat him as an outsider.

He thought about it and replied with three words:

"Either's fine, thanks."

Almost immediately, Li Xiao replied again:

"Great! Then I'll make both! See you tomorrow! Goodnight!"

Chen Xueming looked at the message, the smile on his face deepening.

He put down his phone and looked out the window again.

The lights of the base were still on.

He stared at those lights, and his heart suddenly became quiet.

The struggle, the hesitation, the pride, and the resentment—at this moment, they all became less important.

What mattered was that someone was cooking porridge for him, someone was giving him notes, and someone was looking at him sincerely and saying: I need you.

That was enough.

Chen Xueming closed the window and lay down on the bed.

He thought he would have insomnia, but after closing his eyes, he soon fell asleep.

That night, he didn't dream.

The next morning, Chen Xueming woke up at 6:30.

After washing up, he put on that shirt that had been washed until it was pale and carefully adjusted it in front of the mirror.

The person in the mirror seemed a bit different from yesterday.

In his eyes, something had lit up again.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

When he reached the laboratory door, it was exactly 7:20.

He pushed the door open.

Li Xiao was already inside and smiled when she saw him. "Good morning, Dr. Chen! The porridge and soy milk are on the table; help yourself!"

Two thermal containers were set on the table, one labeled "Porridge" and the other "Soy Milk." Beside them were a small dish of pickles and a dish of peanuts.

Chen Xueming looked at those things, stunned for a few seconds.

Then he served himself a bowl of porridge, poured a cup of soy milk, sat down, and ate slowly.

Li Xiao was tapping away at her keyboard nearby, occasionally looking up to flash him a smile.

At 7:30, Zhang Zhe arrived and nodded to him. "Morning."

At 7:40, Zhao Gang arrived, and seeing him drinking porridge, he made a rare joke: "Not bad treatment, having someone specially cook porridge for you."

Li Xiao immediately said, "Uncle Zhao, there's some for you too! There's more in the thermal containers!"

At 7:50, Lin Mo arrived.

He saw Chen Xueming sitting at his workstation drinking porridge, was taken aback for a moment, and then smiled.

"Have you decided?"

Chen Xueming stood up, looked at him, and said seriously:

"Teacher Lin, I've decided."

Lin Mo nodded, waiting for him to continue.

Chen Xueming took a deep breath:

"I'm in."

Lin Mo smiled.

He walked over and extended his hand.

Chen Xueming grasped that hand.

This time, the grip was very firm.

The sunlight from outside happened to shine in, falling on the two of them, on that unfinished bowl of porridge on the table, and on Li Xiao's beaming face.

A new day had truly begun.