Ambassador Stuart took his leave of Zhao Tianlin. On the journey back to the embassy in Beijing, he finished his report to the US State Department. No one would believe the United States had transformed into a paragon of morality overnight, and Stuart was no exception. But a media war did not particularly care for facts; so long as other nations could be convinced that America had become a new country, even if the reality was quite different, the round was won.

Upon reaching the Chinese capital on March 26th, local time, Stuart stepped off the train only to find railway workers cheerfully hanging banners in the station’s underground passages.

He paused to watch as a banner was hoisted into place. It read: "Congratulations on the successful launch of China's first artificial satellite!"

"...It succeeded?" Stuart’s heart was a tangle of emotions. China had been promoting the launch for weeks, focusing on the Long March 1 carrier rocket.

Stuart knew well that the Long March series was derived from the ballistic missiles China had developed during the Second World War. America was a powerful nation, unlike the "weaklings" of Europe; China’s missiles had been dropped directly onto American soil during the conflict.

The US Embassy possessed a professional analytical team whose conclusions had not been pleasant. If China could put the 203-kilogram Dongfanghong I satellite into its intended orbit—with a perigee of 441 kilometers and an apogee of 2,368 kilometers—then it could launch missiles from its bases in the Northern Indigenous nations to cover every square inch of the United States.

Shaking his head, Stuart led his entourage through the jubilant crowds back to the embassy. Upon his arrival, a dossier was placed before him. All official Chinese propaganda centered on "Humanity’s first step into the Great Voyage of Space" and "Setting sail for the sea of stars."

The satellite was framed as a purely civilian device. The official rhetoric made no mention, explicit or implicit, of any military application—a sign, Stuart noted, that the Chinese government’s propaganda organs remained steady and composed.

An embassy staffer brought in a radio. "Mr. Ambassador, according to the schedule, the satellite is now over Asia. The onboard communication equipment is reportedly operational..."

The Dongfanghong I was no mere hunk of iron; it carried advanced communication gear capable of receiving and transmitting signals.

China was now the world’s hegemon, with military and civilian bases across the globe. As the satellite passed over a region, a ground station would beam a signal to it; the satellite would receive it and then broadcast it back to a vast area on the surface.

Stuart could grasp the explanation, but his scientific understanding was insufficient to fathom the underlying principles. Fortunately, the staff produced diagrams and even used a method described in a Chinese newspaper—cutting and folding the paper along printed lines—to create a physical model.

With the model before him, Stuart had a sudden epiphany. A ground station’s signal reached only a small area, just enough to reach the satellite’s path. The satellite’s broadcast back to Earth, however, covered a vast expanse. As long as a ground station tuned its receiver, it could capture the satellite’s signal for a significant period and then relay it to local radios.

Lacking a foundation in communication science, Stuart looked at the grim expressions of his professional team and asked, "What does this mean?"

"Mr. Ambassador," a technician replied, "it means China can bypass the communication systems of every other nation on Earth and broadcast directly to the entire world."

Understanding the gravity of the development, the technician’s face was sallow.

Stuart felt he was hearing a contradiction. First, he was told they used ground station receivers, but then he was told they could bypass other nations' systems?

The technician understood his confusion and continued: "The embassy possesses its own radio equipment. Such equipment can receive the signals sent by the Chinese satellite directly. This radio here is currently tuned to the embassy’s own signal."

With that, the expert turned up the volume. A voice immediately filled the room. It was Li Runshi.

"...The world is yours, as well as ours, but in the last analysis, it is yours. You young people, full of vigor and vitality, are in the bloom of life, like the sun at eight or nine in the morning. Our hope is placed on you..."

Stuart listened in silence, yet he heard a sudden roar of cheers from the street outside. Before he could ask, the expert explained: "This is a live broadcast, Mr. Ambassador."

"...You mean Li Runshi is sitting in his office right now, and anyone in the world with an antenna can hear him?" Stuart asked.

The expert felt Stuart lacked a talent for science and chose not to correct him, merely nodding. "That is correct, sir. Though beyond the antenna, they would also require a Chinese-produced radio."

"And if China wished to issue an order to its troops on the other side of the planet, they could do so using this satellite?" Stuart hypothesized.

"Indeed," the expert agreed. Stuart knew little of the technology, yet his grasp of its application was sound.

"If we were in the same technological league as China two or three years ago, we have now been left completely behind, haven't we?" Stuart pressed.

"...Yes," the expert answered reluctantly. It wasn't that he doubted Stuart’s conclusion, but rather that he felt such a crushing sense of defeat that he no longer wished to discuss the matter.

Stuart ignored his mood; he actually felt a strange sense of relief. China had not hidden its achievement but had displayed its technological dominance to the world. Such a demonstration would surely deliver a massive shock to the government and people of the United States.

Currently, while America had been forced to accept defeat, it had not been truly humbled. The prevailing view was that China had simply prepared for war earlier, and that the US failure was a matter of insufficient preparation. Many believed that had the US begun full mobilization five years earlier, the outcome would have been different.

This emotional refusal to accept reality had prevented Washington from truly deciding to end the state of confrontation. But the successful satellite launch could well shift that mindset—or at least force Washington to abandon confrontation in favor of cooperation for the time being.

Meanwhile, Li Runshi's speech had ended. Stepping out of the broadcast booth, he thanked the staff and returned to his office.

No. 7 Renmin Road served as the Chairman’s official residence. He Rui had never been one for personal style; when he lived here, the white walls had been bare of decoration, and the furniture and bookshelves had been strictly utilitarian. Li Runshi shared this lack of interest in material things; upon moving in, he had merely adjusted the layout to suit his habits.

Sitting on a sofa piled high with books, Li suddenly thought of Cheng Ruofan in Europe. Years ago, he had gone with Cheng to receive the laser gyroscope project, and their conversation then had left a deep impression. Several of the technologies used in today’s launch could be traced back to that era.

Li Runshi had never been a believer in the supremacy of weaponry. While China’s satellite and electronic progress led the world, it did not strike him as anything extraordinary.

During that conversation, Cheng had explained China’s model for electronic R&D, and Li had found it illuminating. It was the continued development of that model across every field that had yielded today's results.

A secretary brought in the latest economic statistics, but Li did not open them. Before his death, He Rui had written a report on the prospects for future technological development, and Li had decided to follow the path his predecessor had laid out. Since He Rui’s passing, a wave of technical breakthroughs had proven the feasibility of his vision.

Twenty years ago, He Rui had remarked that in two decades, China would push for every family to own a private car. Li hadn't taken the comment seriously at the time. He never expected that he would be the one to guide the Chinese people through that stage.

The paths for both electric and internal combustion technologies had been cleared, and the urban planning designs for a motorized society were complete. From R&D to production, the nation was a hive of activity.

Beyond internal drivers, the global market provided a powerful engine for growth. Global raw materials, bulk commodities, and a surge in overseas demand were constantly elevating the consumption power of the Chinese people.

The growth of productivity, the transformation of production methods, and the rapid accumulation of wealth had irreversibly shattered the customs, cognitions, and universal morality of traditional Chinese agricultural society.

The late He Rui had long ago foreseen this future. His expectation for Li Runshi was that he would provide a new lifestyle for the society to come.

Whether during He Rui’s life or after his death, Li had never voiced his true judgment of the man. To do so would have invited terrible political consequences.

In Li’s view, He Rui was an extreme Idealist. Of course, his idealism was of the most sophisticated variety. And because it was so elite, it manifested as an equally high-end Materialism.

To He Rui, humanity was merely one product of the world’s evolution. From the functioning of the body to the development of the brain, from class analysis to the mapping of biological instincts onto social behavior—it was all a supremely Materialist stance.

Yet Li still could not categorize He Rui as a Materialist.

The more elite the Idealist, the more "mad" they became. It was an inevitability. Yet this did not mean they were incompetent.

To high-level Materialists, the elite Idealists appeared as men of supreme learning and composed self-restraint. Because they could construct models that perfectly mapped onto the real world, they appeared brilliant and extraordinary.

Particularly in chaotic times, an Idealist like He Rui, who could utilize Materialism as easily as breathing, would always be able to size up the situation and achieve victory from a distance.

But! He Rui was still not a Materialist.

In Li’s eyes, He Rui had first become conscious of the world and only then was forced to acknowledge its existence. A true Materialist, without exception, first acknowledged the existence of the world and then set out to explore it.

When He Rui called himself an anti-human, anti-social madman, Li fully agreed with the assessment. For he realized that the world He Rui saw was one he had constructed within his own consciousness, not the one that truly existed.

Every man has his talent, and He Rui’s was an extraordinary capacity for mental construction—a power so great he could build a system within his mind that overlapped perfectly with reality.

Li felt that He Rui must have realized long ago that even if his system and reality were identical, he could never cross the boundary between Idealism and Materialism.

For He Rui could never accept a reality that existed regardless of his own consciousness.

A "correct lifestyle" leading to the future was a fine thing. But without one, would life not simply continue?

Contradiction and struggle are unrelated to consciousness; they are objective existences. That is Materialism.

For an Idealist like He Rui, he could not bear the thought of the people suffering once more. Li shared that wish.

But He Rui could not face the prospect of that suffering. Li believed he could. This, he thought, was why He Rui always called him "too kind-hearted." In an Idealist's cognitive world, that which they do not acknowledge should not exist. But to a Materialist, even if they do not approve of a struggle, its existence is an objective fact. One must struggle against the problems that have occurred, rather than racking one's brains to imagine how to avoid future tragedies.

In the conscious framework of a truly elite Idealist, cognition precedes objective existence. This was why He Rui had called himself a "conservative" while viewing Li Runshi as a true Materialist revolutionary.

想到那次交谈，李润石感觉很惋惜。他觉得何锐这一生中最大的心愿，有可能就是成为一个真正的唯物主义者。但是为了拯救中国，何锐始终没有时间为自己而活。没有时间让自己去突破唯心主义与唯物主义之间的界限。

Thinking of this made Li feel a profound regret. He Rui's achievements were beyond reproach, yet his life had not been the blaze of glory the world perceived. From a purely personal perspective, it had been a tragedy—or at least, a life of profound resignation.

But that resignation had not been of He Rui's own making. When China and the world were in agony, personal resignation was no longer significant. For those with ideals, morality, and courage, there was no choice but to stand up.

Because he did not believe in a spirit in the heavens, Li made no attempt to commune with He Rui in his mind. He simply decided that he would not attempt to create any "new lifestyle."

Since human society was steadily advancing toward a state of wealth where every individual had the time to think, Li’s mission was to promote and universalize the philosophy of Materialism—giving more people the chance to become true Materialists. And to use that powerful tool, Materialism, to labor, to struggle, and to live.