榮獲最佳中短篇奇幻小說雨果獎《北京摺疊》—— 

 當占人口大多數人的體力工作被智能機器逐步取代以後

郝景芳，1984年7月27日生於天津，小說作者，散文作者。2006年，畢業於清華大學物理系，2006-2008年就讀於清華大學天體物理中心，現為清華大學經管學院在讀博士生。

      郝景芳和譯者劉宇昆（1976-）在2016年雨果獎頒獎現場

2016年8月21日上午9時，有科幻界諾獎之稱的2016年第74屆雨果獎頒獎典禮在

美國堪薩斯城舉行，80後女作家郝景芳憑藉《北京摺疊》力壓 Stephen King 

斯蒂芬·金的《訃告》摘得最佳中短篇小說獎。對此有業內人士表示，國內科

幻文學的水平被普遍認為已經達到了“國際水準”。

2015年最佳科幻長篇小說《三體》雨果獎獲得者劉慈欣也對郝景芳的作品表示

欣賞，他說，現在中國的科幻受到世界讀者的關注，“這跟整個國家的發展有

關係。科幻是一個國家整個實力的晴雨表。世界上哪個國家成了一個強國，科

幻的重心都會轉移到那個國家去。整個中國文化在世界上的整體存在感都提升

很多，中國的科幻受到世界的關注，也是很自然的。而且，

美國科幻文學發展到現在，因為讀者老化等原因，漸漸失去活力

的跡象，至少不再是科幻的黃金時代，

美國科幻界開始更多的關注中國、巴基斯坦等其他國家的科幻。”

相對於劉慈欣的宏大敘事，郝景芳自認其作品更關注個體、人心。在《北京摺疊》中，北京被分為三個空間，土地每24小時翻轉一次，不同空間的人在這片土地上輪流生活。

北京大地的一面是第一空間，五百萬人口，生存時間是從清晨六點到第二天清晨六點。空間休眠，大地翻轉。翻轉後的另一面是第二空間和第三空間。第二空間生活着兩千五百萬人口，從次日清晨六點到夜晚十點，第三空間生活着五千萬人，從十點到清晨六點，然後回到第一空間。時間經過了精心規劃和最優分配，小心翼翼隔離，五百萬人享用二十四小時，七千五百萬人享用另外二十四小時。”在第三空間，垃圾工老刀一頓早飯要花一百塊，老刀一個月工資一萬塊，而他希望能讓自己撿來的孩子糖糖，上一月一萬五學費的幼兒園，為了這個花費，他寧願冒險去其他空間送信。

對於《北京摺疊》的創作靈感，郝景芳曾透露，有一次，她工作忙得沒有時間吃飯、喝水。看着窗外，天已經黑了下來，郝景芳突然有一種因為荒誕感而引起的傷感：無論我怎麼書寫這個世界的荒誕，我還是在這個世界中貌似嚴肅地活着，並為此忙碌。郝景芳說：“我寫作最主要的動力來自於自己的一些旁觀目睹，那些畫面和感慨存在心裡太滿，我需要一個載體將它們保存起來。”曾經，郝景芳租住在北京北五環外的城鄉結合部。樓下就是嘈雜的小巷子、小蒼蠅館子和大市場。郝景芳想：“有一些人是可以藏起來的，藏在看不見的空間。有了這個暗黑的想法，當然可以把某些人群永遠藏在地下。”

人們印象中，通常典型的反烏托邦故事架構中，上層階級為了維持更優越的生活需要剝削下層階級，這種二元結構中上層階級在道德上負有原罪，成為社會矛盾和故事矛盾的主要推力。

但郝景芳提問：如果下層階級連被剝削的資格都已經失去呢？隨着生產力的

極大發展，第一空間和第二空間的居民不再需要第三空間的勞動力，因為

使用智能機器人更便宜、更有效率，甚至連處理垃圾這樣的雜務也早已被機

器人代勞，只不過出於社會穩定的需要而保留了這就業崗位。反而是第

一、第二空間的科技所創造的價值在維持整個社會，第三空間的人只是平白消耗資源。

李淼老師在今年銀河獎頒獎典禮的演講上提出，

未來人工智能機器人社會裡，也許90%的人不再

需要工作，成為“寵物人”。

那麼在這個可以摺疊的北京中，第三世界的人們如果連處理垃圾的工作也沒有了，清醒的時間進一步被縮短，僅僅是出於人道主義而被允許以最低質量的方式活着以節省資源，這不就是某種形態的“寵物廢人”了嗎？更悲哀的是，在這個世界中，可能這才是更高效的社會組織形式。

在馬克思的理論中，人的存在價值就是其貢獻的勞動價值。如果在機器在與人的競爭中步步前進，而大多數人還來不及將自己的勞動升級，那麼人存在的價值本身就將受到衝擊，這也就是《北京摺疊》中人類面對的本質困境。在這樣的社會結構中所有人類都不得不有所犧牲，即使是第一空間的人其實也摺疊了自己的部分時間。最終奪走了人們時間的不是其它人類，而是城市這台永不停歇自行進化的巨大機器，人類只是來不及跟上而已。晝夜交替時老刀所見空間摺疊的恢宏景象，正是這具無形機器的具現。

郝景芳的故事並沒有明確的時間設定，但從一些細節中推斷，也許就是在一、二百年之後。如果未來的人們寫出一本《22世紀資本論》，他們所面對的世界將會是怎樣？

希望不是一個機器人居住在第一空間的社會。

鳳凰文化：《北京摺疊》裡呈現了一個中產階級的空間，其實是這個在科幻小說里很少被提到。

郝景芳：階級鬥爭也經常是分上等人跟下等人，但是其實無論是在歷史還是在現實中，絕大部分人，既不把自己當成上等人，也不把自己當成下等人。人真的是只有到無法生存的時候，才會揭竿而起。在通常情況下，絕大部分人都是先尋找或者是改善自己的生存空間，這是一般人的正常邏輯。

因為在真正的歷史大事件的描繪裡面，這樣的普通人往往是被忽略不計的，我們都寫會陳勝吳廣，都會寫項羽，項羽明明就是一個貴族，陳勝吳廣不揭竿而起就要被殺頭了，所以我們就認為歷史就是這樣的兩部分主體，但其實歷史的主體是普通人。因為普通人是非常複雜的，他集善惡於一身，他有很多自私的地方，但是他又有很多的惻隱之心，所以我會想要寫作為混雜體的普通人，是如何在這樣的大背景中起到作用的。所以，哪怕接下來寫《北京摺疊》的續集，寫成長篇，我也會花蠻多筆墨寫中間層，而不是說最終靠大家暴力革命把這個城市推翻了，那個東西就有點過於簡化了。

鳳凰文化：我看《北京摺疊》有一種很矛盾的感覺，它有一種溫情主義在裡面，其實第二空間、第三空間的人對老刀都是很友好的，沒有特別殘忍的事，但是這種溫情的同時又是很殘忍的，你連時間都不平等，連你的物理都被分割開，隨着智能化的發展可能底層勞動力連被利用和壓迫的價值都沒有了。

郝景芳：我一直都還蠻想寫這種殘酷設定下的人的溫情，因為我覺得人對自己和周圍人的溫情是一個本能，倒也不一定說人是多麼高尚，他只要是一個真實的，具有人性的人，就會是這樣的。

《北京摺疊》的這個制度看上去是很不平等的，那比如說我們現在的留守兒童現象，在這個制度下，有兩億多人這麼大規模地在城市裡面打工，其中一大半必須長期跟自己的孩子相分隔，把孩子放在原來的環境裡，自己在這邊做着低廉的工作。如果從一個宏觀上帝視角看，你會覺得這個制度簡直是非常的不公平，他怎麼能夠剝奪這一個人最基本的、家庭和睦的權利呢？但是在這樣的一個背景下，大家也並沒有因此而奮起抵抗，而且你在這種其實是很殘酷的過程中，還是可以發現其中每一個人，都是在朝着他自己心中溫情的方向去努力。他在城市裡打工，給小孩寄奶粉，實際上就是體現了這種制度的不平等，可是對於他來講，這是他那個時候所能做的所有的事情。

記者：所以是那種“天地不仁”的視角，就冷眼旁觀這種豐富的人性，它沒有好或不好？

郝景芳：其實我會覺得社會制度是有好壞之分的，一個更好的社會制度，肯定是一個更加包容性，能夠讓更多的人享受到好的生活，然後能夠增強人與人之間的理解、互助的。現實中的制度，包括我寫的小說中的制度，確實是有很多不太好的地方。只不過我覺得，制度的可存在性和善惡這是兩回事，任何一個制度框架它有很多都值得批評的地方，美國它現在的制度里的矛盾也很嚴重，但是一個哪怕是不完好的制度，也可能是可存在並且可運行很久的。

這個時候每個人作為一個單獨的、很無力的個體，改變不了很多事情的時候，他需要在短暫的生命中去面對這種殘酷性。我們想改變現實，但是經常是得在一個兩三百年的尺度上，來大規模地做到這個事情。可是在現實中，一個人生命比較有意義的可能就是那三四十年，在這個過程中他可能改變不了什麼，他需要在這個殘酷的世界中求生存，人的生存邏輯和一個上帝視角的邏輯是不一樣的。

               北 京 折 疊

（1）

清晨4:50，老刀穿過熙熙攘攘的步行街，去找彭蠡。

從垃圾站下班之後，老刀回家洗了個澡，換了衣服。白色襯衫和褐色褲子，這是他唯一一套體面衣服，襯衫袖口磨了邊，他把袖子卷到胳膊肘。老刀四十八歲，沒結婚，已經過了注意外表的年齡，又沒人照顧起居，這一套衣服留着穿了很多年，每次穿一天，回家就脫了疊上。他在垃圾站上班，沒必要穿得體面，偶爾參加誰家小孩的婚禮，才拿出來穿在身上。這一次他不想髒兮兮地見陌生人。他在垃圾站連續工作了五小時，很擔心身上會有味道。

步行街上擠滿了剛剛下班的人。擁擠的男人女人圍着小攤子挑土特產，大聲討價還價。食客圍着塑料桌子，埋頭在酸辣粉的熱氣騰騰中，餓虎撲食一般，白色蒸汽遮住了臉。油炸的香味瀰漫。貨攤上的酸棗和核桃堆成山，臘肉在頭頂搖擺。這個點是全天最熱鬧的時間，基本都收工了，忙碌了幾個小時的人們都趕過來吃一頓飽飯，人聲鼎沸。

老刀艱難地穿過人群。端盤子的夥計一邊喊着讓讓一邊推開擋道的人，開出一條路來，老刀跟在後面。

彭蠡家在小街深處。老刀上樓，彭蠡不在家。問鄰居，鄰居說他每天快到關門才回來，具體幾點不清楚。

老刀有點擔憂，看了看手錶，清晨5點。

他回到樓門口等着。兩旁狼吞虎咽的飢餓少年圍繞着他。他認識其中兩個，原來在彭蠡家見過一兩次。少年每人面前擺着一盤炒麵或炒粉，幾個人分吃兩個菜，盤子裡一片狼藉，筷子扔在無望而鍥而不捨地撥動，尋找辣椒叢中的肉星。老刀又下意識聞了聞小臂，不知道身上還有沒有垃圾的腥味。周圍的一切嘈雜而庸常，和每個清晨一樣。

“哎，你們知道那兒一盤迴鍋肉多少錢嗎？”那個叫小李的少年說。

“靠，菜里有沙子。”另外一個叫小丁的胖少年突然捂住嘴說，他的指甲里還帶着黑泥， “坑人啊。得找老闆退錢！”

“人家那兒一盤迴鍋肉，就三百四。”小李說，“三百四！一盤水煮牛肉四百二呢。”

“什麼玩意？這麼貴。”小丁捂着腮幫子咕噥道。

另外兩個少年對談話沒興趣，還在埋頭吃麵，小李低頭看着他們，眼睛似乎穿過他們，看到了某個看不見的地方，目光里有熱切。

老刀的肚子也感覺到飢餓。他迅速轉開眼睛，可是來不及了，那種感覺迅速席捲了他，胃的空虛像是一個深淵，讓他身體微微發顫。他有一個月不吃清晨這頓飯了。一頓飯差不多一百塊，一個月三千塊，攢上一年就夠糖糖兩個月的幼兒園開銷了。

他向遠處看，城市清理隊的車輛已經緩緩開過來了。

他開始做準備，若彭蠡一時再不回來，他就要考慮自己行動了。雖然會帶來不少困難，但時間不等人，總得走才行。身邊賣大棗的女人高聲叫賣，不時打斷他的思緒，聲音的洪亮刺得他頭疼。步行街一端的小攤子開始收拾，人群像用棍子攪動的池塘里的魚，倏一下散去。沒人會在這時候和清理隊較勁。小攤子收拾得比較慢，清理隊的車耐心地移動。步行街通常只是步行街，但對清理隊的車除外。誰若走得慢了，就被強行收攏起來。

這時彭蠡出現了。他剔着牙，敞着襯衫的扣子，不緊不慢地踱回來，不時打飽嗝。彭蠡六十多了，變得懶散不修邊幅，兩頰像沙皮狗一樣耷拉着，讓嘴角顯得總是不滿意地撇着。如果只看這幅模樣，不知道他年輕時的樣子，會以為他只是個胸無大志只知道吃喝的慫包。但從老刀很小的時候，他就聽父親講過彭蠡的事。

老刀迎上前去。彭蠡看到他要打招呼，老刀卻打斷他：“我沒時間和你解釋。我需要去第一空間，你告訴我怎麼走。”

彭蠡愣住了，已經有十年沒人跟他提過第一空間的事，他的牙籤捏在手裡，不知不覺掰斷了。他有片刻沒回答，見老刀實在有點急了，才拽着他向樓里走。“回我家說，”彭蠡說，“要走也從那兒走。”

在他們身後，清理隊已經緩緩開了過來，像秋風掃落葉一樣將人們掃回家。“回家啦，回家啦。轉換馬上開始了。”車上有人吆喝着。

彭蠡帶老刀上樓，進屋。他的單人小房子和一般公租屋無異，六平米房間，一個廁所，一個能做菜的角落，一張桌子一把椅子，膠囊床鋪，膠囊下是抽拉式箱櫃，可以放衣服物品。牆面上有水漬和鞋印，沒做任何修飾，只是歪斜着貼了幾個掛鈎，掛着夾克和褲子。進屋後，彭蠡把牆上的衣服毛巾都取下來，塞到最靠邊的抽屜里。轉換的時候，什麼都不能掛出來。老刀以前也住這樣的單人公租房。一進屋，他就感到一股舊日的氣息。

彭蠡直截了當地瞪着老刀：“你不告訴我為什麼，我就不告訴你怎麼走。”

已經5點半了，還有半個小時。

老刀簡單講了事情的始末。從他撿到紙條瓶子，到他偷偷躲入垃圾道，到他在第二空間接到的委託，再到他的行動。他沒有時間描述太多，最好馬上就走。

“你躲在垃圾道里？去第二空間？”彭蠡皺着眉，“那你得等24小時啊。”

“二十萬塊。”老刀說，“等一禮拜也值啊。”

“你就這麼缺錢花？”

老刀沉默了一下。“糖糖還有一年多該去幼兒園了。”他說，“我來不及了。”

老刀去幼兒園諮詢的時候，着實被嚇到了。稍微好一點的幼兒園招生前兩天，就有家長帶着鋪蓋卷在幼兒園門口排隊，兩個家長輪着，一個吃喝拉撒，另一個坐在幼兒園門口等。就這麼等上四十多個小時，還不一定能排進去。前面的名額早用錢買斷了，只有最後剩下的寥寥幾個名額分給苦熬排隊的爹媽。這只是一般不錯的幼兒園，更好一點的連排隊都不行，從一開始就是錢買機會。老刀本來沒什麼奢望，可是自從糖糖一歲半之後，就特別喜歡音樂，每次在外面聽見音樂，她就小臉放光，跟着扭動身子手舞足蹈。那個時候她特別好看。老刀對此毫無抵抗力，他就像被舞台上的燈光層層圍繞着，只看到一片耀眼。無論付出什麼代價，他都想送糖糖去一個能教音樂和跳舞的幼兒園。

彭蠡脫下外衣，一邊洗臉，一邊和老刀說話。說是洗臉，不過只是用水隨便抹一抹。水馬上就要停了，水流已經變得很小。彭蠡從牆上拽下一條髒兮兮的毛巾，隨意蹭了蹭，又將毛巾塞進抽屜。他濕漉漉的頭髮顯出油膩的光澤。

“你真是作死，”彭蠡說，“她又不是你閨女，犯得着嗎。”

“別說這些了。快告我怎麼走。”老刀說。

彭蠡嘆了口氣：“你可得知道，萬一被抓着，可不只是罰款，得關上好幾個月。”

“你不是去過好多次嗎？”

“只有四次。第五次就被抓了。”

“那也夠了。我要是能去四次，抓一次也無所謂。”

老刀要去第一空間送一樣東西，送到了掙十萬塊，帶來回信掙二十萬。這不過是冒違規的大不韙，只要路徑和方法對，被抓住的幾率並不大，掙的卻是實實在在的鈔票。他不知道有什麼理由拒絕。他知道彭蠡年輕的時候為了幾筆風險錢，曾經偷偷進入第一空間好幾次，販賣私酒和煙。他知道這條路能走。

5:45。他必須馬上走了。

彭蠡又嘆口氣，知道勸也沒用。他已經上了年紀，對事懶散倦怠了，但他明白，自己在五十歲前也會和老刀一樣。那時他不在乎坐牢之類的事。不過是熬幾個月出來，挨兩頓打，但掙的錢是實實在在的。只要抵死不說錢的下落，最後總能過去。秩序局的條子也不過就是例行公事。他把老刀帶到窗口，向下指向一條被陰影覆蓋的小路。

“從我房子底下爬下去，順着排水管，氈布底下有我原來安上去的腳蹬，身子貼得足夠緊了就能避開攝像頭。從那兒過去，沿着陰影爬到邊上。你能摸着也能看見那道縫。沿着縫往北走。一定得往北。千萬別錯了。”

彭蠡接着解釋了爬過土地的訣竅。要借着升起的勢頭，從升高的一側沿截面爬過五十米，到另一側地面，爬上去，然後向東，那裡會有一叢灌木，在土地合攏的時候可以抓住並隱藏自己。老刀沒有聽完，就已經將身子探出窗口，準備向下爬了。

彭蠡幫老刀爬出窗子，扶着他踩穩了窗下的踏腳。彭蠡突然停下來。“說句不好聽的，”他說，“我還是勸你最好別去。那邊可不是什麼好地兒，去了之後沒別的，只能感覺自己的日子有多操蛋。沒勁。”

老刀的腳正在向下試探，身子還扒着窗台。“沒事。”他說得有點費勁，“我不去也知道自己的日子有多操蛋。”

“好自為之吧。”彭蠡最後說。

老刀順着彭蠡指出的路徑快速向下爬。腳蹬的位置非常舒服。他看到彭蠡在窗口的身影，點了根煙，非常大口地快速抽了幾口，又掐了。彭蠡一度從窗口探出身子，似乎想說什麼，但最終還是縮了回去。窗子關上了，發着幽幽的光。老刀知道，彭蠡會在轉換前最後一分鐘鑽進膠囊，和整個城市數千萬人一樣，受膠囊定時釋放出的氣體催眠，陷入深深睡眠，身子隨着世界顛倒來去，頭腦卻一無所知，一睡就是整整40個小時，到次日晚上再睜開眼睛。彭蠡已經老了，他終於和這個世界其他五千萬人一樣了。

老刀用自己最快的速度向下，一蹦一跳，在離地足夠近的時候縱身一躍，匍匐在地上。彭蠡的房子在四層，離地不遠。爬起身，沿高樓在湖邊投下的陰影奔跑。他能看到草地上的裂隙，那是翻轉的地方。還沒跑到，就聽到身後在壓抑中轟鳴的隆隆和偶爾清脆的嘎啦聲。老刀轉過頭，高樓攔腰截斷，上半截正從天上倒下，緩慢卻不容置疑地壓迫過來。

老刀被震住了，怔怔看了好一會兒。他跑到縫隙，伏在地上。

轉換開始了。這是24小時周期的分隔時刻。整個世界開始翻轉。鋼筋磚塊合攏的聲音連成一片，像出了故障的流水線。高樓收攏合併，摺疊成立方體。霓虹燈、店鋪招牌、陽台和附加結構都被吸收入牆體，貼成樓的肌膚。結構見縫插針，每一寸空間都被占滿。

大地在升起。老刀觀察着地面的走勢，來到縫的邊緣，又隨着縫隙的升起不斷向上爬。他手腳並用，從大理石鋪就的地面邊緣起始，沿着泥土的截面，抓住土裡埋藏的金屬斷茬，最初是向下，用腳試探着退行，很快，隨着整快土地的翻轉，他被帶到空中。

老刀想到前一天晚上城市的樣子。

當時他從垃圾堆中抬起眼睛，警覺地聽着門外的聲音。周圍發酵腐爛的垃圾散發出刺鼻的氣息，帶一股發腥的甜膩味。他倚在門前。鐵門外的世界在甦醒。

當鐵門掀開的縫隙透入第一道街燈的黃色光芒，他俯下身去，從緩緩擴大的縫隙中鑽出。街上空無一人，高樓燈光逐層亮起，附加結構從樓兩側探出，向兩旁一節一節伸展，門廊從樓體內延伸，房檐延軸旋轉，緩緩落下，樓梯降落延伸到馬迷途上。步行街的兩側，一個又一個黑色立方體從中間斷裂，向兩側打開，露出其中貨架的結構。立方體頂端伸出招牌，連成商鋪的走廊，兩側的塑料棚向頭頂延伸閉合。街道空曠得如同夢境。

霓虹燈亮了，商鋪頂端閃爍的小燈打出新疆大棗、東北拉皮、上海烤麩和湖南臘肉。

整整一天，老刀頭腦中都忘不了這一幕。他在這裡生活了四十八年，還從來沒有見過這一切。他的日子總是從膠囊起，至膠囊終，在髒兮兮的餐桌和被爭吵縈繞的貨攤之間穿行。這是他第一次看到世界純粹的模樣。

每個清晨，如果有人從遠處觀望——就像大貨車司機在高速北京入口處等待時那樣——他會看到整座城市的伸展與摺疊。

清晨六點，司機們總會走下車，站在高速邊上，揉着經過一夜潦草睡眠而昏沉的眼睛，打着哈欠，相互指點着望向遠處的城市中央。高速截斷在七環之外，所有的翻轉都在六環內發生。不遠不近的距離，就像遙望西山或是海上的一座孤島。

晨光熹微中，一座城市摺疊自身，向地面收攏。高樓像最卑微的僕人，彎下腰，讓自己低聲下氣切斷身體，頭碰着腳，緊緊貼在一起，然後再次斷裂彎腰，將頭頂手臂扭曲彎折，插入空隙。高樓彎折之後重新組合，蜷縮成緻密的巨大魔方，密密匝匝地聚合到一起，陷入沉睡。然後地面翻轉，小塊小塊土地圍繞其軸，一百八十度翻轉到另一面，將另一面的建築樓宇露出地表。樓宇由摺疊中站立起身，在灰藍色的天空中像甦醒的獸類。城市孤島在橘黃色晨光中落位，展開，站定，騰起瀰漫的灰色蒼雲。

司機們就在睏倦與飢餓中欣賞這一幕無窮循環的城市戲劇。

（2）

摺疊城市分三層空間。大地的一面是第一空間，五百萬人口，生存時間是從清晨六點到第二天清晨六點。空間休眠，大地翻轉。翻轉後的另一面是第二空間和第三空間。第二空間生活着兩千五百萬人口，從次日清晨六點到夜晚十點，第三空間生活着五千萬人，從十點到清晨六點，然後回到第一空間。時間經過了精心規劃和最優分配，小心翼翼隔離，五百萬人享用二十四小時，七千五百萬人享用另外二十四小時。

大地的兩側重量並不均衡，為了平衡這種不均，第一空間的土地更厚，土壤里埋藏配重物質。人口和建築的失衡用土地來換。第一空間居民也因而認為自身的底蘊更厚。

老刀從小生活在第三空間。他知道自己的日子是什麼樣，不用彭蠡說他也知道。他是個垃圾工，做了二十八年垃圾工，在可預見的未來還將一直做下去。他還沒找到可以獨自生存的意義和最後的懷疑主義。他仍然在卑微生活的間隙占據一席。

老刀生在北京城，父親就是垃圾工。據父親說，他出生的時候父親剛好找到這份工作，為此慶賀了整整三天。父親本是建築工，和數千萬其他建築工一樣，從四方涌到北京尋工作，這座摺疊城市就是父親和其他人一起親手建的。一個區一個區改造舊城市，像白蟻漫過木屋一樣啃噬昔日的屋檐門檻，再把土地翻起，建築全新的樓宇。他們埋頭斧鑿，用累累磚塊將自己包圍在中間，抬起頭來也看不見天空，沙塵遮擋視線，他們不知曉自己建起的是怎樣的恢弘。直到建成的日子高樓如活人一般站立而起，他們才像驚呆了一樣四處奔逃，仿佛自己生下了一個怪胎。奔逃之後，鎮靜下來，又意識到未來生存在這樣的城市會是怎樣一種殊榮，便繼續辛苦摩擦手腳，低眉順眼勤懇，尋找各種存留下來的機會。據說城市建成的時候，有八千萬想要尋找工作留下來的建築工，最後能留下來的，不過兩千萬。

垃圾站的工作能找到也不容易，雖然只是垃圾分類處理，但還是層層篩選，要有力氣有技巧，能分辨能整理，不怕辛苦不怕惡臭，不對環境挑三揀四。老刀的父親靠強健的意志在洶湧的人流中抓住機會的細草，待人潮退去，留在乾涸的沙灘上，抓住工作機會，低頭俯身，艱難浸在人海和垃圾混合的酸朽氣味中，一干就是二十年。他既是這座城市的建造者，也是城市的居住者和分解者。

老刀出生時，摺疊城市才建好兩年，他從來沒去過其他地方，也沒想過要去其他地方。他上了小學、中學。考了三年大學，沒考上，最後還是做了垃圾工。他每天上五個小時班，從夜晚十一點到清晨四點，在垃圾站和數萬同事一起，快速而機械地用雙手處理廢物垃圾，將第一空間和第二空間傳來的生活碎屑轉化為可利用的分類的材質，再丟入再處理的熔爐。他每天面對垃圾傳送帶上如溪水湧出的殘渣碎片，從塑料碗裡摳去吃剩的菜葉，將破碎酒瓶拎出，把帶血的衛生巾後面未受污染的一層薄膜撕下，丟入可回收的帶着綠色條紋的圓筒。他們就這麼幹着，以速度換生命，以數量換取薄如蟬翼的僅有的獎金。

第三空間有兩千萬垃圾工，他們是夜晚的主人。另三千萬人靠販賣衣服食物燃料和保險過活，但絕大多數人心知肚明，垃圾工才是第三空間繁榮的支柱。每每在繁花似錦的霓虹燈下漫步，老刀就覺得頭頂都是食物殘渣構成的彩虹。這種感覺他沒法和人交流，年輕一代不喜歡做垃圾工，他們千方百計在舞廳里表現自己，希望能找到一個打碟或伴舞的工作。在服裝店做一個店員也是好的選擇，手指只拂過輕巧衣物，不必在泛着酸味的腐爛物中尋找塑料和金屬。少年們已經不那麼恐懼生存，他們更在意外表。

老刀並不嫌棄自己的工作，但他去第二空間的時候，非常害怕被人嫌棄。

那是前一天清晨的事。他捏着小紙條，偷偷從垃圾道里爬出，按地址找到寫紙條的人。第二空間和第三空間的距離沒那麼遠，它們都在大地的同一面，只是不同時間出沒。轉換時，一個空間高樓折起，收回地面，另一個空間高樓從地面中節節升高，踩着前一個空間的樓頂作為地面。唯一的差別是樓的密度。他在垃圾道里躲了一晝夜才等到空間敞開。他第一次到第二空間，並不緊張，唯一擔心的是身上腐壞的氣味。

所幸秦天是寬容大度的人。也許他早已想到自己將招來什麼樣的人，當小紙條放入瓶中的時候，他就知道自己將面對的是誰。

秦天很和氣，一眼就明白老刀前來的目的，將他拉入房中，給他熱水洗澡，還給他一件浴袍換上。“我只有依靠你了。”秦天說。

秦天是研究生，住學生公寓。一個公寓四個房間，四個人一人一間，一個廚房兩個廁所。老刀從來沒在這麼大的廁所洗過澡。他很想多洗一會兒，將身上氣味好好沖一衝，但又擔心將澡盆弄髒，不敢用力搓動。牆上噴出泡沫的時候他嚇了一跳，熱蒸汽烘乾也讓他不適應。洗完澡，他拿起秦天遞過來的浴袍，猶豫了很久才穿上。他把自己的衣服洗了，又洗了廁所盆里隨意扔着的幾件衣服。生意是生意，他不想欠人情。

秦天要送禮物給他相好的女孩子。他們在工作中認識，當時秦天有機會去第一空間實習，聯合國經濟司，她也在那邊實習。只可惜只有一個月，回來就沒法再去了。他說她生在第一空間，家教嚴格，父親不讓她交往第二空間的男孩，所以不敢用官方通道寄給她。他對未來充滿樂觀，等他畢業就去申請聯合國新青年項目，如果能入選，就也能去第一空間工作。他現在研一，還有一年畢業。他心急如焚，想她想得發瘋。他給她做了一個項鍊墜，能發光的材質，透明的，玫瑰花造型，作為他的求婚信物。

“我當時是在一個專題研討會，就是上回討論聯合國國債那個會，你應該聽說過吧？就是那個……anyway，我當時一看，啊……立刻跑過去跟她說話，她給嘉賓引導座位，我也不知道應該說點什麼，就在她身後走過來又走過去。最後我假裝要找同傳，讓她帶我去找。她特溫柔，說話細聲細氣的。我壓根就沒追過姑娘，特別緊張，……後來我們倆好了之後有一次說起這件事……你笑什麼？……對，我們是好了。……還沒到那種關係，就是……不過我親過她了。”秦天也笑了，有點不好意思，“是真的。你不信嗎？是。連我自己也不信。你說她會喜歡我嗎？”

“我不知道啊。”老刀說，“我又沒見過她。”

這時，秦天同屋的一個男生湊過來，笑道：“大叔，您這麼認真幹嗎？這傢伙哪是問你，他就是想聽人說‘你這麼帥，她當然會喜歡你’。”

“她很漂亮吧？”

“我跟你說也不怕你笑話。”秦天在屋裡走來走去，“你見到她就知道什麼叫清雅絕倫。”

秦天突然頓住了，不說了，陷入回憶。他想起依言的嘴，他最喜歡的就是她的嘴，那麼小小的，瑩潤的，下嘴唇飽滿，帶着天然的粉紅色，讓人看着看着就忍不住想咬一口。她的脖子也讓他動心，雖然有時瘦得露出筋，但線條是纖直而好看的，皮膚又白又細緻，從脖子一直延伸到襯衫里，讓人的視線忍不住停在襯衫的第二個扣子那裡。他第一次輕吻她一下，她躲開，他又吻，最後她退無可退，就把眼睛閉上了，像任人宰割的囚犯，引他一陣憐惜。她的唇很軟，他用手反覆感受她腰和臀部的曲線。從那天開始，他就居住在思念中。她是他夜晚的夢境，是他抖動自己時看到的光芒。

秦天的同學叫張顯，和老刀開始聊天，聊得很歡。

張顯問老刀第三空間的生活如何，又說他自己也想去第三空間住一段。他聽人說，如果將來想往上爬，有過第三空間的管理經驗是很有用的。現在幾個當紅的人物，當初都是先到第三空間做管理者，然後才升到第一空間，若是停留在第二空間，就什麼前途都沒有，就算當個行政幹部，一輩子級別也高不了。他將來想要進政府，已經想好了路。不過他說他現在想先掙兩年錢再說，去銀行來錢快。他見老刀的反應很遲鈍，幾乎不置可否，以為老刀厭惡這條路，就忙不迭地又加了幾句解釋。

“現在政府太混沌了，做事太慢，僵化，體系也改不動。”他說，“等我將來有了機會，我就推快速工作作風改革。幹得不行就滾蛋。”他看老刀還是沒說話，又說，“選拔也要放開。也向第三空間放開。”

老刀沒回答。他其實不是厭惡，只是不大相信。

張顯一邊跟老刀聊天，一邊對着鏡子打領帶，噴髮膠。他已經穿好了襯衫，淺藍色條紋，亮藍色領帶。噴髮膠的時候一邊閉着眼睛皺着眉毛避開噴霧，一邊吹口哨。

張顯夾着包走了，去銀行實習上班。秦天說着話也要走。他還有課，要上到下午四點。臨走前，他當着老刀的面把五萬塊定金從網上轉到老刀卡里，說好了剩下的錢等他送到再付。老刀問他這筆錢是不是攢了很久，看他是學生，如果拮据，少要一點也可以。秦天說沒事，他現在實習，給金融諮詢公司打工，一個月十萬塊差不多。這也就是兩個月工資，還出得起。老刀一個月一萬塊標準工資，他看到差距，但他沒有說。秦天要老刀務必帶回信回來，老刀說試試。秦天給老刀指了吃喝的所在，叫他安心在房間裡等轉換。

老刀從窗口看向街道。他很不適應窗外的日光。太陽居然是淡白色，不是黃色。日光下的街道也顯得寬闊，老刀不知道是不是錯覺，這街道看上去有第三空間的兩倍寬。樓並不高，比第三空間矮很多。路上的人很多，匆匆忙忙都在急着趕路，不時有人小跑着想穿過人群，前面的人就也加起速，穿過路口的時候，所有人都像是小跑着。大多數人穿得整齊，男孩子穿西裝，女孩子穿襯衫和短裙，脖子上圍巾低垂，手裡拎着線條硬朗的小包，看上去精幹。街上汽車很多，在路口等待的時候，不時有看車的人從車窗伸出頭，焦急地向前張望。老刀很少見到這麼多車，他平時習慣了磁懸浮，擠滿人的車廂從身邊加速，呼一陣風。

中午十二點的時候，走廊里一陣聲響。老刀從門上的小窗向外看。樓道地面化為傳送帶開始滾動，將各屋門口的垃圾袋推入盡頭的垃圾道。樓道里騰起霧，化為密實的肥皂泡沫，飄飄忽忽地沉降，然後是一陣水，水過了又一陣熱蒸汽。

背後突然有聲音，嚇了老刀一跳。他轉過身，發現公寓裡還有一個男生，剛從自己房間裡出來。男生面無表情，看到老刀也沒有打招呼。他走到陽台旁邊一台機器旁邊，點了點，機器里傳出咔咔刷刷轟轟嚓的聲音，一陣香味飄來，男生端出一盤菜又回了房間。從他半開的門縫看過去，男孩坐在地上的被子和襪子中間，瞪着空無一物的牆，一邊吃一邊咯咯地笑。他不時用手推一推眼鏡。吃完把盤子放在腳邊，站起身，同樣對着空牆做擊打動作，費力氣頂住某個透明的影子，偶爾來一個背摔，氣喘吁吁。

老刀對第二空間最後的記憶是街上撤退時的優雅。從公寓樓的窗口望下去，一切都帶着令人羨慕的秩序感。九點十五分開始，街上一間間賣衣服的小店開始關燈，聚餐之後的團體面色紅潤，相互告別。年輕男女在出租車外親吻。然後所有人回樓，世界蟄伏。

夜晚十點到了。他回到他的世界，回去上班。

（3）

第一和第三空間之間沒有連通的垃圾道，第一空間的垃圾經過一道鐵閘，運到第三空間之後，鐵閘迅速合攏。老刀不喜歡從地表翻越，但他沒有辦法。

他在呼嘯的風中爬過翻轉的土地，抓住每一寸零落的金屬殘渣，找到身體和心理平衡，最後匍匐在離他最遙遠的一重世界的土地上。他被整個攀爬弄得頭暈腦脹，胃口也不舒服。他忍住嘔吐，在地上趴了一會兒。

當他爬起身的時候，天亮了。

老刀從來沒有見過這樣的景象。太陽緩緩升起，天邊是深遠而純淨的藍，藍色下沿是橙黃色，有斜向上的條狀薄雲。太陽被一處屋檐遮住，屋檐顯得異常黑，屋檐背後明亮奪目。太陽升起時，天的藍色變淺了，但是更寧靜透徹。老刀站起身，向太陽的方向奔跑。他想要抓住那道褪去的金色。藍天中能看見樹枝的剪影。他的心狂跳不已。他從來不知道太陽升起竟然如此動人。

他跑了一段路，停下來，冷靜了。他站在街道中央。路的兩旁是高大樹木和大片草坪。他環視四周，目力所及，遠遠近近都沒有一座高樓。他迷惑了，不確定自己是不是真的到了第一空間。他能看見兩排粗壯的銀杏。

他又退回幾步，看着自己跑來的方向。街邊有一個路牌。他打開手機裡存的地圖，雖然沒有第一空間動態圖權限，但有事先下載的靜態圖。他找到了自己的位置和他要去的地方。他剛從一座巨大的園子裡奔出來，翻轉的地方就在園子的湖邊。

老刀在萬籟俱寂的街上跑了一公里，很容易找到了要找的小區。他躲在一叢灌木背後，遠遠地望着那座漂亮的房子。

8:30，依言出來了。

她像秦天描述的一樣清秀，只是沒有那麼漂亮。老刀早就能想到這點。不會有任何女孩長得像秦天描述的那麼漂亮。他明白了為什麼秦天着重講她的嘴。她的眼睛和鼻子很普通，只是比較秀氣，沒什麼好講的。她的身材還不錯，骨架比較小，雖然高，但看上去很纖細。穿了一條乳白色連衣裙，有飄逸的裙襬，腰帶上有珍珠，黑色高跟皮鞋。

老刀悄悄走上前去。為了不嚇到她，他特意從正面走過去，離得遠遠的就鞠了一躬。

她站住了，驚訝地看着他。

老刀走近了，說明來意，將包裹着情書和項鍊墜的信封從懷裡掏出來。

她的臉上滑過一絲驚慌，小聲說：“你先走，我現在不能和你說。”

“呃……我其實沒什麼要說的，”老刀說，“我只是送信的。”

她不接，雙手緊緊地攪握着，只是說：“我現在不能收。你先走。我是說真的，拜託了，你先走吧好嗎？”她說着低頭，從包里掏出一張名片，“中午到這裡找我。”

老刀低頭看看，名片上寫着一個銀行的名字。

“十二點。到地下超市等我。”她又說。

老刀看得出她過分的不安，於是點頭收起名片，回到隱身的灌木叢後，遠遠地觀望着。很快，又有一個男人從房子裡出來，到她身邊。男人看上去和老刀年齡相仿，或者年輕兩歲，穿着一套很合身的深灰色西裝，身材高而寬闊，雖沒有突出的肚子，但是覺得整個身體很厚。男人的臉無甚特色，戴眼鏡，圓臉，頭髮向一側梳得整齊。

男人摟住依言的腰，吻了她嘴唇一下。依言想躲，但沒躲開，顫抖了一下，手擋在身前顯得非常勉強。

老刀開始明白了。

一輛小車開到房子門前。單人雙輪小車，黑色，敞篷，就像電視裡看到的古代的馬車或黃包車，只是沒有馬拉，也沒有車夫。小車停下，歪向前，依言踏上去，坐下，攏住裙子，讓裙襬均勻覆蓋膝蓋，散到地上。小車緩緩開動了，就像有一匹看不見的馬拉着一樣。依言坐在車裡，小車緩慢而波瀾不驚。等依言離開，一輛無人駕駛的汽車開過來，男人上了車。

老刀在原地來回踱着步子。他覺得有些東西非常憋悶，但又說不出來。他站在陽光里，閉上眼睛，清晨藍天下清凜乾淨的空氣沁入他的肺。空氣給他一種冷靜的安慰。

片刻之後，他才上路。依言給的地址在她家東面，3公里多一點。街上人很少。8車道的寬闊道路上行駛着零星車輛，快速經過，讓人看不清車的細節。偶爾有華服的女人乘坐着雙輪小車緩緩飄過他身旁，沿步行街，像一場時裝秀，端坐着姿態優美。沒有人注意到老刀。綠樹搖曳，樹葉下的林蔭路留下長裙的氣味。

依言的辦公地在西單某處。這裡完全沒有高樓，只是圍繞着一座花園有零星分布的小樓，樓與樓之間的聯繫氣若游絲，幾乎看不出它們是一體。走到地下，才看到相連的通道。

老刀找到超市。時間還早。一進入超市，就有一輛小車跟上他，每次他停留在貨架旁，小車上的屏幕上就顯示出這件貨物的介紹、評分和同類貨物質量比。超市裡的東西都寫着他看不懂的文字。食物包裝精緻，小塊糕點和水果用誘人的方式擺在盤裡，等人自取。他沒有觸碰任何東西。不過整個超市似乎並沒有警衛或店員。

還不到十二點，顧客就多了起來。有穿西裝的男人走進超市，取三明治，在門口刷一下就匆匆離開。還是沒有人特別注意老刀。他在門口不起眼的位置等着。

依言出現了。老刀迎上前去，依言看了看左右，沒說話，帶他去了隔壁的一家小餐廳。兩個穿格子裙子的小機器人迎上來，接過依言手裡的小包，又帶他們到位子上，遞上菜單。依言在菜單上按了幾下，小機器人轉身，輪子平穩地滑回了後廚。

兩個人面對面坐了片刻，老刀又掏出信封。

依言卻沒有接：“……你能聽我解釋一下嗎？”

老刀把信封推到她面前：“你先收下這個。”

依言推回給他。

“你先聽我解釋一下行嗎？”依言又說。

“你沒必要跟我解釋，”老刀說，“信不是我寫的。我只是送信而已。”

“可是你回去要告訴說的。”依言低了低頭。小機器人送上了兩個小盤子，一人一份，是某種紅色的生魚片，薄薄兩片，擺成花瓣的形狀。依言沒有動筷子，老刀也沒有。信封被小盤子隔在中央，兩個人誰也沒再推。“我不是背叛他。去年他來的時候我就已經訂婚了。我也不是故意瞞他或欺騙他，或者說……是的，我騙了他，但那是他自己猜的。他見到吳聞來接我，就問是不是我爸爸。我……我沒法回答他。你知道，那太尷尬了。我……”

依言說不下去了。

老刀等了一會兒說：“我不想追問你們之前的事。你收下信就行了。”

依言低頭好一會兒又抬起來：“你回去以後，能不能替我瞞着他？”

“為什麼？”

“我不想讓他以為我是壞女人耍他。其實我心裡是喜歡他的。我也很矛盾。”

“這些和我沒關係。”

“求你了……我是真的喜歡他。”

老刀沉默了一會兒，他需要做一個決定。

“可是你還是結婚了？”他問她。

“吳聞對我很好。好幾年了。”依言說，“他認識我爸媽。我們訂婚也很久了。況且……我比秦天大三歲，我怕他不能接受。秦天以為我是實習生。這點也是我不好，我沒說實話。最開始只是隨口說的，到後來就沒法改口了。我真的沒想到他是認真的。”

依言慢慢透露了她的信息。她是這個銀行的總裁助理，已經工作兩年多了，只是被派往聯合國參加培訓，趕上那次會議，就幫忙參與了組織。她不需要上班，老公掙的錢足夠多，可她不希望總是一個人呆在家裡，才出來上班，每天只工作半天，拿半薪。其餘的時間自己安排，可以學一些東西。她喜歡學新東西，喜歡認識新人，也喜歡聯合國培訓的那幾個月。她說像她這樣的太太很多，半職工作也很多。中午她下了班，下午會有另一個太太去做助理。她說雖然對秦天沒有說實話，可是她的心是真誠的。

“所以，”她給老刀夾了新上來的熱菜，“你能不能暫時不告訴他？等我……有機會親自向他解釋可以嗎？”

老刀沒有動筷子。他很餓，可是他覺得這時不能吃。

“可是這等於說我也得撒謊。”老刀說。

依言回身將小包打開，將錢包取出來，掏出五張一萬塊的紙幣推給老刀。“一點心意，你收下。”

老刀愣住了。他從來沒見過一萬塊錢的紙鈔。他生活里從來不需要花這麼大的面額。他不自覺地站起身，感到惱怒。依言推出錢的樣子就像是早預料到他會訛詐，這讓他受不了。他覺得自己如果拿了，就是接受賄賂，將秦天出賣。雖然他和秦天並沒有任何結盟關係，但他覺得自己在背叛他。老刀很希望自己這個時候能將錢扔在地上，轉身離去，可是他做不到這一步。他又看了幾眼那幾張錢，五張薄薄的紙散開攤在桌子上，像一把破扇子。他能感覺它們在他體內產生的力量。它們是淡藍色，和一千塊的褐色與一百塊的紅色都不一樣，顯得更加幽深遙遠，像是一種挑逗。他幾次想再看一眼就離開，可是一直沒做到。

她仍然匆匆翻動小包，前前後後都翻了，最後從一個內袋裡又拿出五萬塊，和剛才的錢擺在一起。“我只帶了這麼多，你都收下吧。”她說，“你幫幫我。其實我之所以不想告訴他，也是不確定以後會怎麼樣。也許我有一天真的會有勇氣和他在一起呢。”

老刀看看那十張紙幣，又看看她。他覺得她並不相信自己的話，她的聲音充滿遲疑，出賣了她的心。她只是將一切都推到將來，以消解此時此刻的難堪。她很可能不會和秦天私奔，可是也不想讓他討厭她，於是留着可能性，讓自己好過一點。老刀能看出她騙她自己，可是他也想騙自己。他對自己說，他對秦天沒有任何義務，秦天只是委託他送信，他把信送到了，現在這筆錢是另一項委託，保守秘密的委託。他又對自己說，也許她和秦天將來真的能在一起也說不定，那樣就是成人之美。他還說，想想糖糖，為什麼去管別人的事而不管糖糖呢。他似乎安定了一些，手指不知不覺觸到了錢的邊緣。

“這錢……太多了。”他給自己一個台階下，“我不能拿這麼多。”

“拿着吧，沒事。”她把錢塞到他手裡，“我一個禮拜就掙出來了。沒事的。”

“……那我怎麼跟他說？”

“你就說我現在不能和他在一起，但是我真的喜歡他。我給你寫個字條，你幫我帶給他。”依言從包里找出一個畫着孔雀繡着金邊的小本子，輕盈地撕下一張紙，低頭寫字。她的字看上去像傾斜的蘆葦。

最後，老刀離開餐廳的時候，又回頭看了一眼。依言的眼睛注視着牆上的一幅畫。她的姿態靜默優雅，看上去就像永遠都不會離開這裡似的。

他用手捏了捏褲子口袋裡的紙幣。他討厭自己，可是他想把紙幣抓牢。

（4）

老刀從西單出來，依原路返回。重新走早上的路，他覺得倦意叢生，一步也跑不動了。寬闊的步行街兩側是一排垂柳和一排梧桐，正是晚春，都是鮮亮的綠色。他讓暖意叢生的午後陽光照亮僵硬的面孔，也照亮空乏的心底。
他回到早上離開的園子，赫然發現園子裡來往的人很多。園子外面兩排銀杏樹莊嚴茂盛。園門口有黑色小汽車駛入。園裡的人多半穿着材質順滑、剪裁合體的西裝，也有穿黑色中式正裝的，看上去都有一番眼高於頂的氣質。也有外國人。他們有的正在和身邊人討論什麼，有的遠遠地相互打招呼，笑着攜手向前走。
老刀猶豫了一下要到哪裡去，街上人很少，他一個人站着極為顯眼，去公共場所又容易被注意，他很想回到園子裡，早一點找到轉換地，到一個沒人的角落睡上一覺。他太困了，又不敢在街上睡。他見出入園子的車輛並無停滯，就也嘗試着向里走。直到走到園門邊上，他才發現有兩個小機器人左右逡巡。其他人和車走過都毫無問題，到了老刀這裡，小機器人忽然發出嘀嘀的叫聲，轉着輪子向他駛來。聲音在寧靜的午後顯得刺耳。園裡人的目光匯集到他身上。他慌了，不知道是不是自己的襯衫太寒酸。他嘗試着低聲對小機器人說話，說他的西裝落在裡面了，可是小機器人只是嘀嘀嗒嗒地叫着，頭頂紅燈閃爍，什麼都不聽。園裡的人們停下腳步看着他，像是看到小偷或奇怪的人。很快，從最近的建築中走出三個男人，步履匆匆地向他們跑過來。老刀緊張極了，他想退出去，已經太晚了。
“出什麼事了？”領頭的人高聲詢問着。
老刀想不出解釋的話，手下意識地搓着褲子。
一個三十幾歲的男人走在最前面，一到跟前就用一個紐扣一樣的小銀盤上上下下地晃，手的軌跡圍繞着老刀。他用懷疑的眼神打量他，像用罐頭刀試圖撬開他的外殼。
“沒記錄。”男人將手中的小銀盤向身後更年長的男人示意，“帶回去吧？”
老刀突然向後跑，向園外跑。
可沒等他跑出去，兩個小機器人悄無聲息擋在他面前，扣住他的小腿。它們的手臂是箍，輕輕一扣就合上。他一下子踉蹌了，差點摔倒又摔不倒，手臂在空中無力的亂劃。
“跑什麼？”年輕男人更嚴厲地走到他面前，瞪着他的眼睛。
“我……”老刀頭腦嗡嗡響。
兩個小機器人將他的兩條小腿扣緊，抬起，放在它們輪子邊上的平台上，然後異常同步地向最近的房子駛去，平穩迅速，保持並肩，從遠處看上去，或許會以為老刀腳踩風火輪。老刀毫無辦法，除了心裡暗喊一聲糟糕，簡直沒有別的話說。他懊惱自己如此大意，人這麼多的地方，怎麼可能沒有安全保障。他責怪自己是睏倦得昏了頭，竟然在這樣大的安全關節上犯如此低級的錯誤。這下一切完蛋了，他想，錢都沒了，還要坐牢。
小機器人從小路繞向建筑後門，在後門的門廊里停下來。三個男人跟了上來。年輕男人和年長男人似乎就老刀的處理問題起了爭執，但他們的聲音很低，老刀聽不見。片刻之後，年長男人走到他身邊，將小機器人解鎖，然後拉着他的大臂走上二樓。
老刀嘆了一口氣，橫下一條心，覺得事到如今，只好認命。
年長者帶他進入一個房間。他發現這是一個旅館房間，非常大，比秦天的公寓客廳還大，似乎有自己租的房子兩倍大。房間的色調是暗沉的金褐色，一張極寬大的雙人床擺在中央。床頭背後的牆面上是顏色過渡的抽象圖案，落地窗，白色半透明紗簾，窗前是一個小圓桌和兩張沙發。他心裡惴惴。不知道年長者的身份和態度。
“坐吧，坐吧。”年長者拍拍他肩膀，笑笑，“沒事了。”
老刀狐疑地看着他。
“你是第三空間來的吧？”年長者把他拉到沙發邊上，伸手示意。
“您怎麼知道？”老刀無法撒謊。
“從你褲子上。”年長者用手指指他的褲腰，“你那商標還沒剪呢。這牌子只有第三空間有賣的。我小時候我媽就喜歡給我爸買這牌子。”
“您是……”
“別您您的，叫你吧。我估摸着我也比你大不了幾歲。你今年多大？我五十二。……你看看，就比你大四歲。”他頓了一下，又說，“我叫葛大平，你叫我老葛吧。”
老刀放鬆了些。老葛把西裝脫了，活動了一下膀子，從牆壁里接了一杯熱水，遞給老刀。他長長的臉，眼角眉梢和兩頰都有些下墜，戴一副眼鏡，也向下耷拉着，頭髮有點自來卷，蓬鬆地堆在頭頂，說起話來眉毛一跳一跳，很有喜劇效果。他自己泡了點茶，問老刀要不要，老刀搖搖頭。
“我原來也是第三空間的。咱也算半個老鄉吧。”老葛說，“所以不用太拘束。我還是能管點事兒，不會把你送出去的。”
老刀長長地出了口氣，心裡感嘆萬幸。他於是把自己到第二、第一空間的始末講了一遍，略去依言感情的細節，只說送到了信，就等着回去。
老葛於是也不見外，把他自己的情況講了。他從小也在第三空間長大，父母都給人送貨。十五歲的時候考上了軍校，後來一直當兵，文化兵，研究雷達，能吃苦，技術又做得不錯，趕上機遇又好，居然升到了雷達部門主管，大校軍銜。家裡沒背景不可能再升，就申請轉業，到了第一空間一個支持性部門，專給政府企業做後勤保障，組織會議出行，安排各種場面。雖然是藍領的活兒，但因為涉及的都是政要，又要協調管理，就一直住在第一空間。這種人也不少，廚師、大夫、秘書、管家，都算是高級藍領了。他們這個機構安排過很多重大場合，老葛現在是主任。老刀知道，老葛說的謙虛，說是藍領，其實能在第一空間做事的都是牛人，即使廚師也不簡單，更何況他從第三空間上來，能管雷達。
“你在這兒睡一會兒。待會兒晚上我帶你吃飯去。”老葛說。
老刀受寵若驚，不大相信自己的好運。他心裡還有擔心，但是白色的床單和錯落堆積的枕頭顯出召喚氣息，他的腿立刻發軟了，倒頭昏昏沉沉睡了幾個小時。
醒來的時候天色暗了，老葛正對着鏡子捋頭髮。他向老刀指了指沙發上的一套西裝制服，讓他換上，又給他胸口別上一個微微閃着紅光的小徽章，身份認證。
下樓來，老刀發現原來這裡有這麼多人。似乎剛剛散會，在大廳里聚集三三兩兩說話。大廳一側是會場，門還開着，門看上去很厚，包着紅褐色皮子；另一側是一個一個鋪着白色桌布的高腳桌，桌布在桌面下用金色緞帶打了蝴蝶結，桌中央的小花瓶插着一隻百合，花瓶旁邊擺着餅乾和乾果，一旁的長桌上則有紅酒和咖啡供應。聊天的人們在高腳桌之間穿梭，小機器人頭頂托盤，收拾喝光的酒杯。
老刀儘量鎮定地跟着老葛。走到會場內，他忽然看到一面巨大的展示牌，上面寫着：
摺疊城市五十年。
“這是……什麼？”他問老葛。
“哦，慶典啊。”老葛正在監督場內布置，“小趙，你來一下，你去把桌簽再核對一遍。機器人有時候還是不如人靠譜，它們認死理兒。”
老刀看到，會場裡現在是晚宴的布置，每張大圓桌上都擺着鮮艷的花朵。
他有一種恍惚的感覺，站在角落裡，看着會場中央巨大的吊燈，像是被某種光芒四射的現實籠罩，卻只存在在它的邊緣。舞台中央是演講的高台，背後的布景流動播映着北京城的畫面。大概是航拍，拍到了全城的風景，清晨和日暮的光影，紫紅色暗藍色天空，雲層快速流轉，月亮從角落上升起，太陽在屋檐上沉落。大氣中正的布局，沿中軸線對稱的城市設計，延伸到六環的青磚院落和大面積綠地花園。中式風格的劇院，日本式美術館，極簡主義風格的音樂廳建築群。然後是城市的全景，真正意義上的全景，包含轉換的整個城市雙面鏡頭：大地翻轉，另一面城市，邊角銳利的寫字樓，朝氣蓬勃的上班族；夜晚的霓虹，白晝一樣的天空，高聳入雲的公租房，影院和舞廳的娛樂。
只是沒有老刀上班的地方。
他仔細地盯着屏幕，不知道其中會不會展示建城時的歷史。他希望能看見父親的時代。小時候父親總是用手指着窗外的樓，說“當時我們”。狹小的房間正中央掛着陳舊的照片，照片裡的父親重複着壘磚的動作，一遍一遍無窮無盡。他那時每天都要看見那照片很多遍，幾乎已經膩煩了，可是這時他希望影像中出現哪怕一小段壘磚的鏡頭。
他沉浸在自己的恍惚中。這也是他第一次看到轉換的全景。他幾乎沒注意到自己是怎麼坐下的，也沒注意到周圍人的落座，台上人講話的前幾分鐘，他並沒有注意聽。
“……有利於服務業的發展，服務業依賴於人口規模和密度。我們現在的城市服務業已經占到GDP85%以上，符合世界第一流都市的普遍特徵。另外最重要的就是綠色經濟和循環經濟。”這句話抓住了老刀的注意力，循環經濟和綠色經濟是他們工作站的口號，寫得比人還大貼在牆上。他望向台上的演講人，是個白髮老人，但是精神顯得異常飽滿，“……通過垃圾的完全分類處理，我們提前實現了本世紀節能減排的目標，減少污染，也發展出成體系成規模的循環經濟，每年廢舊電子產品中回收的貴金屬已經完全投入再生產，塑料的回收率也已達到80%以上。回收直接與再加工工廠相連……”
老刀有遠親在再加工工廠工作，在科技園區，遠離城市，只有工廠和工廠和工廠。據說那邊的工廠都差不多，機器自動作業，工人很少，少量工人晚上聚集着，就像荒野部落。
他仍然恍惚着。演講結束之後，熱烈的掌聲響起，才將他從自己的紛亂念頭中拉出來，他也跟着鼓了掌，雖然不知道為什麼。他看到演講人從舞台上走下來，回到主桌上正中間的座位。所有人的目光都跟着他。
忽然老刀看到了吳聞。
吳聞坐在主桌旁邊一桌，見演講人回來就起身去敬酒，然後似乎有什麼話要問演講人。演講人又站起身，跟吳聞一起到大廳里。老刀不自覺地站起來，心裡充滿好奇，也跟着他們。老葛不知道到哪裡去了，周圍開始上菜。
老刀到了大廳，遠遠地觀望，對話只能聽見片段。
“……批這個有很多好處。”吳聞說，“是，我看過他們的設備了……自動化處理垃圾，用溶液消解，大規模提取材質……清潔，成本也低……您能不能考慮一下？”
吳聞的聲音不高，但老刀清楚地聽見“處理垃圾”的字眼，不由自主湊上前去。
白髮老人的表情相當複雜，他等吳聞說完，過了一會兒才問：“你確定溶液無污染？”
吳聞有點猶豫：“現在還是有一點……不過很快就能減低到最低。”
老刀離得很近了。
白髮老人搖了搖頭，眼睛盯着吳聞：“事情哪是那麼簡單的，你這個項目要是上馬了，大規模一改造，又不需要工人，現在那些勞動力怎麼辦，上千萬垃圾工失業怎麼辦？”
白髮老人說完轉過身，又返回會場。吳聞呆愣愣地站在原地。一個從始至終跟着老人的秘書模樣的人走到吳聞身旁，同情地說：“您回去好好吃飯吧。別想了。其實您應該明白這道理，就業的事是頂天的事。您以為這種技術以前就沒人做嗎？”
老刀能聽出這是與他有關的事，但他摸不准怎樣是好的。吳聞的臉顯出一種迷惑、懊惱而又順從的神情，老刀忽然覺得，他也有軟弱的地方。
這時，白髮老人的秘書忽然注意到老刀。
“你是新來的？”他突然問。
“啊……嗯。”老刀嚇了一跳。
“叫什麼名字？我怎麼不知道最近進人了。”
老刀有些慌，心砰砰跳，他不知道該說些什麼。他指了指胸口上別着的工作人員徽章，仿佛期望那上面有個名字浮現出來。但徽章上什麼都沒有。他的手心湧出汗。秘書看着他，眼中的懷疑更甚了。他隨手拉着一個會務人員，那人說不認識老刀。
秘書的臉鐵青着，一隻手抓住老刀的手臂，另一隻手撥了通訊器。
老刀的心提到嗓子眼，就在那一剎那，他看到了老葛的身影。
老葛一邊匆匆跑過來，一邊按下通訊器，笑着和秘書打招呼，點頭彎腰，向秘書解釋說這是臨時從其他單位借調過來的同事，開會人手不夠，臨時幫忙的。秘書見老葛知情，也就不再追究，返回會場。老葛將老刀又帶回自己的房間，免得再被人撞見查檢。深究起來沒有身份認證，老葛也做不得主。
“沒有吃席的命啊。”老葛笑道，“你等着吧，待會兒我給你弄點吃的回來。”
老刀躺在床上，又迷迷糊糊睡了。他反覆想着吳聞和白髮老人說的話，自動垃圾處理，這是什麼樣的呢，如果真的這樣，是好還是不好呢。
再次醒來時，老刀聞到一碟子香味，老葛已經在小圓桌上擺了幾碟子菜，還正在從牆上的烤箱中把剩下一個菜端出來。老葛又拿來半瓶白酒和兩個玻璃杯，倒上。
“有一桌就坐了倆人，我把沒怎麼動過的菜弄了點回來，你湊合吃，別嫌棄就行。他們吃了一會兒就走了。”老葛說。
“哪兒能嫌棄呢。”老刀說，“有口吃的就感激不盡了。這麼好的菜。這些菜很貴吧？”
“這兒的菜不對外，所以都不標價。我也不知道多少錢。”老葛已經開動了筷子，“也就一般吧。估計一兩萬之間，個別貴一點可能三四萬。就那麼回事。”
老刀吃了兩口就真的覺得餓了。他有抗飢餓的辦法，忍上一天不吃東西也可以，身體會有些顫抖發飄，但精神不受影響。直到這時，他才發覺自己的飢餓。他只想快點咀嚼，牙齒的速度趕不上胃口空虛的速度。吃得急了，就喝一口。這白酒很香，不辣。老葛慢悠悠的，微笑着看着他。
“對了，”老刀吃得半飽時，想起剛才的事，“今天那個演講人是誰？我看着很面熟。”
“也總上電視嘛。”老葛說，“我們的頂頭上司。很厲害的老頭兒。他可是管實事兒的，城市運作的事兒都歸他管。”
“他們今天說起垃圾自動處理的事兒。你說以後會改造嗎？”
“這事兒啊，不好說，”老葛砸了口酒，打了個嗝，“我看夠嗆。關鍵是，你得知道當初為啥弄人工處理。其實當初的情況就跟歐洲二十世紀末差不多，經濟發展，但失業率上升，印錢也不管用，菲利普斯曲線不符合。”
他看老刀一臉茫然，呵呵笑了起來：“算了，這些東西你也不懂。”
他跟老刀碰了碰杯子，兩人一齊喝了又斟上。
“反正就說失業吧，這你肯定懂。”老葛接着說，“人工成本往上漲，機器成本往下降，到一定時候就是機器便宜，生產力一改造，升級了，GDP上去了，失業也上去了。怎麼辦？政策保護？福利？越保護工廠越不僱人。你現在上城外看看，那幾公里的廠區就沒幾個人。農場不也是嗎。大農場一搞幾千畝地，全設備耕種，根本要不了幾個人。咱們當時怎麼搞過歐美的，不就是這麼規模化搞的嗎。但問題是，地都騰出來了，人都省出來了，這些人幹嘛去呢。歐洲那邊是強行減少每人工作時間，增加就業機會，可是這樣沒活力你明白嗎。最好的辦法是徹底減少一些人的生活時間，再給他們找到活兒干。你明白了吧？就是塞到夜裡。這樣還有一個好處，就是每次通貨膨脹幾乎傳不到底層去，印鈔票、花鈔票都是能貸款的人消化了，GDP漲了，底下的物價卻不漲。人們根本不知道。”
老刀聽得似懂非懂，但是老葛的話里有一股涼意，他還是能聽出來的。老葛還是嬉笑的腔調，但與其說是嬉笑，倒不如說是不願意讓自己的語氣太直白而故意如此。
“這話說着有點冷。”老葛自己也承認，“可就是這麼回事。我也不是住在這兒了就說話向着這兒。只是這麼多年過來，人就木了，好多事兒沒法改變，也只當那麼回事了。”
老刀有點明白老葛的意思了，可他不知道該說什麼好。
兩人都有點醉。他們趁着醉意，聊了不少以前的事，聊小時候吃的東西，學校的打架。老葛最喜歡吃酸辣粉和臭豆腐，在第一空間這麼久都吃不到，心裡想得痒痒。老葛說起自己的父母，他們還在第三空間，他也不能總回去，每次回去都要打報告申請，實在不太方便。他說第三空間和第一空間之間有官方通道，有不少特殊的人也總是在其中往來。他希望老刀幫他帶點東西回去，彌補一下他自己虧欠的心。老刀講了他孤獨的少年時光。
昏黃的燈光中，老刀想起過去。一個人遊蕩在垃圾場邊緣的所有時光。
不知不覺已經是深夜。老葛還要去看一下夜裡會場的安置，就又帶老刀下樓。樓下還有未結束的舞會末尾，三三兩兩男女正從舞廳中走出。老葛說企業家大半精力旺盛，經常跳舞到凌晨。散場的舞廳器物凌亂，像女人卸了妝。老葛看着小機器人在狼藉中一一收拾，笑稱這是第一空間唯一真實的片刻。
老刀看了看時間，還有三個小時轉換。他收拾了一下心情，該走了。

（5）
白髮演講人在晚宴之後回到自己的辦公室，處理了一些文件，又和歐洲進行了視頻通話。十二點感覺疲勞，摘下眼鏡揉了揉鼻梁兩側，準備回家。他經常工作到午夜。
電話突然響了，他按下耳機。是秘書。
大會研究組出了狀況。之前印好的大會宣言中有一個數據之前計算結果有誤，白天突然有人發現。宣言在會議第二天要向世界宣讀，因而會議組請示要不要把宣言重新印刷。白髮老人當即批准。這是大事，不能有誤。他問是誰負責此事，秘書說，是吳聞主任。
他靠在沙發上小睡。清晨四點，電話又響了。印刷有點慢，預計還要一個小時。
他起身望向窗外。夜深人靜，漆黑的夜空能看到靜謐的獵戶座亮星。
獵戶座亮星映在鏡面般的湖水中。老刀坐在湖水邊上，等待轉換來臨。
他看着夜色中的園林，猜想這可能是自己最後一次看這片風景。他並不憂傷留戀，這裡雖然靜美，可是和他沒關係，他並不欽羨嫉妒。他只是很想記住這段經歷。夜裡燈光很少，比第三空間遍布的霓虹燈少很多，建築散發着沉睡的呼吸，幽靜安寧。
清晨五點，秘書打電話說，材料印好了，還沒出車間，問是否人為推遲轉換的時間。
白髮老人斬釘截鐵地說，廢話，當然推遲。
清晨五點四十分，印刷品抵達會場，但還需要分裝在三千個會議夾子中。
老刀看到了依稀的晨光，這個季節六點還沒有天亮，但已經能看到蒙蒙曙光。
他做好了一切準備，反覆看手機上的時間。有一點奇怪，已經只有一兩分鐘到六點了，還是沒有任何動靜。他猜想也許第一空間的轉換更平穩順滑。
清晨六點十分，分裝結束。
白髮老人鬆了一口氣，下令轉換開始。
老刀發現地面終於動了，他站起身，活動了一下有點麻木的手腳，小心翼翼來到邊緣。土地的縫隙開始拉大，縫隙兩邊同時向上掀起。他沿着其中一邊往截面上移動，背身挪移，先用腳試探着，手扶住地面退行。大地開始翻轉。
六點二十分，秘書打來緊急電話，說吳聞主任不小心將存着重要文件的數據key遺忘在會場，擔心會被機器人清理，需要立即取回。
白髮老人有點惱怒，但也只好令轉換停止，恢復原狀。
老刀在截面上正慢慢挪移，忽然感覺土地的移動停止了，接着開始調轉方向，已錯開的土地開始合攏。他嚇了一跳，連忙向回攀爬。他害怕滾落，手腳並用，異常小心。
土地回歸的速度比他想象的快，就在他爬到地表的時候，土地合攏了，他的一條小腿被兩塊土地夾在中間，儘管是泥土，不足以切筋斷骨，但力量十足，他試了幾次也無法脫出。他心裡大叫糟糕，頭頂因為焦急和疼痛滲出汗水。他不知道是否被人發現了。
老刀趴在地上，靜聽着周圍的聲音。他似乎聽到匆匆接近的腳步聲。他想象着很快就有警察過來，將他抓起來，夾住的小腿會被砍斷，帶着瘡口扔到監牢裡。他不知道自己是什麼時候暴露了身份。他伏在青草覆蓋的泥土上，感覺到晨露的冰涼。濕氣從領口和袖口透入他的身體，讓他覺得清醒，卻又忍不住戰慄。他默數着時間，期盼這只是技術故障。他設想着自己如果被抓住了該說些什麼。也許他該交待自己二十八年工作的勤懇誠實，賺一點同情分。他不知道自己會不會被審判。命運在前方逼人不已。
命運直抵胸膛。回想這四十八小時的全部經歷，最讓他印象深刻的是最後一晚老葛說過的話。他覺得自己似乎接近了些許真相，因而見到命運的輪廓。可是那輪廓太遠，太冷靜，太遙不可及。他不知道了解一切有什麼意義，如果只是看清楚一些事情，卻不能改變，又有什麼意義。他連看都還無法看清，命運對他就像偶爾顯出形狀的雲朵，倏忽之間又看不到了。他知道自己仍然是數字。在5128萬這個數字中，他只是最普通的一個。如果偏生是那128萬中的一個，還會被四捨五入，就像從來沒存在過，連塵土都不算。他抓住地上的草。
六點三十分，吳聞取回數據key。六點四十分，吳聞回到房間。
六點四十五分，白髮老人終於疲倦地倒在辦公室的小床上。指令已經按下，世界的齒輪開始緩緩運轉。書桌和茶几表面伸出透明的塑料蓋子，將一切物品罩住並固定。小床散發出催眠氣體，四周立起圍欄，然後從地面脫離，地面翻轉，床像一隻籃子始終保持水平。
轉換重新啟動了。
老刀在三十分鐘的絕望之後突然看到生機。大地又動了起來。他在第一時間拼盡力氣將小腿抽離出來，在土地掀起足夠高度的時候重新回到截面上。他更小心地撤退。血液復甦的小腿開始刺癢疼痛，如百爪撓心，幾次讓他摔倒，疼得無法忍受，只好用牙齒咬住拳頭。他摔倒爬起，又摔倒又爬起，在角度飛速變化的土地截面上維持艱難地平衡。
他不記得自己怎麼拖着腿上樓，只記得秦天開門時，他昏了過去。

在第二空間，老刀睡了十個小時。秦天找同學來幫他處理了腿傷。肌肉和軟組織大面積受損，很長一段時間會妨礙走路，但所幸骨頭沒斷。他醒來後將依言的信交給秦天，看秦天幸福而又失落的樣子，什麼話也沒有說。他知道，秦天會沉浸距離的期冀中很長時間。

再回到第三空間，他感覺像是已經走了一個月。城市仍然在緩慢甦醒，城市居民只過了平常的一場睡眠，和前一天連續。不會有人發現老刀的離開。
他在步行街營業的第一時間坐到塑料桌旁，要了一盤炒麵，生平第一次加了一份肉絲。只是一次而已，他想，可以犒勞一下自己。然後他去了老葛家，將老葛給父母的兩盒藥帶給他們。兩位老人都已經不大能走動了，一個木訥的小姑娘住在家裡看護他們。
他拖着傷腿緩緩踱回自己租的房子。樓道里喧擾嘈雜，充滿剛睡醒時洗漱沖廁所和吵鬧的聲音，蓬亂的頭髮和亂敞的睡衣在門裡門外穿梭。他等了很久電梯，剛上樓就聽見爭吵。他仔細一看，是隔壁的女孩闌闌和阿貝在和收租的老太太爭吵。整棟樓是公租房，但是社區有統一收租的代理人，每棟樓又有分包，甚至每層有單獨的收租人。老太太也是老住戶了，兒子不知道跑到哪裡去了，她長得瘦又干，單獨一個人住着，房門總是關閉，不和人來往。闌闌和阿貝在這一層算是新人，兩個賣衣服的女孩子。阿貝的聲音很高，闌闌拉着她，阿貝搶白了闌闌幾句，闌闌倒哭了。
“咱們都是按合同來的哦。”老太太用手戳着牆壁上屏幕里滾動的條文，“我這個人從不撒謊唉。你們知不知道什麼是合同咧？秋冬加收10%取暖費，合同里寫得清清楚楚唉。”
“憑什麼啊？憑什麼？”阿貝揚着下巴，一邊狠狠地梳着頭髮，“你以為你那點小貓膩我們不知道？我們上班時你全把空調關了，最後你這按電費交錢，我們這給你白交供暖費。你蒙誰啊你！每天下班回來這屋裡冷得跟冰一樣。你以為我們新來的好欺負嗎？”
阿貝的聲音尖而脆，劃得空氣道道裂痕。老刀看着阿貝的臉，年輕、飽滿而意氣的臉，很漂亮。她和闌闌幫他很多，他不在家的時候，她們經常幫他照看糖糖，也會給他熬點粥。他忽然想讓阿貝不要吵了，忘了這些細節，只是不要吵了。他想告訴她女孩子應該安安靜靜坐着，讓裙子蓋住膝蓋，微微一笑露出好看的牙齒，輕聲說話，那樣才有人愛。可是他知道她們需要的不是這些。
他從衣服的內襯掏出一張一萬塊的鈔票，虛弱地遞給老太太。老太太目瞪口呆，阿貝、闌闌看得傻了。他不想解釋，擺擺手回到自己的房間。
搖籃里，糖糖剛剛睡醒，正迷糊着揉眼睛。他看着糖糖的臉，疲倦了一天的心軟下來。他想起最初在垃圾站門口抱起糖糖時，她那張髒兮兮的哭累了的小臉。他從沒後悔將她抱來。她笑了，吧唧了一下小嘴。他覺得自己還是幸運的。儘管傷了腿，但畢竟沒被抓住，還帶了錢回來。他不知道糖糖什麼時候才能學會唱歌跳舞，成為一個淑女。
他看看時間，該去上班了。

         Folding  Beijing

              BY HAO JINGFANG, TRANSLATED BY KEN LIU

1.

At ten of five in the morning, Lao Dao crossed the busy pedestrian lane on his way to find Peng Li.

After the end of his shift at the waste processing station, Lao Dao had gone home, first to shower and then to change. He was wearing a white shirt and a pair of brown pants—the only decent clothes he owned. The shirt’s cuffs were frayed, so he rolled them up to his elbows. Lao Dao was forty–eight, single, and long past the age when he still took care of his appearance. As he had no one to pester him about the domestic details, he had simply kept this outfit for years. Every time he wore it, he’d come home afterward, take off the shirt and pants, and fold them up neatly to put away. Working at the waste processing station meant there were few occasions that called for the outfit, save a wedding now and then for a friend’s son or daughter.

Today, however, he was apprehensive about meeting strangers without looking at least somewhat respectable. After five hours at the waste processing station, he also had misgivings about how he smelled.

People who had just gotten off work filled the road. Men and women crowded every street vendor, picking through local produce and bargaining loudly. Customers packed the plastic tables at the food hawker stalls, which were immersed in the aroma of frying oil. They ate heartily with their faces buried in bowls of hot and sour rice noodles, their heads hidden by clouds of white steam. Other stands featured mountains of jujubes and walnuts, and hunks of cured meat swung overhead. This was the busiest hour of the day—work was over, and everyone was hungry and loud.

Lao Dao squeezed through the crowd slowly. A waiter carrying dishes shouted and pushed his way through the throng. Lao Dao followed close behind.

Peng Li lived some ways down the lane. Lao Dao climbed the stairs but Peng wasn’t home. A neighbor said that Peng usually didn’t return until right before market closing time, but she didn’t know exactly when.

Lao Dao became anxious. He glanced down at his watch: Almost 5:00 AM.

He went back downstairs to wait at the entrance of the apartment building. A group of hungry teenagers squatted around him, devouring their food. He recognized two of them because he remembered meeting them a couple of times at Peng Li’s home. Each kid had a plate of chow mein or chow fun, and they shared two dishes family–style. The dishes were a mess while pairs of chopsticks continued to search for elusive, overlooked bits of meat amongst the chopped peppers. Lao Dao sniffed his forearms again to be sure that the stench of garbage was off of him. The noisy, quotidian chaos around him assured him with its familiarity.

“Listen, do you know how much they charge for an order of twice–cooked pork over there?” a boy named Li asked.

“Fuck! I just bit into some sand,” a heavyset kid named Ding said while covering his mouth with one hand, which had very dirty fingernails. “We need to get our money back from the vendor!”

Li ignored him. “Three hundred and forty yuan!” said Li. “You hear that? Three forty! For twice–cooked pork! And for boiled beef? Four hundred and twenty!”

“How could the prices be so expensive?” Ding mumbled as he clutched his cheek. “What do they put in there?”

The other two youths weren’t interested in the conversation and concentrated on shoveling food from the plate into the mouth. Li watched them, and his yearning gaze seemed to go through them and focus on something beyond.

Lao Dao’s stomach growled. He quickly averted his eyes, but it was too late. His empty stomach felt like an abyss that made his body tremble. It had been a month since he last had a morning meal. He used to spend about a hundred each day on this meal, which translated to three thousand for the month. If he could stick to his plan for a whole year, he’d be able to save enough to afford two months of tuition for Tangtang’s kindergarten.

He looked into the distance: The trucks of the city cleaning crew were approaching slowly.

He began to steel himself. If Peng Li didn’t return in time, he would have to go on this journey without consulting him. Although it would make the trip far more difficult and dangerous, time was of the essence and he had to go. The loud chants of the woman next to him hawking her jujube interrupted his thoughts and gave him a headache. The peddlers at the other end of the road began to pack up their wares, and the crowd, like fish in a pond disturbed by a stick, dispersed. No one was interested in fighting the city cleaning crew. As the vendors got out of the way, the cleaning trucks patiently advanced. Vehicles were normally not allowed in the pedestrian lane, but the cleaning trucks were an exception. Anybody who dilly–dallied would be packed up by force.

Finally, Peng Li appeared: His shirt unbuttoned, a toothpick dangling between his lips, strolling leisurely and burping from time to time. Now in his sixties, Peng had become lazy and slovenly. His cheeks drooped like the jowls of a Shar–Pei, giving him the appearance of being perpetually grumpy. Looking at him now, one might get the impression that he was a loser whose only ambition in life was a full belly. However, even as a child, Lao Dao had heard his father recounting Peng Li’s exploits when he had been a young man.

Lao Dao went up to meet Peng in the street. Before Peng Li could greet him, Lao Dao blurted out, “I don’t have time to explain, but I need to get to First Space. Can you tell me how?”

Peng Li was stunned. It had been ten years since anyone brought up First Space with him. He held the remnant of the toothpick in his fingers—it had broken between his teeth without his being aware of it. For some seconds, he said nothing, but then he saw the anxiety on Lao Dao’s face and dragged him toward the apartment building. “Come into my place and let’s talk. You have to start from there anyway to get to where you want to go.”

The city cleaning crew was almost upon them, and the crowd scattered like autumn leaves in a wind. “Go home! Go home! The Change is about to start,” someone called from atop one of the trucks.

Peng Li took Lao Dao upstairs into his apartment. His ordinary, single–occupancy public housing unit was sparsely furnished: Six square meters in area, a washroom, a cooking corner, a table and a chair, a cocoon–bed equipped with storage drawers underneath for clothes and miscellaneous items. The walls were covered with water stains and footprints, bare save for a few haphazardly installed hooks for jackets, pants, and linens. Once he entered, Peng took all the clothes and towels off the wall–hooks and stuffed them into one of the drawers. During the Change, nothing was supposed to be unsecured. Lao Dao had once lived in a single–occupancy unit just like this one. As soon as he entered, he felt the flavor of the past hanging in the air.

Peng Li glared at Lao Dao. “I’m not going to show you the way unless you tell me why.”

It was already five thirty. Lao Dao had only half an hour left.

Lao Dao gave him the bare outlines of the story: Picking up the bottle with a message inside; hiding in the trash chute; being entrusted with the errand in Second Space; making his decision and coming here for guidance. He had so little time that he had to leave right away.

“You hid in the trash chutes last night to sneak into Second Space?” Peng Li frowned. “That means you had to wait twenty–four hours!”

“For two hundred thousand yuan?” Lao Dao said, “Even hiding for a week would be worth it.”

“I didn’t know you were so short on money.”

Lao Dao was silent for a moment. “Tangtang is going to be old enough for kindergarten in a year. I’ve run out of time.”

Lao Dao’s research on kindergarten tuition had shocked him. For schools with decent reputations, the parents had to show up with their bedrolls and line up a couple of days before registration. The two parents had to take turns so that while one held their place in the line, the other could go to the bathroom or grab a bite to eat. Even after lining up for forty–plus hours, a place wasn’t guaranteed. Those with enough money had already bought up most of the openings for their offspring, so the poorer parents had to endure the line, hoping to grab one of the few remaining spots. Mind you, this was just for decent schools. The really good schools? Forget about lining up—every opportunity was sold off to those with money. Lao Dao didn’t harbor unrealistic hopes, but Tangtang had loved music since she was an eighteen–month–old. Every time she heard music in the streets, her face lit up and she twisted her little body and waved her arms about in a dance. She looked especially cute during those moments. Lao Dao was dazzled as though surrounded by stage lights. No matter how much it cost, he vowed to send Tangtang to a kindergarten that offered music and dance lessons.

Peng Li took off his shirt and washed while he spoke with Lao Dao. The “washing” consisted only of splashing some drops of water over his face because the water was already shut off and only a thin trickle came out of the faucet. Peng Li took down a dirty towel from the wall and wiped his face carelessly before stuffing the towel into a drawer as well. His moist hair gave off an oily glint.

“What are you working so hard for?” Peng Li asked. “It’s not like she’s your real daughter.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Lao Dao said. “Just tell me the way.”

Peng Li sighed. “Do you understand that if you’re caught, it’s not just a matter of paying a fine? You’re going to be locked up for months.”

“I thought you had gone there multiple times.”

“Just four times. I got caught the fifth time.”

“That’s more than enough. If I could make it four times, it would be no big deal to get caught once.”

Lao Dao’s errand required him to deliver a message to First Space—success would earn him a hundred thousand yuan, and if he managed to bring back a reply, two hundred thousand. Sure, it was illegal, but no one would be harmed, and as long as he followed the right route and method, the probability of being caught wasn’t great. And the cash, the cash was very real. He could think of no reason to not take up the offer. He knew that when Peng Li was younger, he had snuck into First Space multiple times to smuggle contraband and made quite a fortune. There was a way.

It was a quarter to six. He had to get going, now.

Peng Li sighed again. He could see it was useless to try to dissuade Lao Dao. He was old enough to feel lazy and tired of everything, but he remembered how he had felt as a younger man and he would have made the same choice as Lao Dao. Back then, he didn’t care about going to prison. What was the big deal? You lost a few months and got beaten up a few times, but the money made it worthwhile. As long as you refused to divulge the source of the money no matter how much you suffered, you could survive it. The Security Bureau’s citation was nothing more than routine enforcement.

Peng Li took Lao Dao to his back window and pointed at the narrow path hidden in the shadows below.

“Start by climbing down the drain pipe from my unit. Under the felt cloth you’ll find hidden footholds I installed back in the day—if you stick close enough to the wall, the cameras won’t see you. Once you’re on the ground, stick to the shadows and head that way until you get to the edge. You’ll feel as well as see the cleft. Follow the cleft and go north. Remember, go north.”

Then Peng Li explained the technique for entering First Space as the ground turned during the Change. He had to wait until the ground began to cleave and rise. Then, from the elevated edge, he had to swing over and scramble about fifty meters over the cross section until he reached the other side of the turning earth, climb over, and head east. There, he would find a bush that he could hold onto as the ground descended and closed up. He could then conceal himself in the bush. Before Peng had even finished his explanation, Lao Dao was already halfway out the window, getting ready to climb down.

Peng Li held onto Lao Dao and made sure his foot was securely in the first foothold. Then he stopped. “I’m going to say something that you might not want to hear. I don’t think you should go. Over there … is not so great. If you go, you’ll end up feeling your own life is shit, pointless.”

Lao Dao was reaching down with his other foot, testing for the next foothold. His body strained against the windowsill and his words came out labored. “It doesn’t matter. I already know my life is shit without having gone there.”

“Take care of yourself,” Peng Li said.

Lao Dao followed Peng Li’s directions and groped his way down as quickly as he dared; the footholds felt very secure. He looked up and saw Peng Li light up a cigarette next to the window, taking deep drags. Peng Li put out the cigarette, leaned out, and seemed about to say something more, but ultimately he retreated back into his unit quietly. He closed his window, which glowed with a faint light.

Lao Dao imagined Peng Li crawling into his cocoon–bed at the last minute, right before the Change. Like millions of others across the city, the cocoon–bed would release a soporific gas that put him into deep sleep. He would feel nothing as his body was transported by the flipping world, and he would not open his eyes again until tomorrow evening, forty–hours later. Peng Li was no longer young; he was no longer different from the other fifty million who lived in Third Space.

Lao Dao climbed faster, barely touching the footholds. When he was close enough to the ground, he let go and landed on all fours. Luckily, Peng Li’s unit was only on the fourth story, not too far up. He got up and ran through the shadow cast by the building next to the lake. He saw the crevice in the grass where the ground would open up.

But before he reached it, he heard the muffled rumbling from behind him, interrupted by a few crisp clangs. Lao Dao turned around and saw Peng Li’s building break in half. The top half folded down and pressed toward him, slowly but inexorably.

Shocked, Lao Dao stared at the sight for a few moments before recovering. He raced to the fissure in the ground, and lay prostrate next to it.

The Change began. This was a process repeated every twenty–four hours. The whole world started to turn. The sound of steel and masonry folding, grating, colliding filled the air, like an assembly line grinding to a halt. The towering buildings of the city gathered and merged into solid blocks; neon signs, shop awnings, balconies, and other protruding fixtures retracted into the buildings or flattened themselves into a thin layer against the walls, like skin. Every inch of space was utilized as the buildings compacted themselves into the smallest space.

The ground rose up. Lao Dao watched and waited until the fissure was wide enough. He crawled over the marble–lined edge onto the earthen wall, grabbing onto bits of metal protruding out of the soil. As the cleft widened and the walls elevated, he climbed, using his hands as well as feet. At first, he was climbing down, testing for purchase with his feet. But soon, as the entire section of ground rotated, he was lifted into the air, and up and down flipped around.

Lao Dao was thinking about last night.

He had cautiously stuck his head out of the trash heap, alert for any sound from the other side of the gate. The fermenting, rotting garbage around him was pungent: Greasy, fishy, even a bit sweet. He leaned against the iron gate. Outside, the world was waking up.

As soon as the yellow glow of the streetlights seeped into the seam under the lifting gate, he squatted and crawled out of the widening opening. The streets were empty; lights came on in the tall buildings, story by story; fixtures extruded from the sides of buildings, unfolding and extending, segment by segment; porches emerged from the walls; the eaves rotated and gradually dropped down into position; stairs extended and descended to the street. On both sides of the road, one black cube after another broke apart and opened, revealing the racks and shelves inside. Signboards emerged from the tops of the cubes and connected together while plastic awnings extended from both sides of the lane to meet in the middle, forming a corridor of shops. The streets were empty, as though Lao Dao were dreaming.

The neon lights came on. Tiny flashing LEDs on top of the shops formed into characters advertising jujubes from Xinjiang, lapi noodles from Northeast China, bran dough from Shanghai, and cured meats from Hunan.

For the rest of the day, Lao Dao couldn’t forget the scene. He had lived in this city for forty–eight years, but he had never seen such a sight. His days had always started with the cocoon and ended with the cocoon, and the time in between was spent at work or navigating dirty tables at hawker stalls and loudly bargaining crowds surrounding street vendors. This was the first time he had seen the world, bare.

Every morning, an observer at some distance from the city—say, a truck driver waiting on the highway into Beijing—could see the entire city fold and unfold.

At six in the morning, the truck drivers usually got out of their cabs and walked to the side of the highway, where they rubbed their eyes, still drowsy after an uncomfortable night in the truck. Yawning, they greeted each other and gazed at the distant city center. The break in the highway was just outside the Seventh Ring Road, while all the ground rotation occurred within the Sixth Ring Road. The distance was perfect for taking in the whole city, like gazing at an island in the sea.

In the early dawn, the city folded and collapsed. The skyscrapers bowed submissively like the humblest servants until their heads touched their feet; then they broke again, folded again, and twisted their necks and arms, stuffing them into the gaps. The compacted blocks that used to be the skyscrapers shuffled and assembled into dense, gigantic Rubik’s Cubes that fell into a deep slumber.

The ground then began to turn. Square by square, pieces of the earth flipped 180 degrees around an axis, revealing the buildings on the other side. The buildings unfolded and stood up, awakening like a herd of beasts under the gray–blue sky. The island that was the city settled in the orange sunlight, spread open, and stood still as misty gray clouds roiled around it.

The truck drivers, tired and hungry, admired the endless cycle of urban renewal.

 2.

The folding city was divided into three spaces. One side of the earth was First Space, population five million. Their allotted time lasted from six o’clock in the morning to six o’clock the next morning. Then the space went to sleep, and the earth flipped.

The other side was shared by Second Space and Third Space. Twenty–five million people lived in Second Space, and their allotted time lasted from six o’clock on that second day to ten o’clock at night. Fifty million people lived in Third Space, allotted the time from ten o’clock at night to six o’clock in the morning, at which point First Space returned. Time had been carefully divided and parceled out to separate the populations: Five million enjoyed the use of twenty–four hours, and seventy–five million enjoyed the next twenty–four hours.

The structures on two sides of the ground were not even in weight. To remedy the imbalance, the earth was made thicker in First Space, and extra ballast buried in the soil to make up for the missing people and buildings. The residents of First Space considered the extra soil a natural emblem of their possession of a richer, deeper heritage.

Lao Dao had lived in Third Space since birth. He understood very well the reality of his situation, even without Peng Li pointing it out. He was a waste worker; he had processed trash for twenty–eight years, and would do so for the foreseeable future. He had not found the meaning of his existence or the ultimate refuge of cynicism; instead, he continued to hold onto the humble place assigned to him in life.

Lao Dao had been born in Beijing. His father was also a waste worker. His father told him that when Lao Dao was born, his father had just gotten his job, and the family had celebrated for three whole days. His father had been a construction worker, one of millions of other construction workers who had come to Beijing from all over China in search of work. His father and others like him had built this folding city. District by district, they had transformed the old city. Like termites swarming over a wooden house, they had chewed up the wreckage of the past, overturned the earth, and constructed a brand new world. They had swung their hammers and wielded their adzes, keeping their heads down; brick by brick, they had walled themselves off until they could no longer see the sky. Dust had obscured their views, and they had not known the grandeur of their work. Finally, when the completed building stood up before them like a living person, they had scattered in terror, as though they had given birth to a monster. But after they calmed down, they realized what an honor it would be to live in such a city in the future, and so they had continued to toil diligently and docilely, to meekly seek out any opportunity to remain in the city. It was said that when the folding city was completed, more than eighty million construction workers had wanted to stay. Ultimately, no more than twenty million were allowed to settle.

It had not been easy to get a job at the waste processing station. Although the work only involved sorting trash, so many applied that stringent selection criteria had to be imposed: The desired candidates had to be strong, skillful, discerning, organized, diligent, and unafraid of the stench or difficult environment. Strong–willed, Lao Dao’s father had held fast onto the thin reed of opportunity as the tide of humanity surged and then receded around him, until he found himself a survivor on the dry beach.

His father had then kept his head down and labored away in the acidic rotten fetor of garbage and crowding for twenty years. He had built this city; he was also a resident and a decomposer.

Construction of the folding city had been completed two years before Lao Dao’s birth. He had never been anywhere else, and had never harbored the desire to go anywhere else. He finished elementary school, middle school, high school, and took the annual college entrance examination three times—failing each time. In the end, he became a waste worker, too. At the waste processing station, he worked for five hours each shift, from eleven at night to four in the morning. Together with tens of thousands of co–workers, he mechanically and quickly sorted through the trash, picking out recyclable bits from the scraps of life from First Space and Second Space and tossing them into the processing furnace. Every day, he faced the trash on the conveyer belt flowing past him like a river, and he scraped off the leftover food from plastic bowls, picked out broken glass bottles, tore off the clean, thin backing from blood–stained sanitary napkins, stuffing it into the recyclables can marked with green lines. This was their lot: to eke out a living by performing the repetitive drudgery as fast as possible, to toil hour after hour for rewards as thin as the wings of cicadas.

Twenty million waste workers lived in Third Space; they were the masters of the night. The other thirty million made a living by selling clothes, food, fuel, or insurance, but most people understood that the waste workers were the backbone of Third Space’s prosperity. Each time he strolled through the neon–bedecked night streets, Lao Dao thought he was walking under rainbows made of food scraps. He couldn’t talk about this feeling with others. The younger generation looked down on the profession of the waste worker. They tried to show off on the dance floors of nightclubs, hoping to find jobs as DJs or dancers. Even working at a clothing store seemed a better choice: their fingers would be touching thin fabric instead of scrabbling through rotting garbage for plastic or metal. The young were no longer so terrified about survival; they cared far more about appearances.

Lao Dao didn’t despise his work. But when he had gone to Second Space, he had been terrified of being despised.

The previous morning, Lao Dao had snuck his way out of the trash chute with a slip of paper and tried to find the author of the slip based on the address written on it.

Second Space wasn’t far from Third Space. They were located on the same side of the ground, though they were divided in time. At the Change, the buildings of one space folded and retracted into the ground as the buildings of another space extended into the air, segment by segment, using the tops of the buildings of the other space as its foundation. The only difference between the spaces was the density of buildings. Lao Dao had to wait a full day and night inside the trash chute for the opportunity to emerge as Second Space unfolded. Although this was the first time he had been to Second Space, he wasn’t anxious. He only worried about the rotting smell on him.

Luckily, Qin Tian was a generous soul. Perhaps he had been prepared for what sort of person would show up since the moment he put that slip of paper inside the bottle.

Qin Tian was very kind. He knew at a glance why Lao Dao had come. He pulled him inside his home, offered him a hot bath, and gave him one of his own bathrobes to wear. “I have to count on you,” Qin Tian said.

Qin was a graduate student living in a university–owned apartment. He had three roommates, and besides the four bedrooms, the apartment had a kitchen and two bathrooms. Lao Dao had never taken a bath in such a spacious bathroom, and he really wanted to soak for a while and get rid of the smell on his body. But he was also afraid of getting the bathtub dirty and didn’t dare to rub his skin too hard with the washcloth. The jets of bubbles coming out of the bathtub walls startled him, and being dried by hot jets of air made him uncomfortable. After the bath, he picked up the bathrobe from Qin Tian and only put it on after hesitating for a while. He laundered his own clothes, as well as a few other shirts casually left in a basin. Business was business, and he didn’t want to owe anyone any favors.

Qin Tian wanted to send a gift to a woman he liked. They had gotten to know each other from work when Qin Tian had been given the opportunity to go to First Space for an internship with the UN Economic Office, where she was also working. The internship had lasted only a month. Qin told Lao Dao that the young woman was born and bred in First Space, with very strict parents. Her father wouldn’t allow her to date a boy from Second Space, and that was why he couldn’t contact her through regular channels. Qin was optimistic about the future; he was going to apply to the UN’s New Youth Project after graduation, and if he were to be chosen, he would be able to go to work in First Space. He still had another year of school left before he would get his degree, but he was going crazy pining for her. He had made a rose–shaped locket for her that glowed in the dark: This was the gift he would use to ask for her hand in marriage.

“I was attending a symposium, you know, the one that discussed the UN’s debt situation? You must have heard of it… anyway, I saw her, and I was like, Ah! I went over right away to talk to her. She was helping the VIPs to their seats, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just followed her around. Finally, I pretended that I had to find interpreters, and I asked her to help me. She was so gentle, and her voice was really soft. I had never really asked a girl out, you understand, so I was super nervous… Later, after we started dating, I brought up how we met… Why are you laughing? Yes, we dated. No, I don’t think we quite got to that kind of relationship, but… well, we kissed.” Qin Tian laughed as well, a bit embarrassed. “I’m telling the truth! Don’t you believe me? Yes, I guess sometimes even I can’t believe it. Do you think she really likes me?”

“I have no idea,” Lao Dao said. “I’ve never met her.”

One of Qin Tian’s roommates came over, and smiling, said, “Uncle, why are you taking his question so seriously? That’s not a real question. He just wants to hear you say, ‘Of course she loves you! You’re so handsome.’”

“She must be beautiful.”

“I’m not afraid that you’ll laugh at me.” Qin Tian paced back and forth in front of Lao Dao. “When you see her, you’ll understand the meaning of ‘peerless elegance.’”

Qin Tian stopped, sinking into a reverie. He was thinking of Yi Yan’s mouth. Her mouth was perhaps his favorite part of her: So tiny, so smooth, with a full bottom lip that glowed with a natural, healthy pink, making him want to give it a loving bite. Her neck also aroused him. Sometimes it appeared so thin that the tendons showed, but the lines were straight and pretty. The skin was fair and smooth, extending down into the collar of her blouse so that his gaze lingered on her second button. The first time he tried to kiss her, she had moved her lips away shyly. He had persisted until she gave in, closing her eyes and returning the kiss. Her lips had felt so soft, and his hands had caressed the curve of her waist and backside, again and again. From that day on, he had lived in the country of longing. She was his dream at night, and also the light he saw when he trembled in his own hand.

Qin Tian’s roommate was called Zhang Xian, who seemed to relish the opportunity to converse with Lao Dao.

Zhang Xian asked Lao Dao about life in Third Space, and mentioned that he actually wanted to live in Third Space for a while. He had been given the advice that if he wanted to climb up the ladder of government administration, some managerial experience in Third Space would be very helpful. Several prominent officials had all started their careers as Third Space administrators before being promoted to First Space. If they had stayed in Second Space, they wouldn’t have gone anywhere and would have spent the rest of their careers as low–level administrative cadres. Zhang Xian’s ambition was to eventually enter government service, and he was certain he knew the right path. Still, he wanted to go work at a bank for a couple of years first and earn some quick money. Since Lao Dao seemed noncommittal about his plans, Zhang Xian thought Lao Dao disapproved of his careerism.

“The current government is too inefficient and ossified,” he added quickly, “slow to respond to challenges, and I don’t see much hope for systematic reform. When I get my opportunity, I’ll push for rapid reforms: Anyone who’s incompetent will be fired.” Since Lao Dao still didn’t seem to show much reaction, he added, “I’ll also work to expand the pool of candidates for government service and promotion, including opening up opportunities for candidates from Third Space.”

Lao Dao said nothing. It wasn’t because he disapproved; rather, he found it hard to believe Zhang Xian.

While he talked with Lao Dao, Zhang Xian was also putting on a tie and fixing his hair in front of the mirror. He had on a shirt with light blue stripes, and the tie was a bright blue. He closed his eyes and frowned as the mist of hairspray settled around his face, whistling all the while.

Zhang Xian left with his briefcase for his internship at the bank. Qin Tian said he had to get going as well since he had classes that would last until four in the afternoon. Before he left, he transferred fifty thousand yuan over the net to Lao Dao’s account while Lao Dao watched, and explained that he would transfer the rest after Lao Dao succeeded in his mission.

“Have you been saving up for this for a while?” Lao Dao asked. “You’re a student, so money is probably tight. I can accept less if necessary.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m on a paid internship with a financial advisory firm. They pay me around a hundred thousand each month, so the total I’m promising you is about two months of my salary. I can afford it.”

Lao Dao said nothing. He earned the standard salary of ten thousand each month.

“Please bring back her answer,” Qin Tian said.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Help yourself to the fridge if you get hungry. Just stay put here and wait for the Change.”

Lao Dao looked outside the window. He couldn’t get used to the sunlight, which was a bright white, not the yellow he was used to. The street seemed twice as wide in the sun as what Lao Dao remembered from Third Space, and he wasn’t sure if that was a visual illusion. The buildings here weren’t nearly as tall as buildings in Third Space. The sidewalks were filled with people walking very fast, and from time to time, some trotted and tried to shove their way through the crowd, causing those in front of them to begin running as well. Everyone seemed to run across intersections. The men dressed mostly in western suits while the women wore blouses and short skirts, with scarves around their necks and compact, rigid purses in their hands that lent them an air of competence and efficiency. The street was filled with cars, and as they waited at intersections for the light to change, the drivers stuck their heads out of the windows, gazing ahead anxiously. Lao Dao had never seen so many cars; he was used to the mass–transit maglev packed with passengers whooshing by him.

Around noon, he heard noises in the hallway outside the apartment. Lao Dao peeked out of the peephole in the door. The floor of the hallway had transformed into a moving conveyor belt, and bags of trash left at the door of each apartment were shoved onto the conveyor belt to be deposited into the chute at the end. Mist filled the hall, turning into soap bubbles that drifted through the air, and then water washed the floor, followed by hot steam.

A noise from behind Lao Dao startled him. He turned around and saw that another of Qin Tian’s roommates had emerged from his bedroom. The young man ignored Lao Dao, his face impassive. He went to some machine next to the balcony and pushed some buttons, and the machine came to life, popping, whirring, grinding. Eventually, the noise stopped, and Lao Dao smelled something delicious. The young man took out a piping hot plate of food from the machine and returned to his room. Through the half–open bedroom door, Lao Dao could see that the young man was sitting on the floor in a pile of blankets and dirty socks, and staring at his wall as he ate and laughed, pushing up his glasses from time to time. After he was done eating, he left the plate at his feet, stood up, and began to fight someone invisible as he faced the wall. He struggled, his breathing labored, as he wrestled the unseen enemy.

Lao Dao’s last memory of Second Space was the refined air with which everyone conducted themselves before the Change. Looking down from the window of the apartment, everything seemed so orderly that he felt a hint of envy. Starting at a quarter past nine, the stores along the street turned off their lights one after another; groups of friends, their faces red with drink, said goodbye in front of restaurants. Young couples kissed next to taxicabs. And then everyone returned to their homes, and the world went to sleep.

It was ten at night. He returned to his world to go to work.

 3.

There was no trash chute connecting First Space directly with Third Space. The trash from First Space had to pass through a set of metal gates to be transported into Third Space, and the gates shut as soon as the trash went through. Lao Dao didn’t like the idea of having to go over the flipping ground, but he had no choice.

As the wind whipped around him, he crawled up the still–rotating earth toward First Space. He grabbed onto metal structural elements protruding from the soil, struggling to balance his body and calm his heart, until he finally managed to scrabble over the rim of this most distant world. He felt dizzy and nauseated from the intense climb, and forcing down his churning stomach, he remained still on the ground for a while.

By the time he got up, the sun had risen.

Lao Dao had never seen such a sight. The sun rose gradually. The sky was a deep and pure azure, with an orange fringe at the horizon, decorated with slanted, thin wisps of cloud. The eaves of a nearby building blocked the sun, and the eaves appeared especially dark while the background was dazzlingly bright. As the sun continued to rise, the blue of the sky faded a little, but seemed even more tranquil and clear. Lao Dao stood up and ran at the sun; he wanted to catch a trace of that fading golden color. Silhouettes of waving tree branches broke up the sky. His heart leapt wildly. He had never imagined that a sunrise could be so moving.

After a while, he slowed down and calmed himself. He was standing in the middle of the street, lined on both sides with tall trees and wide lawns. He looked around, and he couldn’t see any buildings at all. Confused, he wondered if he had really reached First Space. He pondered the two rows of sturdy gingkoes.

He backed up a few steps and turned to look in the direction he had come from. There was a road sign next to the street. He took out his phone and looked at the map—although he wasn’t authorized to download live maps from First Space, he had downloaded and stored some maps before leaving on this trip. He found where he was as well as where he needed to be. He was standing next to a large open park, and the seam he had emerged from was next to a lake in that park.

Lao Dan ran about a kilometer through the deserted streets until he reached the residential district containing his destination. He hid behind some bushes and observed the beautiful house from a distance.

At eight thirty, Yi Yan came out of the house.

She was indeed as elegant as Qin Tian’s description had suggested, though perhaps not as pretty. Lao Dao wasn’t surprised, however. No woman could possibly be as beautiful as Qin Tian’s verbal portrait. He also understood why Qin Tian had spoken so much of her mouth. Her eyes and nose were fairly ordinary. She had a good figure: Tall, with delicate bones. She wore a milky white dress with a flowing skirt. Her belt was studded with pearls, and she had on black heels.

Lao Dao walked up to her. To avoid startling her, he approached from the front, and bowed deeply when he was still some distance away.

She stood still, looking at him in surprise.

Lao Dao came closer and explained his mission. He took out the envelope with the locket and Qin Tian’s letter.

She looked alarmed. “Please leave,” she whispered. “I can’t talk to you right now.”

“Uh… I don’t really need to talk to you,” Lao Dao said. “I just need to give you this letter.”

She refused to take it from him, clasping her hands tightly. “I can’t accept this now. Please leave. Really, I’m begging you. All right?” She took out a business card from her purse and handed it to him. “Come find me at this address at noon.”

Lao Dao looked at the card. At the top was the name of a bank.

“At noon,” she said. “Wait for me in the underground supermarket.”

Lao Dao could tell how anxious she was. He nodded, put the card away, and returned to hide behind the bushes. Soon, a man emerged from the house and stopped next to her. The man looked to be about Lao Dao’s age, or maybe a couple of years younger. Dressed in a dark gray, well–fitted suit, he was tall and broad–shouldered. Not fat, just thickset. His face was nondescript: Round, a pair of glasses, hair neatly combed to one side.

The man grabbed Yi Yan around the waist and kissed her on the lips. Yi Yan seemed to give in to the kiss reluctantly.

Understanding began to dawn on Lao Dao.

A single–rider cart arrived in front of the house. The black cart had two wheels and a canopy, and resembled an ancient carriage or rickshaw one might see on TV, except there was no horse or person pulling the cart. The cart stopped and dipped forward. Yi Yan stepped in, sat down, and arranged the skirt of the dress neatly around her knees. The cart straightened and began to move at a slow, steady pace, as though pulled by some invisible horse. After Yi Yan left, a driverless car arrived, and the man got in.

Lao Dao paced in place. He felt something was pushing at his throat, but he couldn’t articulate it. Standing in the sun, he closed his eyes. The clean, fresh air filled his lungs and provided some measure of comfort.

A moment later, he was on his way. The address Yi Yan had given him was to the east, a little more than three kilometers away. There were very few people in the pedestrian lane, and only scattered cars sped by in a blur on the eight–lane avenue. Occasionally, well–dressed women passed Lao Dao in two–wheeled carts. The passengers adopted such graceful postures that it was as though they were in some fashion show. No one paid any attention to Lao Dao. The trees swayed in the breeze, and the air in their shade seemed suffused with the perfume from the elegant women.

Yi Yan’s office was in the Xidan commercial district. There were no skyscrapers at all, only a few low buildings scattered around a large park. The buildings seemed isolated from each other but were really parts of a single compound connected via underground passages.

Lao Dao found the supermarket. He was early. As soon as he came in, a small shopping cart began to follow him around. Every time he stopped by a shelf, the screen on the cart displayed the names of the goods on the shelf, their description, customer reviews, and comparison with other brands in the same category. All merchandise in the supermarket seemed to be labeled in foreign languages. The packaging for all the food products was very refined, and small cakes and fruits were enticingly arranged on plates for customers. He didn’t dare to touch anything, keeping his distance as though they were dangerous, exotic animals. There seemed to be no guards or clerks in the whole market.

More customers appeared before noon. Some men in suits came into the market, grabbed sandwiches, and waved them at the scanner next to the door before hurrying out. No one paid any attention to Lao Dao as he waited in an obscure corner near the door.

Yi Yan appeared, and Lao Dao went up to her. Yi Yan glanced around, and without saying anything, led Lao Dao to a small restaurant next door. Two small robots dressed in plaid skirts greeted them, took Yi Yan’s purse, brought them to a booth, and handed them menus. Yi Yan pressed a few spots on the menu to make her selection and handed the menu back to the robot. The robot turned and glided smoothly on its wheels to the back.

Yi Yan and Lao Dao sat mutely across from each other. Lao Dao took out the envelope.

Yi Yan still didn’t take it from him. “Can you let me explain?”

Lao Dao pushed the envelope across the table. “Please take this first.”

Yi Yan pushed it back.

“Can you let me explain first?”

“You don’t need to explain anything,” Lao Dao said. “I didn’t write this letter. I’m just the messenger.”

“But you have to go back and give him an answer.” Yi Yan looked down. The little robot returned with two plates, one for each of them. On each plate were two slices of some kind of red sashimi, arranged like flower petals. Yi Yan didn’t pick up her chopsticks, and neither did Lao Dao. The envelope rested between the two plates, and neither touched it. “I didn’t betray him. When I met him last year, I was already engaged. I didn’t lie to him or conceal the truth from him on purpose… Well, maybe I did lie, but it was because he assumed and guessed. He saw Wu Wen come to pick me up once, and he asked me if he was my father. I… I couldn’t answer him, you know? It was just too embarrassing. I…”

Yi Yan couldn’t speak any more.

Lao Dao waited a while. “I’m not interested in what happened between you two. All I care about is that you take the letter.”

Yi Yan kept her head down, and then she looked up. “After you go back, can you… help me by not telling him everything?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want him to think that I was just playing with his feelings. I do like him, really. I feel very conflicted.”

“None of this is my concern.”

“Please, I’m begging you… I really do like him.”

Lao Dao was silent for a while.

“But you got married in the end?”

“Wu Wen was very good to me. We’d been together several years. He knew my parents, and we’d been engaged for a long time. Also, I’m three years older than Qin Tian, and I was afraid he wouldn’t like that. Qin Tian thought I was an intern, like him, and I admit that was my fault for not telling him the truth. I don’t know why I said I was an intern at first, and then it became harder and harder to correct him. I never thought he would be serious.”

Slowly, Yi Yan told Lao Dao her story. She was actually an assistant to the bank’s president and had already been working there for two years at the time she met Qin Tian. She had been sent to the UN for training, and was helping out at the symposium. In fact, her husband earned so much money that she didn’t really need to work, but she didn’t like the idea of being at home all day. She worked only half days and took a half–time salary. The rest of the day was hers to do with as she pleased, and she liked learning new things and meeting new people. She really had enjoyed the months she spent training at the UN. She told Lao Dao that there were many wives like her who worked half–time. As a matter of fact, after she got off work at noon, another wealthy wife worked as the president’s assistant in the afternoon. She told Lao Dao that though she had not told Qin Tian the truth, her heart was honest.

“And so”—she spooned a serving of the new hot dish onto Lao Dao’s plate—“can you please not tell him, just temporarily? Please… give me a chance to explain to him myself.”

Lao Dao didn’t pick up his chopsticks. He was very hungry, but he felt that he could not eat this food.

“Then I’d be lying, too,” Lao Dao said.

Yi Yan opened her purse, took out her wallet, and retrieved five 10,000–yuan bills. She pushed them across the table toward Lao Dao. “Please accept this token of my appreciation.”

Lao Dao was stunned. He had never seen bills with such large denominations or needed to use them. Almost subconsciously, he stood up, angry. The way Yi Yan had taken out the money seemed to suggest that she had been anticipating an attempt from him to blackmail her, and he could not accept that. This is what they think of Third Spacers. He felt that if he took her money, he would be selling Qin Tian out. It was true that he really wasn’t Qin Tian’s friend, but he still thought of it as a kind of betrayal. Lao Dao wanted to grab the bills, throw them on the ground, and walk away. But he couldn’t. He looked at the money again: The five thin notes were spread on the table like a broken fan. He could sense the power they had on him. They were baby blue in color, distinct from the brown 1,000–yuan note and the red 100–yuan note. These bills looked deeper, most distant somehow, like a kind of seduction. Several times, he wanted to stop looking at them and leave, but he couldn’t.

She continued to rummage through her purse, taking everything out, until she finally found another fifty thousand yuan from an inner pocket and placed them together with the other bills. “This is all I have. Please take it and help me.” She paused. “Look, the reason I don’t want him to know is because I’m not sure what I’m going to do. It’s possible that someday I’ll have the courage to be with him.”

Lao Dao looked at the ten notes spread out on the table, and then looked up at her. He sensed that she didn’t believe what she was saying. Her voice was hesitant, belying her words. She was just delaying everything to the future so that she wouldn’t be embarrassed now. She was unlikely to ever elope with Qin Tian, but she also didn’t want him to despise her. Thus, she wanted to keep alive the possibility so that she could feel better about herself.

Lao Dao could see that she was lying to herself, but he wanted to lie to himself, too. He told himself, I have no duty to Qin Tian. All he asked was for me to deliver his message to her, and I’ve done that. The money on the table now represents a new commission, a commitment to keep a secret. He waited, and then told himself, Perhaps someday she really will get together with Qin Tian, and in that case I’ll have done a good deed by keeping silent. Besides, I need to think about Tangtang. Why should I get myself all worked up about strangers instead of thinking about Tangtang’s welfare? He felt calmer. He realized that his fingers were already touching the money.

“This is… too much.” He wanted to make himself feel better. “I can’t accept so much.”

“It’s no big deal.” She stuffed the bills into his hand. “I earn this much in a week. Don’t worry.”

“What… what do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him that I can’t be with him now, but I truly like him. I’ll write you a note to bring him.” Yi Yan found a notepad in her purse; it had a picture of a peacock on the cover and the edges of the pages were golden. She ripped out a page and began to write. Her handwriting looked like a string of slanted gourds.

As Lao Dao left the restaurant, he glanced back. Yi Yan was sitting in the booth, gazing up at a painting on the wall. She looked so elegant and refined, as though she was never going to leave.

He squeezed the bills in his pocket. He despised himself, but he wanted to hold on to the money.

 4.

Lao Dao left Xidan and returned the way he had come. He felt exhausted. The pedestrian lane was lined with a row of weeping willows on one side and a row of Chinese parasol trees on the other side. It was late spring, and everything was a lush green. The afternoon sun warmed his stiff face, and brightened his empty heart.

He was back at the park from this morning. There were many people in the park now, and the two rows of gingkoes looked stately and luscious. Black cars entered the park from time to time, and most of the people in the park wore either well–fitted western suits made of quality fabric or dark–colored stylish Chinese suits, but everyone gave off a haughty air. There were also some foreigners. Some of the people conversed in small groups; others greeted each other at a distance, and then laughed as they got close enough to shake hands and walk together.

Lao Dao hesitated, trying to decide where to go. There weren’t that many people in the street, and he would draw attention if he just stood here. But he would look out of place in any public area. He wanted to go back into the park, get close to the fissure, and hide in some corner to take a nap. He felt very sleepy, but he dared not sleep on the street.

He noticed that the cars entering the park didn’t seem to need to stop, and so he tried to walk into the park as well. Only when he was close to the park gate did he notice that two robots were patrolling the area. While cars and other pedestrians passed their sentry line with no problems, the robots beeped as soon as Lao Dao approached and turned on their wheels to head for him. In the tranquil afternoon, the noise they made seemed especially loud. The eyes of everyone nearby turned to him. He panicked, uncertain if it was his shabby clothes that alerted the robots. He tried to whisper to the robots, claiming that his suit was left inside the park, but the robots ignored him while they continued to beep and to flash the red lights over their heads. People strolling inside the park stopped and looked at him as though looking at a thief or eccentric person. Soon, three men emerged from a nearby building and ran over. Lao Dao’s heart was in his throat. He wanted to run, but it was too late.

“What’s going on?” the man in the lead asked loudly.

Lao Dao couldn’t think of anything to say, and he rubbed his pants compulsively.

The man in the front was in his thirties. He came up to Lao Dao and scanned him with a silver disk about the size of a button, moving his hand around Lao Dao’s person. He looked at Lao Dao suspiciously, as though trying to pry open his shell with a can opener.

“There’s no record of this man.” The man gestured at the older man behind him. “Bring him in.”

Lao Dao started to run away from the park.

The two robots silently dashed ahead of him and grabbed onto his legs. Their arms were cuffs and locked easily about his ankles. He tripped and almost fell, but the robots held him up. His arms swung through the air helplessly.

“Why are you trying to run?” The younger man stepped up and glared at him. His tone was now severe.

“I…” Lao Dao’s head felt like a droning beehive. He couldn’t think.

The two robots lifted Lao Dao by the legs and deposited his feet onto platforms next to their wheels. Then they drove toward the nearest building in parallel, carrying Lao Dao. Their movements were so steady, so smooth, so synchronized, that from a distance, it appeared as if Lao Dao was skating along on a pair of rollerblades, like Nezha riding on his Wind Fire Wheels.

Lao Dao felt utterly helpless. He was angry with himself for being so careless. How could he think such a crowded place would be without security measures? He berated himself for being so drowsy that he could commit such a stupid mistake. It’s all over now, he thought. Not only am I not going to get my money, I’m also going to jail.

The robots followed a narrow path and reached the backdoor of the building, where they stopped. The three men followed behind. The younger man seemed to be arguing with the older man over what to do with Lao Dao, but they spoke so softly that Lao Dao couldn’t hear the details. After a while, the older man came up and unlocked the robots from Lao Dao’s legs. Then he grabbed him by the arm and took him upstairs.

Lao Dao sighed. He resigned himself to his fate.

The man brought him into a room. It looked like a hotel room, very spacious, bigger even than the living room in Qin Tian’s apartment, and about twice the size of his own rental unit. The room was decorated in a dark shade of golden brown, with a king–sized bed in the middle. The wall at the head of the bed showed abstract patterns of shifting colors. Translucent, white curtains covered the French window, and in front of the window sat a small circular table and two comfortable chairs. Lao Dao was anxious, unsure of who the older man was and what he wanted.

“Sit, sit!” The older man clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “Everything’s fine.”

Lao Dao looked at him suspiciously.

“You’re from Third Space, aren’t you?” The older man pulled him over to the chairs, and gestured for him to sit.

“How do you know that?” Lao Dao couldn’t lie.

“From your pants.” The older man pointed at the waist of his pants. “You never even cut off the label. This brand is only sold in Third Space; I remember my mother buying them for my father when I was little.”

“Sir, you’re…?”

“You don’t need to ‘Sir’ me. I don’t think I’m much older than you are. How old are you? I’m fifty–two.”

“Forty–eight.”

“See, just older by four years.” He paused, and then added, “My name is Ge Daping. Why don’t you just call me Lao Ge?”

Lao Dao relaxed a little. Lao Ge took off his jacket and moved his arms about to stretch out the stiff muscles. Then he filled a glass with hot water from a spigot in the wall and handed it to Lao Dao. He had a long face, and the corners of his eyes, the ends of his eyebrows, and his cheeks drooped. Even his glasses seemed about to fall off the end of his nose. His hair was naturally a bit curly and piled loosely on top of his head. As he spoke, his eyebrows bounced up and down comically. He made some tea for himself and asked Lao Dao if he wanted any. Lao Dao shook his head.

“I was originally from Third Space as well,” said Lao Ge. “We’re practically from the same hometown! So, you don’t need to be so careful with me. I still have a bit of authority, and I won’t give you up.”

Lao Dao let out a long sigh, congratulating himself silently for his good luck. He recounted for Lao Ge his experiencing of going to Second Space and then coming to First Space, but omitted the details of what Yi Yan had said. He simply told Lao Ge that he had successfully delivered the message and was just waiting for the Change to head home.

Lao Ge also shared his own story with Lao Dao. He had grown up in Third Space, and his parents had worked as deliverymen. When he was fifteen, he entered a military school, and then joined the army. He worked as a radar technician in the army, and because he worked hard, demonstrated good technical skills, and had some good opportunities, he was eventually promoted to an administrative position in the radar department with the rank of brigadier general. Since he didn’t come from a prominent family, that rank was about as high as he could go in the army. He then retired from the army and joined an agency in First Space responsible for logistical support for government enterprises, organizing meetings, arranging travel, and coordinating various social events. The job was blue collar in nature, but since his work involved government officials and he had to coordinate and manage, he was allowed to live in First Space. There were a considerable number of people in First Space like him—chefs, doctors, secretaries, housekeepers—skilled blue–collar workers needed to support the lifestyle of First Space. His agency had run many important social events and functions, and Lao Ge was its director.

Lao Ge might have been self–deprecating in describing himself as a “blue collar,” but Lao Dao understood that anyone who could work and live in First Space had extraordinary skills. Even a chef here was likely a master of his art. Lao Ge must be very talented to have risen here from Third Space after a technical career in the army.

“You might as well take a nap,” Lao Ge said. “I’ll take you to get something to eat this evening.”

Lao Dao still couldn’t believe his good luck, and he felt a bit uneasy. However, he couldn’t resist the call of the white sheets and stuffed pillows, and he fell asleep almost right away.

When he woke up, it was dark outside. Lao Ge was combing his hair in front of the mirror. He showed Lao Dao a suit lying on the sofa and told him to change. Then he pinned a tiny badge with a faint red glow to Lao Dao’s lapel—a new identity.

The large open lobby downstairs was crowded. Some kind of presentation seemed to have just finished, and attendees conversed in small groups. At one end of the lobby were the open doors leading to the banquet hall; the thick doors were lined with burgundy leather. The lobby was filled with small standing tables. Each table was covered by a white tablecloth tied around the bottom with a golden bow, and the vase in the middle of each table held a lily. Crackers and dried fruits were set out next to the vases for snacking, and a long table to the side offered wine and coffee. Guests mingled and conversed among the tables while small robots holding serving trays shuttled between their legs, collecting empty glasses.

Forcing himself to be calm, Lao Dao followed Lao Ge and walked through the convivial scene into the banquet hall. He saw a large hanging banner: The Folding City at Fifty.

“What is this?” Lao Dao asked.

“A celebration!” Lao Ge was walking about and examining the set up. “Xiao Zhao, come here a minute. I want you to check the table signs one more time. I don’t trust robots for things like this. Sometimes they don’t know how to be flexible.”

Lao Dao saw that the banquet hall was filled with large round tables with fresh flower centerpieces.

The scene seemed unreal to him. He stood in a corner and gazed up at the giant chandelier as though some dazzling reality was hanging over him, and he was but an insignificant presence at its periphery. There was a lectern set up on the dais at the front, and, behind it, the background was an ever–shifting series of images of Beijing. The photographs were perhaps taken from an airplane and captured the entirety of the city: The soft light of dawn and dusk; the dark purple and deep blue sky; clouds racing across the sky; the moon rising from a corner; the sun setting behind a roof. The aerial shots revealed the magnificence of Beijing’s ancient symmetry; the modern expanse of brick courtyards and large green parks that had extended to the Sixth Ring Road; Chinese style theatres; Japanese style museums; minimalist concert halls. And then there were shots of the city as a whole, shots that included both faces of the city during the Change: The earth flipping, revealing the other side studded with skyscrapers with sharp, straight contours; men and women energetically rushing to work; neon signs lighting up the night, blotting out the stars; towering apartment buildings, cinemas, nightclubs full of beautiful people.

But there were no shots of where Lao Dao worked.

He stared at the screen intently, uncertain if they might show pictures during the construction of the folding city. He hoped to get a glimpse of his father’s era. When he was little, his father had often pointed to buildings outside the window and told him stories that started with “Back then, we…” An old photograph had hung on the wall of their cramped home, and in the picture his father was laying bricks, a task his father had performed thousands, or perhaps hundreds of thousands of times. He had seen that picture so many times that he thought he was sick of it, and yet, at this moment, he hoped to see a scene of workers laying bricks, even if for just a few seconds.

He was lost in his thoughts. This was also the first time he had seen what the Change looked like from a distance. He didn’t remember sitting down, and he didn’t know when others had sat down next to him. A man began to speak at the lectern, but Lao Dao wasn’t even listening for the first few minutes.

“… advantageous for the development of the service sector. The service economy is dependent on population size and density. Currently, the service industry of our city is responsible for more than 85 percent of our GDP, in line with the general characteristics of world–class metropolises. The other important sectors are the green economy and the recycling economy.” Lao Dao was paying full attention now. “Green economy” and “recycling economy” were often mentioned at the waste processing station, and the phrases were painted on the walls in characters taller than a man. He looked closer at the speaker on the dais: An old man with silvery hair, though he appeared hale and energetic. “… all trash is now sorted and processed, and we’ve achieved our goals for energy conservation and pollution reduction ahead of schedule. We’ve developed a systematic, large–scale recycling economy in which all the rare–earth and precious metals extracted from e–waste are reused in manufacturing, and even the plastics recycling rate exceeds eighty percent. The recycling stations are directly connected to the reprocessing plants…”

Lao Dao knew of a distant relative who worked at a reprocessing plant in the technopark far from the city. The technopark was just acres and acres of industrial buildings, and he heard that all the plants over there were very similar: The machines pretty much ran on their own, and there were very few workers. At night, when the workers got together, they felt like the last survivors of some dwindling tribe in a desolate wilderness.

He drifted off again. Only the wild applause at the end of the speech pulled him out of his chaotic thoughts and back to reality. He also applauded, though he didn’t know what for. He watched the speaker descend the dais and return to his place of honor at the head table. Everyone’s eyes were on him.

Lao Dao saw Wu Wen, Yi Yan’s husband.

Wu Wen was at the table next to the head table. As the old man who had given the speech sat down, Wu Wen walked over to offer a toast, and then he seemed to say something that got the old man’s attention. The old man got up and walked with Wu Wen out of the banquet hall. Almost subconsciously, a curious Lao Dao also got up and followed them. He didn’t know where Lao Ge had gone. Robots emerged to serve the dishes for the banquet.

Lao Dao emerged from the banquet hall and was back in the reception lobby. He eavesdropped on the other two from a distance and only caught snippets of conversation.

“… there are many advantages to this proposal,” said Wu Wen. “Yes, I’ve seen their equipment… automatic waste processing… they use a chemical solvent to dissolve and digest everything and then extract reusable materials in bulk… clean, and very economical… would you please give it some consideration?”

Wu Wen kept his voice low, but Lao Dao clearly heard “waste processing.” He moved closer.

The old man with the silvery hair had a complex expression. Even after Wu Wen was finished, he waited a while before speaking, “You’re certain that the solvent is safe? No toxic pollution?”

Wu Wen hesitated. “The current version still generates a bit of pollution but I’m sure they can reduce it to the minimum very quickly.”

Lao Dao got even closer.

The old man shook his head, staring at Wu Wen. “Things aren’t that simple. If I approve your project and it’s implemented, there will be major consequences. Your process won’t need workers, so what are you going to do with the tens of millions of people who will lose their jobs?”

The old man turned away and returned to the banquet hall. Wu Wen remained in place, stunned. A man who had been by the old man’s side—a secretary perhaps—came up to Wu Wen and said sympathetically, “You might as well go back and enjoy the meal. I’m sure you understand how this works. Employment is the number one concern. Do you really think no one has suggested similar technology in the past?”

Lao Dao understood vaguely that what they were talking about had to do with him, but he wasn’t sure whether it was good news or bad. Wu Wen’s expression shifted through confusion, annoyance, and then resignation. Lao Dao suddenly felt some sympathy for him: He had his moments of weakness, as well.

The secretary suddenly noticed Lao Dao.

“Are you new here?” he asked.

Lao Dao was startled. “Ah? Um…”

“What’s your name? How come I wasn’t informed about a new member of the staff?”

Lao Dao’s heart beat wildly. He didn’t know what to say. He pointed to the badge on his lapel, as though hoping the badge would speak or otherwise help him out. But the badge displayed nothing. His palms sweated. The secretary stared at him, his look growing more suspicious by the second. He grabbed another worker in the lobby, and the worker said he didn’t know who Lao Dao was.

The secretary’s face was now severe and dark. He grabbed Lao Dao with one hand and punched the keys on his communicator with the other hand.

Lao Dao’s heart threatened to jump out of his throat, but just then, he saw Lao Ge.

Lao Ge rushed over and with a smooth gesture, hung up the secretary’s communicator. Smiling, he greeted the secretary and bowed deeply. He explained that he was shorthanded for the occasion and had to ask for a colleague from another department to help out tonight. The secretary seemed to believe Lao Ge and returned to the banquet hall. Lao Ge brought Lao Dao back to his own room to avoid any further risks. If anyone really bothered to look into Lao Dao’s identity, they’d discover the truth, and even Lao Ge wouldn’t be able to protect him.

“I guess you’re not fated to enjoy the banquet.” Lao Ge laughed. “Just wait here. I’ll get you some food later.”

Lao Dao lay down on the bed and fell asleep again. He replayed the conversation between Wu Wen and the old man in his head. Automatic waste processing. What would that look like? Would that be a good thing or bad?

The next time he woke up, he smelled something delicious. Lao Ge had set out a few dishes on the small circular table, and was taking the last plate out of the warming oven on the wall. Lao Ge also brought over a half bottle of baijiu and filled two glasses.

“There was a table where they had only two people, and they left early so most of the dishes weren’t even touched. I brought some back. It’s not much, but maybe you’ll enjoy the taste. Hopefully you won’t hold it against me that I’m offering you leftovers.”

“Not at all,” Lao Dao said. “I’m grateful that I get to eat at all. These look wonderful! They must be very expensive, right?”

“The food at the banquet is prepared by the kitchen here and not for sale, so I don’t know how much they’d cost in a restaurant.” Lao Ge already started to eat. “They’re nothing special. If I had to guess, maybe ten thousand, twenty thousand? A couple might cost thirty, forty thousand. Not more than that.”

After a couple of bites, Lao Dao realized how hungry he was. He was used to skipping meals, and sometimes he could last a whole day without eating. His body would shake uncontrollably then, but he had learned to endure it. But now, the hunger was overwhelming. He wanted to chew quicker because his teeth couldn’t seem to catch up to the demands of his empty stomach. He tried to wash the food down with baijiu, which was very fragrant and didn’t sting his throat at all.

Lao Ge ate leisurely, and smiled as he watched Lao Dao eat.

“Oh.” Now that the pangs of hunger had finally been dulled a bit, Lao Dao remembered the earlier conversation. “Who was the man giving the speech? He seemed a bit familiar.”

“He’s always on TV,” Lao Ge said. “That’s my boss. He’s a man with real power—in charge of everything having to do with city operations.”

“They were talking about automatic waste processing earlier. Do you think they’ll really do it?”

“Hard to say.” Lao Ge sipped the baijiu and let out a burp. “I suspect not. You have to understand why they went with manual processing in the first place. Back then, the situation here was similar to Europe at the end of the twentieth century. The economy was growing, but so was unemployment. Printing money didn’t solve the problem. The economy refused to obey the Phillips curve.”

He saw that Lao Dao looked completely lost, and laughed. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand these things anyway.”

He clinked glasses with Lao Dao and the two drained their baijiu and refilled the glasses.

“I’ll just stick to unemployment. I’m sure you understand the concept,” Lao Ge continued. “As the cost of labor goes up and the cost of machinery goes down, at some point, it’ll be cheaper to use machines than people. With the increase in productivity, the GDP goes up, but so does unemployment. What do you do? Enact policies to protect the workers? Better welfare? The more you try to protect workers, the more you increase the cost of labor and make it less attractive for employers to hire people. If you go outside the city now to the industrial districts, there’s almost no one working in those factories. It’s the same thing with farming. Large commercial farms contain thousands and thousands of acres of land, and everything is automated so there’s no need for people. This kind of automation is absolutely necessary if you want to grow your economy—that was how we caught up to Europe and America, remember? Scaling! The problem is: Now you’ve gotten the people off the land and out of the factories, what are you going to do with them? In Europe, they went with the path of forcefully reducing everyone’s working hours and thus increasing employment opportunities. But this saps the vitality of the economy, you understand?

“The best way is to reduce the time a certain portion of the population spends living, and then find ways to keep them busy. Do you get it? Right, shove them into the night. There’s another advantage to this approach: The effects of inflation almost can’t be felt at the bottom of the social pyramid. Those who can get loans and afford the interest spend all the money you print. The GDP goes up, but the cost of basic necessities does not. And most of the people won’t even be aware of it.”

Lao Dao listened, only half grasping what was being said. But he could detect something cold and cruel in Lao Ge’s speech. Lao Ge’s manner was still jovial, but he could tell Lao Ge’s joking tone was just an attempt to dull the edge of his words and not hurt him. Not too much.

“Yes, it sounds a bit cold,” Lao Ge admitted. “But it’s the truth. I’m not trying to defend this place just because I live here. But after so many years, you grow a bit numb. There are many things in life we can’t change, and all we can do is to accept and endure.”

Lao Dao was finally beginning to understand Lao Ge, but he didn’t know what to say.

Both became a bit drunk. They began to reminisce about the past: The foods they ate as children, schoolyard fights. Lao Ge had loved hot and sour rice noodles and stinky tofu. These were not available in First Space, and he missed them dearly. Lao Ge talked about his parents, who still lived in Third Space. He couldn’t visit them often because each trip required him to apply and obtain special approval, which was very burdensome. He mentioned that there were some officially sanctioned ways to go between Third Space and First Space, and a few select people did make the trip often. He hoped that Lao Dao could bring a few things back to his parents because he felt regret and sorrow over his inability to be by their side and care for them.

Lao Dao talked about his lonely childhood. In the dim lamplight, he recalled his childhood spent alone wandering at the edge of the landfill.

It was now late night. Lao Ge had to go check up on the event downstairs, and he took Lao Dao with him. The dance party downstairs was about to be over, and tired–looking men and women emerged in twos and threes. Lao Ge said that entrepreneurs seemed to have the most energy, and often danced until the morning. The deserted banquet hall after the party looked messy and grubby, like a woman who took off her makeup after a long, tiring day. Lao Ge watched the robots trying to clean up the mess and laughed. “This is the only moment when First Space shows its true face.”

Lao Dao checked the time: Three hours until the Change. He sorted his thoughts: It’s time to leave.

 5.

The silver–haired speaker returned to his office after the banquet to deal with some paperwork, and then got on a video call with Europe. At midnight, he felt tired. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was finally time to go home. He worked till midnight on most days.

The phone rang. He picked up. It was his secretary.

The research group for the conference had reported something troubling. Someone had discovered an error with one of the figures used in the pre–printed conference declaration, and the research group wanted to know if they should re–print the declaration. The old man immediately approved the request. This was very important, and they had to get it right. He asked who was responsible for this, and the secretary told him that it was Director Wu Wen.

The old man sat down on his sofa and took a nap. Around four in the morning, the phone rang again. The printing was going a bit slower than expected, and they estimated it would take another hour.

He got up and looked outside the window. All was silent. He could see Orion’s bright stars twinkling against the dark sky.

The stars of Orion were reflected in the mirror–like surface of the lake. Lao Dao was sitting on the shore of the lake, waiting for the Change.

He gazed at the park at night, realizing that this was perhaps the last time he would see a sight such as this. He wasn’t sad or nostalgic. This was a beautiful, peaceful place, but it had nothing to do with him. He wasn’t envious or resentful. He just wanted to remember this experience. There were few lights at night here, nothing like the flashing neon that turned the streets of Third Space bright as day. The buildings of the city seemed to be asleep, breathing evenly and calmly.

At five in the morning, the secretary called again to say that the declaration had been re–printed and bound, but the documents were still in the print shop, and they wanted to know if they should delay the scheduled Change.

The old man made the decision right away. Of course they had to delay it.

At forty minutes past the hour, the printed declarations were brought to the conference site, but they still had to be stuffed into about three thousand individual folders.

Lao Dao saw the faint light of dawn. At this time during the year, the sun wouldn’t have risen by six, but it was possible to see the sky brightening near the horizon.

He was prepared. He looked at his phone: only a couple more minutes until six. But strangely, there were no signs of the Change. Maybe in First Space, even the Change happens more smoothly and steadily.

At ten after six, the last copy of the declaration was stuffed into its folder.

The old man let out a held breath. He gave the order to initiate the Change.

Lao Dao noticed that the earth was finally moving. He stood up and shook the numbness out of his limbs. Carefully, he stepped up to the edge of the widening fissure. As the earth on both sides of the crack lifted up, he clambered over the edge, tested for purchase with his feet, and climbed down. The ground began to turn.

At twenty after six, the secretary called again with an emergency. Director Wu Wen had carelessly left a data key with important documents behind at the banquet hall. He was worried that the cleaning robots might remove it, and he had to go retrieve it right away.

The old man was annoyed, but he gave the order to stop the Change and reverse course.

Lao Dao was climbing slowly over the cross section of the earth when everything stopped with a jolt. After a moment, the earth started moving again, but now in reverse. The fissure was closing up. Terrified, he climbed up as fast as he dared. Scrabbling over the soil with hands and feet, he had to be careful with his movements.

The seam closed faster than he had expected. Just as he reached the top, the two sides of the crack came together. One of his lower legs was caught. Although the soil gave enough to not crush his leg or break his bones, it held him fast and he couldn’t extricate himself despite several attempts. Sweat beaded on his forehead from terror and pain. Has he been discovered?

Lao Dao lay prostrate on the ground, listening. He seemed to hear steps hurrying toward him. He imagined that soon the police would arrive and catch him. They might cut off his leg and toss him in jail with the stump. He couldn’t tell when his identity had been revealed. As he lay on the grass, he felt the chill of morning dew. The damp air seeped through collar and cuffs, keeping him alert and making him shiver. He silently counted the seconds, hoping against hope that this was but a technical malfunction. He tried to plan for what to say if he was caught. Maybe he should mention how honestly and diligently he had toiled for twenty–eight years and try to buy a bit of sympathy. He didn’t know if he would be prosecuted in court. Fate loomed before his eyes.

Fate now pressed into his chest. Of everything he had experienced during the last forty–eight hours, the episode that had made the deepest impression was the conversation with Lao Ge at dinner. He felt that he had approached some aspect of truth, and perhaps that was why he could catch a glimpse of the outline of fate. But the outline was too distant, too cold, too out of reach. He didn’t know what was the point of knowing the truth. If he could see some things clearly but was still powerless to change them, what good did that do? In his case, he couldn’t even see clearly. Fate was like a cloud that momentarily took on some recognizable shape, and by the time he tried to get a closer look, the shape was gone. He knew that he was nothing more than a figure. He was but an ordinary person, one out of 51,280,000 others just like him. And if they didn’t need that much precision and spoke of only 50 million, he was but a rounding error, the same as if he had never existed. He wasn’t even as significant as dust. He grabbed onto the grass.

At six thirty, Wu Wen retrieved his data key. At six forty, Wu Wen was back in his home.

At six forty–five, the white–haired old man finally lay down on the small bed in his office, exhausted. The order had been issued, and the wheels of the world began to turn slowly. Transparent covers extended over the coffee table and the desk, securing everything in place. The bed released a cloud of soporific gas and extended rails on all sides; then it rose into the air. As the ground and everything on the ground turned, the bed would remain level, like a floating cradle.

The Change had started again.

After thirty minutes spent in despair, Lao Dao saw a trace of hope again. The ground was moving. He pulled his leg out as soon as the fissure opened, and then returned to the arduous climb over the cross–section as soon as the opening was wide enough. He moved with even more care than before. As circulation returned to his numb leg, his calf itched and ached as though he was being bitten by thousands of ants. Several times, he almost fell. The pain was intolerable, and he had to bite his fist to stop from screaming. He fell; he got up; he fell again; he got up again. He struggled with all his strength and skill to maintain his footing over the rotating earth.

He couldn’t even remember how he had climbed up the stairs. He only remembered fainting as soon as Qin Tian opened the door to his apartment.

Lao Dao slept for ten hours in Second Space. Qin Tian found a classmate in medical school to help dress his wound. He suffered massive damage to his muscles and soft tissue, but luckily, no bones were broken. However, he was going to have some difficulty walking for a while.

After waking up, Lao Dao handed Yi Yan’s letter to Qin Tian. He watched as Qin Tian read the letter, his face filling up with happiness as well as loss. He said nothing. He knew that Qin Tian would be immersed in this remote hope for a long time.

Returning to Third Space, Lao Dao felt as though he had been traveling for a month. The city was waking up slowly. Most of the residents had slept soundly, and now they picked up their lives from where they had left off the previous cycle. No one would notice that Lao Dao had been away.

As soon as the vendors along the pedestrian lane opened shop, he sat down at a plastic table and ordered a bowl of chow mein. For the first time in his life, Lao Dao asked for shredded pork to be added to the noodles. Just one time, he thought. A reward.

Then he went to Lao Ge’s home and delivered the two boxes of medicine Lao Ge had bought for his parents. The two elders were no longer mobile, and a young woman with a dull demeanor lived with them as a caretaker.

Limping, he slowly returned to his own rental unit. The hallway was noisy and chaotic, filled with the commotion of a typical morning: brushing teeth, flushing toilets, arguing families. All around him were disheveled hair and half–dressed bodies.

He had to wait a while for the elevator. As soon as he got off at his floor he heard loud arguing noises. It was the two girls who lived next door, Lan Lan and Ah Bei, arguing with the old lady who collected rent. All the units in the building were public housing, but the residential district had an agent who collected rent, and each building, even each floor, had a subagent. The old lady was a long–term resident. She was thin, shriveled, and lived by herself—her son had left and nobody knew where he was. She always kept her door shut and didn’t interact much with the other residents. Lan Lan and Ah Bei had moved in recently, and they worked at a clothing store. Ah Bei was shouting while Lan Lan was trying to hold her back. Ah Bei turned and shouted at Lan Lan; Lan Lan began to cry.

“We all have to follow the lease, don’t we?” The old lady pointed at the scrolling text on the screen mounted on the wall. “Don’t you dare accuse me of lying! Do you understand what a lease is? It’s right here in black and white: In autumn and winter, there’s a ten percent surcharge for heat.”

“Ha!” Ah Bei lifted her chin at the old lady while combing her hair forcefully. “Do you think we are going to be fooled by such a basic trick? When we’re at work, you turn off the heat. Then you charge us for the electricity we haven’t been using so you can keep the extra for yourself. Do you think we were born yesterday? Every day, when we get home after work, the place is cold as an ice cellar. Just because we’re new, you think you can take advantage of us?”

Ah Bei’s voice was sharp and brittle, and it cut through the air like a knife. Lao Dao looked at Ah Bei, at her young, determined, angry face, and thought she was very beautiful. Ah Bei and Lan Lan often helped him by taking care of Tangtang when he wasn’t home, and sometimes even made porridge for him. He wanted Ah Bei to stop shouting, to forget these trivial things and stop arguing. He wanted to tell her that a girl should sit elegantly and quietly, cover her knees with her skirt, and smile so that her pretty teeth showed. That was how you got others to love you. But he knew that that was not what Ah Bei and Lan Lan needed.

He took out a 10,000–yuan bill from his inner pocket and handed it to the old lady. His hand trembled from weakness. The old lady was stunned, and so were Ah Bei and Lan Lan. He didn’t want to explain. He waved at them and returned to his home.

Tangtang was just waking up in her crib, and she rubbed her sleepy eyes. He gazed into Tangtang’s face, and his exhausted heart softened. He remembered how he had found Tangtang at first in front of the waste processing station, and her dirty, tear–stained face. He had never regretted picking her up that day. She laughed, and smacked her lips. He thought that he was fortunate. Although he was injured, he hadn’t been caught and managed to bring back money. He didn’t know how long it would take Tangtang to learn to dance and sing, and become an elegant young lady.

He checked the time. It was time to go to work.

              刀郎       去伊犁的路上