Chapter 30: Chen Jingrun's Mysterious Training

As a professional talent designated for Hong Kong, Chen Jingrun naturally had to undergo rigorous training before his departure. Comprehensive preparations were made on all fronts—from the Chinese government to his personal affairs, and even regarding the logistical arrangements in Hong Kong. These encompassed everything from identity cover stories and financial support to communication protocols and academic readiness. For Chen himself, the task was to undergo the training program.

Theoretically, the training covered five aspects: academic preparation, language proficiency, sociocultural adaptation, practical skills, and security protocols. Academic preparation was left to Chen Jingrun himself; failing to rank in the top fifty would have been an utter absurdity. He possessed this confidence, as did Hua Luogeng—securing one of the fifty spots was an absolute certainty. Even if there were only five spots instead of fifty, Chen would still succeed; such is the confidence of a top-tier mathematician. Thus, only the other four aspects required training.

He had been sent to Guangzhou three months prior to begin this process. "Hong Kong is a unique place; you must be prepared and ensure no mistakes are made," Hua Luogeng had warned him, a sentiment echoed by others in a soundproofed conference room.

Language training went more smoothly than anticipated, as Chen already knew English; he only needed to polish his conversational skills. His English instructor used "English for Scientists" to train him, and it took less than a week to transition from slightly rusty to proficient in daily discourse. However, Cantonese lessons were a genuine headache. His teacher, an old gentleman transferred from Guangdong, spoke with a raspy voice: "Hello is 'nei hou,' excuse me is 'm goi sai'!" Chen practiced until he was drenched in sweat, but at the thought of the unfamiliar Cantonese signs on Hong Kong's streets, he gritted his teeth and persisted, practicing in front of the mirror every day until he could stumble through basic directions.

In simulated scenarios, he was required to play the role of a Hong Kong citizen ordering a meal at a teahouse. "I’d like one steamer and two dim sum dishes," he said in stiff Cantonese, drawing laughter from the local Cantonese speakers nearby. Ms. Lin, his instructor, corrected him: "It’s 'yat chung leung gin.' Don’t rush, take it slow." Chen blushed, yet secretly resolved that he would never lose face in Hong Kong.

During the final month before departure, Chen was taken to a simulation training ground to learn practical skills for life in Hong Kong. An instructor named Zhao handed him a map of Hong Kong, pointing to Kowloon and Hong Kong Island: "Remember, the trams run east to west, the ferries cross Victoria Harbour, and rent is not cheap." Chen learned how to count Hong Kong dollars—the colorful banknotes left him dazzled. He also simulated renting an apartment, clumsily haggling in Cantonese against a "landlord": "Can it be a bit cheaper?" Instructor Zhao nodded from the side: "Getting the hang of it." At the end of each day's training, he would stand before the map, memorizing the streets: Causeway Bay, Mong Kok, Central... These names felt strange and mysterious, as if beckoning him into another world.

In the final week, Section Chief Zhang’s gaze was sharp as a blade. "Comrade Jingrun, Hong Kong is different from the mainland. The British are watching, and the KMT has spies everywhere." Zhang handed him a small booklet containing codes and emergency contact details. "If there is an emergency, go to a teahouse in Central, order a pot of Longjing tea, and the waiter will lead you to the contact." Chen was tasked with learning his cover identity—pretending to be a local Hong Kong student—and even practiced how to handle interrogations. "Where are you from?" Zhang simulated. "I’m from Hong Kong, raised in the New Territories," Chen replied in Cantonese, his voice trembling slightly. Zhang also taught him how to pass information using newspapers: folded into a triangle, tucked into specific pages, and left at designated locations. As he practiced, his palms sweated, and he thought, "Is this really the work of a mathematician?"

After three months of training, Chen Jingrun stood at the Guangzhou railway station, ready to head to Hong Kong. His suitcase contained mathematical notes, an English dictionary, and a few old clothes, but his heart was filled with complex emotions. He was excited to discuss research with Professor Lin, yet anxious about the unknown journey ahead. Hua Luogeng’s words of encouragement still rang in his ears: "Jingrun, show your talent and don't bring shame to the country." Section Chief Zhang’s reminders also echoed in his mind: "Remember, keep a low profile and safety first."

July 1, 1960.
The sky over Hong Kong was clear and blue, and a gentle breeze blew from Victoria Harbour, carrying the saltiness of the sea and the distant sound of ship whistles.

Inside the campus of the University of Hong Kong, the air was filled with a sense of tension and excitement. On the lawn at the school gate, a bright red banner fluttered in the wind, inscribed with the words "Warmly Welcome Professor Lin Ran to the University of Hong Kong." The calligraphy was bold and vigorous, clearly the work of a local master. Students gathered in small groups, either whispering over their books or craning their necks to look, their eyes filled with anticipation for this world-renowned mathematician.

Mainly, he was handsome—young and handsome. Before arriving in Hong Kong, the photograph of Lin Ran, Yang Chen-ning, and Lee Tsung-dao published in the *Chinese American Daily* had already been widely circulated in Hong Kong newspapers. Young students, especially the female ones, were eagerly awaiting Lin Ran’s arrival.

Young, handsome, and immensely talented—it was rumored he was single and wealthy as well. Hong Kong papers had even dug up that Lin Ran’s annual salary exceeded thirty thousand US dollars. The female students at the university were all eager to make an impression, much like the monk Tang Sanzang falling into the Spider Cave, coveted by all.

At exactly three o'clock in the afternoon, a black Austin sedan slowly drove through the school gate, the tires making a soft rustling sound against the gravel road. The door opened, and Lin Ran stepped out. He was dressed in a bespoke dark grey suit arranged for him by John Morgan, his tie perfectly knotted, and a gentle smile on his face. Despite the fatigue of travel, his eyes remained as clear as stars.

His appearance instantly ignited the atmosphere. A round of warm applause erupted from the crowd, and the female students present even waved their notebooks in excitement.

Sir Lincoln, the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Hong Kong, was the first to step forward. He wore black academic robes, his silver hair shimmering in the sunlight. His pace was steady, and he wore a professional, kindly smile. Sir Lincoln was a British-Australian who had served as the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Hong Kong since 1949, earning a CBE and a knighthood for his service.

Behind him followed a group of guests: Professor Zhang, the head of the Department of Mathematics, a tall, thin, middle-aged Chinese man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and several members of the university board, all dressed in suits and possessing an air of distinction. Furthermore, reporters from major media outlets held their notebooks, unable to suppress their urge to conduct interviews.

Sir Lincoln extended his hand and spoke first in fluent English: "Professor Lin, welcome to the University of Hong Kong. Your arrival is a milestone for our academic community."