Letters Sent Back to Earth (Part 1)
1
Dear Sylvia, by the time you read this letter, I will already be aboard the Paper Kite spacecraft, soaring toward high Earth orbit. A scanned copy of this letter will be sent to you via surface mail—I hope it doesn't arrive too late.
You may be wondering—who am I?
You don't need to know my name, nor do you need to know who I am. I know your work at the newspaper keeps you busy; as a journalist, you interview so many people that it's impossible to remember every single one. Besides, it's been three months since your interview at the Space Academy training center. Even if I were standing right in front of you now, you probably wouldn't remember me.
But that's alright. I won't have the chance to stand before you ever again.
I still remember that interview. You smiled and asked me what "Paper Kite" meant—was flying a spacecraft like flying a kite? I smiled back and told you, yes, exactly like flying a kite. Sylvia, now I want to apologize to you, for hiding the true, cruel answer. "Paper Kite" doesn't just mean flying a kite—when I fly beyond the atmosphere, there won't be enough fuel to return. A kite with its string cut can never be reeled back in.
That is the true meaning of the two characters "Paper Kite."
I couldn't bear to tell you this cruel answer, nor was I allowed to—everything about this mission was classified at the time. If the public had known the contents of this plan, they would have absolutely tried to stop this operation, and in the name of "civilization." Certainly, human civilization has flourished on Earth for thousands of years, and human morality has become the supreme faith in people's hearts, as if this planet, no more than a grain of sand in the cosmos, somehow shines with a special light because it carries humanity within it. I can't say this is wrong, but we cannot measure the laws of the entire universe by human emotion.
The laws of the universe are cruel. Just as humanity has developed to this day, our technology has hit a critical threshold—due to various practical constraints, fundamental physics research has seen no breakthrough in five thousand years. I've heard scientists working in microscopic physics lament that whether through collision experiments or transmission observations, "particles" represent the limit of our understanding of this world; we cannot delve any deeper. Humanity's development has encountered an unprecedented bottleneck.
Many believe this is the ultimate ceiling of what technology can achieve. With human wisdom, our understanding of the universe can only stagnate at this level.
But as a great man once said, where there's a will, there's a way. We ultimately found a way to break through the bottleneck—only this method was so heretical that if it were leaked, it would inevitably trigger social panic. Therefore, the plan was kept completely secret, and even I knew nothing of it until I was confirmed as the sole astronaut aboard the Paper Kite. This is perhaps the most audacious undertaking in human history—in a sense, we challenged God. When I learned the full contents of this mad plan, it was as if I'd been struck by a sledgehammer. My soul was shattered, scattered across the ground within me, and even the noonday sun seemed to dim. Sylvia, do you know? When you came to interview me, my heart harbored an icy secret, but seeing your eyes curve into crescents of laughter, it melted in an instant. It was such a wondrous feeling—I wonder if you've ever experienced it. I no longer feared anything in this world, and even my all-too-brief remaining time became beautiful. Thank you. You helped me shake off the fear and anxiety during those three months of training.
I asked for your business card but never called you. I didn't want to disturb you, not when I had so little time left.
I know the launch of the Paper Kite was hardly major news—at most it would occupy a small block of space in the newspaper before being buried by other, more pressing stories and eventually forgotten. Because this plan was too bold, too absurd—no one knew whether it would succeed. Even those of us at the Space Center didn't harbor much hope. But exploring the unknown is an innate human desire, isn't it? Even with only a one-in-ten-thousand chance, those mad scientists wanted to give it a try.
If the plan somehow succeeds, when the news reaches Earth, you'll know my name.
You must be brimming with curiosity right now—not about me, but about the Paper Kite. That stings a little, I admit. But I understand—as a journalist, you must be filled with curiosity about the unknown, and in that sense, we share something in common. Writing this, I suddenly regret not having the courage to ask you out, even just to call and hear your voice.
That opportunity will never come, because the Paper Kite cannot return. The other half of its fuel capacity has been taken up by a nuclear warhead with a yield of 1.4 million tons. When it detonates in outer space, I will carry the memory of your smile into oblivion forever, swallowed by the cosmos.
Perhaps, if you happen to look up that day, you might see the fireworks blooming at the edge of the sky.
Best wishes.
July 12, 2018.
2
I awoke from weightlessness, and once again I dreamed of you, dear Sylvia.
You'd never guess the position I'm in as I write this letter to you—if you saw me, you'd laugh until your teeth fell out. A lot of people want to experience weightlessness, but take my word for it: the feeling is terrible. It's like stinky tofu—tasty in small doses, but eat it every day for a week and you'd wish you were dead.
I considered taking a selfie and sending it to you, but on second thought—no. If this is how you're going to know me, a photo doesn't mean much anyway. Better that you don't know who I am; it might make my memory last longer. When you're old and gray, sitting in your rocking chair with nothing to do but look up at the sky, perhaps you'll remember that some nameless admirer once wrote you letters from hundreds of thousands of feet above the Earth. My handwriting is a bit messy—please excuse that.
By Beijing time, it's now 11:10 PM. You must be fast asleep by now. Where I am, it's not so different from a dream—everything is pitch black, vast and fathomless. Yes, I've broken through the atmosphere and am now orbiting in high Earth orbit. I haven't yet received clear orders on whether to initiate the plan.
There's been a complication. The contents of the plan have been leaked—of course, you wouldn't know about this. Only the highest levels of a few major nations are privy to these details. Once this plan is set in motion, the consequences will be monumental. The great powers have already begun their jockeying, each trying to maximize their own interests. Under these circumstances, I may have to spend a few more days orbiting up here.
Truth be told, I couldn't care less about the power struggles between those nations. No matter who comes out on top, it's always the common people who suffer. Sylvia, do you know what a 1.4-megaton nuclear bomb means? It's three hundred times more powerful than the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Its detonation will semi-permanently alter Earth's magnetic field, destroy a third of all satellites in low Earth orbit, and worse still—it will devastate Earth's protective shield against cosmic radiation, subjecting the planet to massive radiation exposure in a short period. How much environmental destruction will follow? How many people will be displaced? No one knows.
Those powerful nations playing their geopolitical games certainly don't care about such things. What they care about are more tangible political interests.
Sylvia, reading this, you must think I've gone insane. Yes, I have—everyone involved in this plan has gone insane. Though in the current space environment, the probability of my successfully initiating the nuclear device is less than 10%!
The process of a nuclear explosion is extremely complex—nothing like simply pulling a trigger. Before detonation, each piece of nuclear fuel must remain below its critical mass, maintaining a subcritical state. Once the critical threshold is breached, nuclear fission begins rapidly: atoms split and release neutrons, which in turn strike other atoms, producing even more neutrons, and so the chain continues. This process is called a "chain reaction." However, in the vacuum beyond Earth, no one can be certain whether a chain reaction can even occur, or whether it might be interrupted at any moment.
In other words, there's a very real possibility that I won't be able to activate these nuclear bombs, and instead will simply carry them with me as I orbit in high Earth orbit, over and over, until the end of my life.
If the nuclear device fails to activate, the Paper Kite and I will lose all value and be completely forgotten by the world.