Chapter 178: Where’s The Professor? Where Is He!
No one can resist the temptation of the moon landing, even knowing they might never return.
Especially Gagarin at this moment.
“Are you really ready?” his wife asked, “After all, you’ve been away from frontline space training for over three years.”
Without a moment’s pause, Gagarin responded with his signature smile: “I’m ready.”
After Gagarin successfully completed the manned spaceflight mission, the Soviet Union kept their hero away from all risky sports to avoid losing him in an accident.
To avoid risks, Kamanin didn’t even want Gagarin to drink, “Gagarin is too precious to humanity to risk his life for an ordinary space flight.”
And this mission was clearly not an ordinary space flight, but the first human landing on the moon in history.
If Korolev didn’t tell Gagarin the truth, he would instead harbor doubts, so Korolev told him straight: the odds of return were less than 10%.
Korolev knew deep down this was the most optimistic estimate; as an engineer who had been designing reusable spaceships for years, Gagarin knew it too.
At this time, besides serving as deputy training director at the astronaut training facility, Gagarin was privately designing spaceships.
He was far more pessimistic than he let on, already preparing before the mission to request a suicide capsule from Moscow for high-risk missions.
During World War II and the Cold War, people on high-risk missions were equipped with suicide capsules like L-pills to avoid leaking secrets after torture.
An L-pill was usually a glass bottle containing potassium cyanide solution; biting it released the poison, quickly stopping the heart and causing brain death.
During the Cold War, America also provided them to U-2 reconnaissance pilots, but many pilots refused to carry them.
Gagarin had already considered the mission’s risks; compared to starving to death alone on the moon, he’d rather dig a pit and bury himself after the mission, ending his life with something like an L-pill.
Even with such pessimistic expectations, his determination to carry out the moon landing program remained unshaken.
Gagarin knew clearly that if he missed this moon landing, as he got further from frontline training, his window of opportunity for a future moon landing would only shrink.
And considering him this time was largely because he was a hero; at a time like this, shouldn’t heroes sacrifice?
At the Star City aerospace training center outside Moscow, Gagarin, resuming moon landing mission training, was surging with emotion; he knew these remaining six months might be the last of his life.
As humanity’s first astronaut in space, he knew the mission’s significance went beyond personal honor to national dignity and humanity’s steps in exploration.
Returning to the training field felt so familiar yet strange, like five years ago before the manned spaceflight mission.
The training projects were grueling and rigorous. In the pool simulating weightlessness, they practiced extravehicular activity, every movement demanding precision, fingers operating equipment flexibly in bulky spacesuits.
In emergency escape drills, alarms blared piercingly; they had to unlock the hatch and detach from the simulator in seconds.
Psychological stress testing was even crueler, with prolonged isolation and uncertainty testing their will, but Gagarin stayed calm, no worse than the astronauts around him who were once under his guidance and now competitors.
In training breaks, he abandoned his drinking habit, often sitting alone in the library corner, reading Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy for inner calm and motivation.
With that purpose, Gogol and Pasternak were off-limits, and Pasternak wasn’t available in the Soviet Union anyway.
On a cold morning in November 1964, Soviet Space Agency high-level officials gathered all astronauts to announce the final selection.
The meeting room atmosphere was heavy, cold wind seeping through window cracks, bringing a biting chill.
Everyone held their breath, awaiting the result.
Korolev spoke slowly: “After comprehensive evaluation and strict screening, we have decided that Yuri Gagarin will execute the moon landing mission.”
Almost simultaneously, America Washington D.C. was immersed in nightfall, streets filled with tension and anticipation.
The White House and Capitol Building were lit up, media reporters bustling in the cold autumn night.
The public gathered by televisions or public places, holding their breath for the presidential election results.
This election pitted incumbent President Lyndon Johnson against Elephant Party candidate Fred T, with the outcome deciding America’s future direction.
This was Washington, not the southern states; southern states rednecks would like Fred! Washington public thought so.
For pushing the Civil Rights Act, Lyndon Johnson was notorious in southern states like Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, but Fred was equally notorious in northern states.
As a New York local, Fred’s support rate in New York was less than half of Lyndon Johnson’s, even with many Chinese descent voting for Fred, showing how low it was.
America’s public awaited the results.
Lin Ran and Jenny were also awaiting the results.
“Professor, didn’t President Lyndon Johnson invite you to the White House?” Jenny asked.
Lin Ran nodded: “Of course, he said he hoped I’d witness his victory moment; I said rather than witnessing his victory, I’d rather seize this moment of vacation to stay with you.
He said he completely understood.”
Jenny laughed: “Professor, when did you start saying witty things like that?”
Smelling the fireplace wood burning, Lin Ran said: “I’ve always been good at making excuses.”
Jenny said: “I’m a White House reporter, I could go to the White House too; your excuse isn’t clever at all.”
Lin Ran shook his head: “No no no, my excuse is perfect; at the White House I’d be stuck in the Oval Office, you’d be in the press office; we’d be in the same place but wouldn’t even see each other.
Where’s the comfort of now, nestled in a warm room waiting for the TV to tell us the results.”
Sipping his whiskey, Lin Ran continued: “Plus Fred is my friend, Johnson is my friend; I don’t want to make either uncomfortable.”
Hearing Fred’s name, Jenny frowned: “Professor, sorry, but Fred is an 18th-century racial discriminationist; I don’t want to say that about your friend, but he’s undoubtedly scum.”
Lin Ran worked mostly at Redstone Arsenal with little time for deep talks with Jenny; he thought and said: “Jenny, I won’t deny Fred’s character has big problems.
Including him deliberately allowing supporters to humiliate blacks at rallies; that’s his moral failing.
But treating him as an ordinary friend is fine.
Your friends shape your environment, like your real-life ecosystem with all sorts of animals; if you accept lions and tigers as part of the ecosystem, you must tolerate hyenas and vultures too.
If you choose friends only by moral view, your ecosystem becomes uniformly ‘clean’ but your cognition narrows too.
Personal moral character isn’t fully self-determined but deeply influenced by social structure, class status, cultural norms, and historical background.
A person’s moral corruption may result from social injustice, oppression, or unequal resource allocation, not just personal fault.
Poverty, discrimination, or lack of education can label certain behaviors as morally corrupt.
Thus, refusing association ignores how social environment shapes behavior, failing to understand root causes deeply.”
Jenny explained: “Professor, I get your point, but Fred’s background isn’t ordinary; he comes from a wealthy family.”
Lin Ran said: “So befriending Fred is an observation sample of human diversity.”
Whoever says Fred isn’t good, Fred is perfect; Lin Ran compared Fred and old T for endless fun.
This year old T was running too; Lin Ran even wanted to send old T the original recording of whites chanting “Nigger in the White House” at Fred’s campaign rallies, to spark soul resonance, risk political correctness, and rally rednecks to sing it.
“Okay, professor, I get your point,” Jenny said unwillingly, then asked with interest: “Professor, so do you hope Fred or Lyndon Johnson wins?”
Lin Ran said: “Either, they’re both my friends!”
Jenny pressed: “Professor, be honest!”
Lin Ran leaned to Jenny’s ear whispering: “Alright, I still hope Fred becomes president more; Johnson is a bit too boring.
But from a president’s perspective, Johnson would undoubtedly be better.”
Jenny wailed: “No! If Fred wins, I’m fleeing to Toronto.”
Lin Ran asked: “You’re abandoning me alone to Toronto?”
Jenny said: “Professor, when you return to New York, I’ll return to New York too.
Okay, if Fred really wins, I definitely won’t cover White House news anymore.
I’ll switch to book publishing business.
But good news: Fred definitely won’t win.”
Just like Lin Ran’s taught method, Robert hinted his brothers had beef with Lyndon Johnson, who had motive, ability, possibility to collaborate with Hoover on crimes.
Robert and Johnson indeed had bad relations, serious contradictions.
Even without Lin Ran, without V, Robert would resign as Attorney General this year.
Lyndon Johnson brought out Jacqueline; like Jenny, she couldn’t accept a candidate like Fred succeeding her husband.
To Jacqueline, if Fred won, America would regress a century to when blacks couldn’t eat at the table.
Under dual effects, Lyndon Johnson gained more voter support, while Fred could only hold his conservative voters.
At 8 p.m., polls closed, counting began.
At 8 p.m. Eastern Time, counting spread nationwide rapidly.
In the White House Oval Office, Lyndon Johnson sat at the desk, staff around him, phones ringing nonstop.
On the television screen, CBS and NBC anchors analyzed preliminary data.
Johnson’s gaze swept the room, tone firm: “We’ve done our best; now it’s up to the results.”
A faint smile on his face betrayed confidence in victory.
Staff recorded state counting progress, atmosphere tense yet expectant.
“Bill, where’s the professor now?” Lyndon Johnson suddenly asked, as if remembering something.
Bill Moyers, buried in data, looked up: “Probably in Washington; I heard McNamara say he had lunch with the professor today.”
Lyndon Johnson thought: the professor in Washington not New York already shows his support; “Good, I know; keep counting.”
Meanwhile in New York, at Fred’s campaign headquarters, the atmosphere was heavier.
As television numbers updated showing Johnson’s lead widening.
Fred stood in the team center, hands in pockets, gaze heavy.
He whispered to a supporter nearby: “We can win! The media knows we can win; it’s a deliberate fake image!”
He thought inwardly: “Whatever the result, my voice has reached nationwide; whether back to business or politics, I’m no longer the old Fred.
The Hearst family rose from a small publisher via two congressmen to Hearst empire; I as half-president, potentially full president, why can’t I build T into a Hearst-like existence?”
Fred’s ambition had been fully ignited by Lin Ran.
His tone steady but unable to hide disappointment.
Supporters surrounded him, softly encouraging to ease tension.
By 10 p.m., major stations predicted Lyndon Johnson’s landslide victory.
Washington streets erupted in cheers from Johnson supporters.
People held signs reading “Johnson Victory” and “Great Society” slogans.
Fireworks bloomed in the night sky, lighting cold streets.
In bars, supporters toasted celebrations, TV news amplifying their laughter.
This was Washington, almost no Fred supporters.
Even if any, Fred supporters wouldn’t dare gather in a bar, fearing Washington D.C. blacks coming knocking.
In the White House, Johnson nodded lightly at media predictions.
He told staff: “This is not just my victory, but America’s people’s victory, civilization’s victory over barbarism!”
His voice low and powerful, staff applauded, office atmosphere easing.
At 11 p.m. Eastern Time, Johnson stood at the White House podium, addressing the nation on his victory speech.
In a dark suit, smiling, tone forceful:
“Tonight, we chose a path of unity, a ‘Great Society’ future.”
TV lenses caught his firm gaze and slight smile, cheers from Washington streets.
Nixon and Robert Finch at Fred’s campaign headquarters slipped out before Fred could speak after results.
Back at Nixon’s New York law firm, prepared whiskey and martinis hinted they’d long expected Fred’s loss.
Robert Finch drank whiskey, Nixon liked gin martini. His biographer noted Nixon occasionally drank martinis with Kissinger at the White House.
“The professor is a genius! How did he find Fred!” Nixon’s voice betrayed excitement.
But still low, avoiding being overheard.
After all, in the campaign’s latter half, he attended nearly every Fred rally to cheer.
Outsiders saw Nixon as Fred’s die-hard supporter, sparing no effort.
Besides a few, no one knew Nixon hoped Fred lost; if Fred won, he wouldn’t know what to do.
“I thought I was disliked enough by media; how did the professor find an extreme like Fred, who’s only been in media a year, already far more hated than me!
First time seeing such a character.
The professor is amazing.”
Nixon felt only that the professor planned flawlessly.
This flawlessness not just effective strategies, but when complaining to Lin Ran about media dislike and smear campaign attacks,
Lin Ran’s Fred not only crushed in primaries, lost big in general, but sucked all media hate value.
Even with Nixon endorsing Fred, hate stuck to Fred; media coverage of Nixon was far more neutral.
For Nixon, solving two problems: from repeated losses to repeated fights after losses, media hate zeroed, even hostile reporters privately said compared to Fred, Elephant Party candidate as you is great, at least normal.
After this election, Nixon was in awe of Lin Ran.
One whiskey down, Finch felt tipsy; if Nixon became president, he’d rise too.
He sighed: “Right, the professor is a master-level figure; Fred chosen perfectly.
Looking back, no one else could match Fred’s effect!”
Nixon’s voice echoed in the quiet night office: “To the professor!”
Their glasses clinked crisply; Lin Ran in Jenny’s arms sneezed: “Who’s talking about me? Johnson?”
If Fred knew, he’d think: isn’t this all my achievement?
Meanwhile at Fred’s campaign headquarters, the television screen played Johnson’s speech.
Fred stood before the crowd, arms crossed, listening quietly.
Supporters behind him some heads down silent, some eyes teary.
Sigh, capital, sigh, blacks.
Capital and blacks synergized to make our king lose.
Fred turned, lightly patted an assistant’s shoulder, whispered: “We did our best; that’s enough.”
“No, Mr. President, we haven’t lost!” the assistant said loudly.
Fred paused slightly, then nodded: “Right! We haven’t lost; in four years we’ll come back!”
At 1 a.m., Fred took the podium, formally conceding defeat.
In a black suit, voice steady and low: “I congratulate President Johnson, and thank every supporter. Though we didn’t win, conservative spirit endures.”
“Nigger in the White House!” shouts rose from below.
Supporters gave hot applause and anti-black chants, sensing a future swept by blacks nationwide.
Now heretics, sixty years later this footage unearthed on social media goes viral; some whites nearly revere Fred as martyr, emotion shifting to his son.
Despite the bitter atmosphere. Speech ended, Fred turned away, raising hands high signaling he hadn’t lost!
His silhouette lonely yet dignified under lights.
The entire election night, Washington D.C. steeped in complex emotions. Johnson supporters danced in streets, fireworks and cheers nonstop.
Good thing Fred didn’t win, Washington D.C. public thought.
Martin Luther King watched the election with assistants; after results, black bars cheered.
“Not a black president, but the worst didn’t happen!” an assistant said. “But I still don’t get why the professor has a friend like Fred.”
Martin Luther King thought then said: “That’s the professor’s greatness! To him all beings equal, a Chinese philosophy concept.”
Near the White House, reporters recorded this historic moment, flashes in the night.
In city outskirts, sparse Fred supporter groups dispersed; radio echoed Lyndon Johnson, then click off, air left with low sighs.
“Gentlemen, the Soviet Union’s moon landing program is in final stages, their moon landing window this month.” Smith’s voice low and urgent, fingers tapping the report to suppress tension. “We must act immediately, or America loses space race lead.”
Lyndon Johnson in the Oval Office presidential seat already had a headache; just became president, and IA says Soviets landing on moon?
“Where’s the professor? Where is he!”
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