Chapter 431: Chapter 200: A Tower on the Ruins
The former Carnegie Steel Factory, Blast Furnace No. 2.
This industrial behemoth, which once spewed flames and molten steel day and night, had been silent for twenty years. Tonight, it roared to life once more with a deafening clamor.
Only this time, it wasn’t the noise of blast furnaces that made the air tremble, but the sound waves of heavy metal.
Inside the massive factory building, stage lights now hung from the crane girders once used to transport molten steel.
Beams of light cut through the dust motes floating in the air, landing on a stage welded together from scrap steel plates.
A band called "Iron Lung" was roaring on stage.
The lead singer was a burly-necked truck driver, the guitarist a welder from a construction site in the South District, and the drummer a community college student who had just received a scholarship.
They were dressed in the grease-stained work pants and tank tops they wore on the job. The guitarist’s safety goggles still hung around his neck, bouncing wildly with the rhythm.
"This is our city!"
The lead singer roared into the microphone, the veins on his neck bulging like earthworms.
"This is our steel!"
Below the stage, three hundred young people and workers fresh off their shifts were packed together.
They waved wrenches, hard hats, or empty beer bottles they had just finished.
Sweat, alcohol, and the old smell of machine oil mingled, fermenting in the heat.
It was a coarse, primitive, and powerful scent.
Leo Wallace stood on the second-floor maintenance catwalk, leaning on the railing and watching the roiling sea of people below.
They had transformed this once-despairing ruin into the Pittsburgh Workers’ Palace of Culture.
Besides the central performance area, the surrounding corridors, originally used for piling slag, had been converted into an exhibition hall.
A photography exhibition titled "The Labor History of Pittsburgh" was currently on display.
Black-and-white photographs hung on the walls.
There were the terrified eyes of child laborers in the early 20th-century coal mines, the determined profiles of female workers on assembly lines during World War II, and the long lines for relief food during the Great Depression.
And at the end of these old photos were new ones, taken in recent months.
Scenes of asphalt being paved in the South District, the moment the first pile was driven for the Inland Port, and a child in a community cafeteria with sauce smeared all over their mouth.
History had come full circle here.
People looked at the photos, seeing their fathers’ generation and also seeing themselves in the present.
Here, they found their place, their own coordinates as people of Pittsburgh.
’It’s loud.’
Roosevelt’s voice echoed in Leo’s mind.
’Louder than the cannons I heard at the Navy Department.’
’But this kind of noise sounds healthy.’
’It signifies vitality.’
Leo smiled and turned toward a side hall.
Passing through a heavy, soundproof door, the roar of heavy metal instantly faded to a muffled background thrum.
The side hall was a lecture room converted from an old warehouse.
It was brightly lit, and dozens of folding chairs were filled with people.
Most of the audience wore dark blue work clothes. Some had just come from construction sites, their pant cuffs still dotted with mud.
Their hands were rough and chapped, with dirt permanently lodged in their nailbeds.
But right now, dozens of pairs of eyes were completely focused on the lectern.
An old man with graying hair stood at the lectern.
Professor Davis.
The head of the University of Pittsburgh’s history department, the same academic authority who once urged Leo to give up his research on Roosevelt and apply for corporate funding instead.
Now, he was dressed in just a shirt.
Fine beads of sweat dotted his forehead as he held a piece of chalk, drawing a complex curve on the blackboard.
"...So, that’s why the Great Depression of 1929 happened."
Professor Davis’s voice was strong and clear. He was trying to use the simplest language possible to explain profound economic principles.
"When there’s overproduction, but workers’ wages aren’t enough to buy the goods they themselves produce, the cycle breaks."
"It’s like you build a thousand cars, but you can’t even afford to buy a single tire."
"The capitalists lock their profits in a safe instead of paying you. The money stops flowing, the factories shut down, and you lose your jobs."
A low murmur of discussion rose from the audience.
An old fitter sitting in the front row raised his hand.
"Professor," the old fitter stood up, his voice trembling slightly. "According to what you’re saying, if the wages we get now are enough to buy the things we make, then a crisis won’t happen, right?"
Davis froze for a moment.
"In theory, yes," Davis replied. "But that requires a fair system of distribution, strong Unions, and government intervention."
"So is that what the Mayor is doing now?" another, younger plumber asked. "He’s helping us earn money and spend it. Is he trying to stop another Great Depression?"
Davis looked at the young man.
If it had been one of his graduate students, they might have asked about the Keynesian multiplier effect or the impact of the money supply.
But the questions these workers asked cut straight to the heart of the matter.
"Yes."
Davis nodded solemnly.
"He is trying to build a new cycle, one where the producers can also be the consumers."
A wave of understanding murmurs swept through the classroom.
Here, knowledge was no longer an ornament in an Ivory Tower; it had become a tool for the workers to understand their own destiny.
The lecture ended.
The workers gave a standing ovation.
Professor Davis put down the chalk and wiped the dust from his hands.
Leo walked up and handed him a glass of water.
"That was a great lecture, Professor."
Davis took the glass and had a sip.
He looked at the workers filing out, still passionately discussing economic principles, his expression complex.
"Leo,"
Davis said with a sigh.
"All those years ago, in my office, I told you to be more realistic."
"I told you that Roosevelt’s methods were outdated, that you should study how to help corporations make money."
"Back then, I thought you were an idealist who didn’t know how the world worked."
Davis looked at his former student.
"But I never expected this."
"The reality you’ve created is more vivid than any theory in a book."
"Look at these people," Davis said, gesturing to the dispersing crowd. "I’ve taught at the university my whole life. Most of my students were just there for the credits, to get a good job."
"But these people... they truly want to know *why*."
"They want to know why they’re poor, why the factories closed, why the world is the way it is."
"There’s a hunger in their eyes."
Davis clapped Leo on the shoulder.
"You haven’t just filled their stomachs, Leo."
"You’ve also ignited their minds."
"When a person starts to think about the relationship between his fate and the world, he’s no longer just a laborer."
"He’s a citizen."
Leo looked at Davis.
"Thank you for coming, Professor."
"I’ll be back," Davis said, straightening his clothes. "Next week, I plan to talk about the labor acts in the Roosevelt New Deal. I think they’ll be interested."
Leo saw Professor Davis out of the side hall.
He returned to the second-floor maintenance catwalk.
Outside, the concert had reached its climax.
The lead singer was screaming an original song about steel and fire, while the young people below were moshing furiously.
The entire workshop was shaking.
It was the vibration of life itself.
And further outside, on the construction sites, bulldozers were still roaring.
This was a living city.
It had flesh and blood, thoughts, anger, and joy.
Leo leaned on the railing, looking down on it all.
He felt a profound sense of satisfaction.
’This is what I wanted.’
’This is civilization.’
Roosevelt’s voice sounded in his mind.
’When people have the leisure to listen to music, the energy to ponder economics, and when they start to care about their own history...’
’...that is the entire meaning of our struggle.’
’We build governments, we levy taxes, we build infrastructure, not to make the numbers look good.’
’It’s to let them live like human beings.’
Roosevelt paused for a moment.
’Enjoy this moment, my boy.’
’Watch them laugh, watch them dance, watch them think.’
’This is your greatest reward.’
Leo nodded.
Watching the truck driver lead singer headbanging wildly on stage, a slight smile touched his lips.
’But, remember, Leo.’
Roosevelt’s tone suddenly shifted.
’Beautiful things are always fragile.’
’A fleeting prosperity is the easiest thing to attract greedy eyes.’
’The fire you’ve lit here is too bright.’
’It has not only illuminated Pittsburgh, but also the eyes hiding in the darkness.’
’The wolves outside the window have already smelled blood.’
Leo’s smile vanished.
He lifted his head, looking toward the high exhaust windows.
Through the thick, dust-caked glass, he could see the pitch-black night sky outside.
In the depths of that darkness—in Harrisburg, in Philadelphia, in the skyscrapers of Washington...
...his enemies were regrouping.
The Republican Party would not be content to lose Pennsylvania.
The Establishment Faction would not tolerate an uncontrollable, independent fiefdom.
They were sharpening their knives.
Leo turned, his back to the boisterous stage, and walked toward the exit shrouded in shadow.
Just then, the phone in his pocket vibrated.
Leo stopped and took out his phone.
The cold light of the screen was somewhat glaring in the dim passage.
The sender was Murphy.
The hearing for the "National Strategic Supply Chain Resilience Act" needs you. Pack your bags. We need you in Washington.
Leo stared at the words, his thumb hovering over the screen for a moment before he pressed the power button to turn it off.
Darkness descended once more.
’What’s coming has finally arrived.’
The brief period of peace shattered completely in that instant.
"Let’s go, Mr. President."
Leo pushed open the heavy iron door and stepped into the boundless night.
"The storm is here."
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