"Science should not only report success but also adversity. This failed monkey is just as important as the one that stood up. It tells us where the boundaries of this thod lie."
At the twentieth minute, he flipped to that page.
It was a photo of a monkey standing.
Not a blurry video screenshot, but a high-resolution photograph printed on photo paper. The monkey’s forelimbs were not holding onto anything, its hind limbs were firmly on the ground, its body upright, head slightly raised, looking at the cara.
Soone in the eting room gasped.
"This is M7," Manstein said, "Twenty weeks after surgery, this shot—"
He flipped to the next page.
"This is M7 walking."
The photos were a continuous sequence, six photos lined up, docunting the complete process of M7 taking the first two steps. The first photo shows the right hind leg lifting off the ground; the second, swinging forward; the third, the foot touching down; the fourth, bearing weight; the fifth, the left hind leg lifting; the sixth, the body’s center of gravity moving forward.
Six photos, two seconds of movent, broken down into six frozen monts.
"This is not compensation, not dragging, not unconscious spasms," Manstein’s voice was a bit tight, "This is genuine, nerve-driven, purposeful walking. The signal is sent from the brain, traveling through the nerve pathways below the damaged area, reaching the muscles of the hind limbs. This pathway was completely severed on the first day after surgery. Now, it has reconnected."
He paused, glanced at Yang Ping.
Yang Ping sat in the front row, hands crossed on the table, expression unchanged. But Manstein noticed that his fingers slightly tightened.
"Professor," Manstein said, "I would like you to co up and look at a slide."
Yang Ping stood up and walked to the podium. Manstein shifted aside, tapped a few keys, bringing up an immunofluorescence staining image of spinal cord tissue.
"This is the cross-section of the damaged area, red is the neuron marker, green is the axon marker, blue is the cell nucleus. Look here..."
He circled a section of the image with a laser pointer.
"This is the damage center; under normal circumstances, this should be a blank area with no nerve fibers crossing it. But look, the red axons have grown from upstream, passed through the damaged area, and ford new synaptic connections downstream. This is the first ti in primate animals we have proven that axons can reconnect."
Yang Ping stared at the image for a long ti without speaking.
Everyone in the eting room watched him.
"Magnify!" Yang Ping said.
Manstein magnified the area.
"Magnify it again!"
Magnify again!
On the screen, the red axon fibers were clearly visible, like tiny streams starting upstream of the damaged area, crossing what was once thought an impossible barrier, and reconverging downstream.
Yang Ping straightened, turning to face the people in the eting room.
"The significance of this result is not six steps, not 62%, not the beautiful fluorescent image. The significance of this result is that our previous hypothesis is correct, it is universal, original cell repair can be initiated, nerves can reconnect. This isn’t coincidence, not luck, it’s a biological process that can be induced, regulated, replicated."
He paused.
"This ans that spinal cord injury isn’t the end; it’s just a fault that can be repaired."
There was a mont of silence in the eting room, then applause broke out. Not the kind of ceremonial, perfunctory applause, but the kind brewed for a long ti, finally released, heartfelt clapping. So stood, others followed, eventually everyone stood.
Manstein stood at the podium, a bit overwheld by the applause. He glanced at Yang Ping, who was also applauding, looking at him, nodding slightly.
The nod ant: This is your due reward.
After the applause subsided, Manstein continued speaking for another forty minutes. He went through all the data, answered over ten questions, then closed the folder and said sothing no one expected.
"My visit to China this ti is not just for reporting but also with a request."
He looked at Yang Ping.
"Professor, I would like to set up the next phase of research in China. Not collaboration, but moving my laboratory here. Conditions in Germany are excellent, equipnt advanced, but there is one thing Germany doesn’t have."
He paused.
"Here, there is you, the source of the three-dinsional directed gene theory. I don’t want to conduct research across half of the Earth; I want to stay at the birthplace of this theory and walk this path alongside the person who proposed it."
The eting room fell silent again.
Yang Ping looked at Manstein, watching for several seconds.
"Are you sure?" Yang Ping asked.
"Sure."
"What about your team? Your students, your postdocs, your technicians."
"I asked them," Manstein replied, "They said they have had enough of Germany, want to co to China to eat hotpot; others are hesitant, so decide to stay. I respect everyone’s choice. But the core team, those willing to co with , includes seven people."
"Seven people," Yang Ping repeated.
"Seven people, plus , eight. A minimal operational laboratory."
Yang Ping leaned back in his chair, thought for a mont.
"The institute doesn’t have extra laboratory space right now, but I will help coordinate to provide you with an independent lab within Sanbo Hospital."
"Professor, does this an you agree?" Manstein didn’t expect Yang Ping to be so straightforward.
"No reason not to agree."
Yang Ping extended his hand.
Manstein took it.
Two n shook hands in front of over fifty people, with no flowers, no champagne, no caras. Just one German and one Chinese person, on a morning, in an ordinary eting room, shook hands once.
Many years later, when people look back at the history of spinal cord injury repair, they will call this the "Yang-Manstein handshake."
After the eting ended, everyone dispersed. Yang Ping took Manstein to the canteen for lunch. It was crowded at noon, a bit noisy. Manstein carried his tray, looking at the dishes behind the window, feeling a familiar sensation.
"Braised pork."
"Mapo tofu."
"Roast goose!"
"Char siu!"
"Sweet potato syrup!"
He wanted them all.
Yang Ping laughed, "Don’t rush, take your ti eating, can you finish it all?"
"Yes!" Manstein’s eyes fixed on another dish.
The two carried their trays to a corner and sat down; Manstein tasted the Mapo tofu, his face turned red instantly, then frantically gulped water. Yang Ping watched nearby, laughing a rare, completely relaxed laugh.
"How has this gotten spicier without eating it for a few years?"
Manstein drank his third cup of water, tears almost flowing.
"You’re a Nobel Prize winner, can’t even handle this bit of spice?"
"The Nobel doesn’t teach you to eat spicy!"
"Professor, I’m serious, thank you."
"You’ve already said that."
Manstein said, "I can’t say it enough tis. Do you know what was the hardest part when I was conducting this experint in Germany? Not the technology, not the funding, not the monkeys. It was the loneliness. No one in the world believed what I was doing was right. Every group eting, my students looked at like they were watching an obsessed old man. Only you knew what I was working on; only you believed this path could be walked."
Yang Ping picked up a piece of braised pork, chewed slowly, not speaking.
"Now the monkey has stood up," Manstein said, "I can finally stand upright in front of you and say—Professor, I have not let you down."
Yang Ping put down his chopsticks, looking at Manstein, who now resembled a young student.
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