Chen Hao closed his notebook and tossed his pen onto the table. He stared at the time in the lower right corner of the screen: 1:17 AM.
"We can't keep going like this," he said.
Susan looked up, stopping as she turned the page after finishing the third hand-drawn illustration. Carl's fingers were still on the keyboard, the terminal running the last batch of mass spectrometer data. Nana stood in the corner, the optical module dimly lit, like a light that hadn't been turned off.
“I did the math.” Chen Hao propped himself up from his chair, slapping his chubby hand on the edge of the conference table. “In the past seventy-two hours, the four of us have slept for less than ten hours in total. I drank three energy drinks yesterday, and my urine turned green.”
No one responded.
“This isn’t about who’s toughest.” He pointed to the observation records plastered on the wall. “We’ve just made some progress on the night-blooming jasmine issue. How many more grasses are there to investigate? How many insects are there to identify? If anyone has a moment of lapse in judgment and misremembers the data, all our previous work will be for nothing.”
Susan put down her pen. "What are you trying to say?"
"Let's establish rules." Chen Hao pulled up his portable terminal and projected a simple structural diagram. "Let's set the basics for daily routines, resource allocation, and behavioral norms."
There are three lines of different colors connecting several squares in the picture. The handwriting is crooked and messy, as if it was hastily written.
"First, the work-rest schedule." He pointed to one point. "From now on, you must have six consecutive hours of rest every day. You can't break it up. Anyone who dares to stay up all night will be banned from the lab the next day."
“You were still guarding the adsorption membrane last night,” Carl said.
“That’s why I have the right to speak now.” Chen Hao didn’t shy away. “I’m not afraid of you saying I have double standards. I was the first to break the rules, and the first to propose a change.”
Susan gave a soft hum.
"Second, resources." He moved on to the next section, "Tools, equipment, and sample collection will be allocated according to task requirements. Whoever is responsible for something will be in charge of the items. Record usage after use, and compensate for damage—Nana, can you keep accounts?"
Nana nodded. "The database supports an item tracking system, and permissions and usage logs can be set."
"Okay." Chen Hao breathed a sigh of relief. "Then from now on, if anyone takes something and doesn't return it, I'll put their name on the wall."
“Naive,” Susan said.
"As long as it works." Chen Hao grinned. "Third, the bottom line for behavior. Three rules: no wasting materials, no unauthorized alteration of experimental parameters, and no damage to public equipment. One violation results in a warning, two violations result in restricted access, three violations... Let's vote to see if he stays or not."
The room was quiet for a few seconds.
Karl slowly crossed his hands on the table. "What you're saying is essentially about preventing individuals from affecting overall efficiency."
“Yes.” Chen Hao nodded.
“But it’s too lenient,” Carl said. “There’s no oversight mechanism. Who’s going to judge whether it’s wasteful? Who’s going to determine if the changes were made without authorization? The rules you set still have to be enforced by people. And with so many people involved, subjectivity comes into play.”
"So what do you mean?" Chen Hao asked.
“We need arbitrators,” Carl said, “or rotating administrators. They should rotate every three days, responsible for recording violations, initiating discussions, and enforcing penalties. Otherwise, the rules are just paper.”
Susan frowned. "Too much control will restrict our actions. We're doing things that are uncertain right now, and many of our discoveries are the result of trial and error. If we have to report every time we use the equipment, who would dare to take risks?"
“I’m not trying to stifle innovation,” Carl said. “I’m worried that people will gamble collective resources on their personal ideas.”
"So, do you think I count?" Chen Hao suddenly laughed. "Last night you insisted on using a screen protector to remove secretions. Doesn't that count as taking the equipment for a risk?"
“That’s a reasonable deduction based on existing data,” Carl said. “It’s not something made out of thin air.”
“But when I say it, it sounds like nonsense.” Chen Hao shrugged. “If you really follow the process, you have to have meetings for approval, write proposals, and wait for voting. By the time it’s approved, the bugs will have already moved away.”
“So the rules need to be flexible,” Susan chimed in. “We can’t be all-encompassing. For example, the rule ‘no parameter changes’ could have an exception: emergency adjustments are allowed to be explained afterward, and as long as the result can be reproduced, it’s not considered a violation.”
“Then someone has to determine what constitutes an ‘emergency’,” Carl said.
“Then let’s set a time limit,” Chen Hao said. “For example, an explanation must be submitted within two hours of the changes being made; otherwise, it will be considered intentional concealment.”
“That’s feasible,” Nana interjected. “I can set up automatic reminders and log marking functions, so any parameter changes will leave operation traces and timestamps.”
"You're quite proactive," Chen Hao said, glancing at her.
“Maintaining system stability aligns with my operational logic,” she said. “Chaos leads to data contamination and increases the cost of error correction.”
"Listen to this," Chen Hao raised his eyebrows at the others, "Robots understand things better than humans."
Susan didn't laugh. "But I'm still worried. Once we start writing reports, keeping records, and going through procedures, everyone will just become a form-filler. The truly important things will be left unattended."
“If you don’t fill out the form, how will anyone know you did anything?” Carl retorted.
“The results are right here.” Susan pointed to the diagrams on the wall. “The changes in the night-blooming jasmine, the insect behavior, the increase in X7 concentration—these are all visible. Do we really need to write a bunch of words to prove them?”
“Writing is meant to be understandable to others,” Carl said. “A person’s memory is unreliable, and emotions can affect judgment. We need standardized ways of expression.”
"So what's your ideal situation?" Susan asked. "Everyone wearing the same clothes, eating the same food, clocking in every day, and leaving get off work after completing the required tasks?"
“If that can guarantee a steady progress in the research, why not?” Carl said. “We’re like walking in the dark right now, occasionally bumping into the right door and thinking that this path must lead to success. But it’s probably just luck.”
“But sometimes it just comes down to luck,” Chen Hao said. “No matter how accurate your calculations are, you can’t predict that the insects will come out to scavenge in the middle of the night. Is this kind of thing written into the rules? ‘All members must observe the underside of the leaves between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m.’”
A brief silence fell over the room.
Nana suddenly spoke up: "I can provide a reference model."
Everyone looked at her.
“The database contains 23 organizational models of small human scientific research groups,” she said. “These include polar research stations, deep-sea laboratories, and space outposts. They have developed different management structures based on their size, mission type, and survival pressures.”
"Speak like a human being," Chen Hao said.
“Some rely on strict systems to maintain order, while others rely on a high degree of autonomy to stimulate creativity,” Nana continued. “But those that ultimately survive are often a combination of both—with fixed core processes and flexible peripheral operations.”
"In other words," Chen Hao stroked his chin, "being rigid when you need to be, and letting loose when you need to be?"
“That’s one way to understand it,” Nana said.
“Then let’s compromise.” Chen Hao picked up a pen and scribbled on the projector. “We must stick to the schedule; it’s essential for survival. Resource allocation will be open and transparent; whoever wants to use it must register. We’ll retain the three bottom lines of the code of conduct, but we’ll add a ‘special circumstances filing channel’—whoever makes any temporary changes must record an explanation on the spot, and the information will be recorded in the system afterward.”
"Who reviews the filing?" Carl asked.
"A rotating administrator," Chen Hao said. "Just like you said, a new one will be assigned every three days, decided by drawing lots."
“Fair,” Karl nodded.
“But I have one condition,” Susan said. “There must be a ‘Free Exploration Day’ once a month. On that day, there are no restrictions on topics, no attendance records, no reporting required, and you can do whatever you want. Even lying down and sleeping counts as participation.”
"Why?" Chen Hao asked.
“Because inspiration isn’t like toothpaste,” she said. “It can appear when you’re daydreaming, walking, or even dreaming. If we’re all just cogs in a machine, we’ll get stuck sooner or later.”
Carl frowned, but did not object.
“Okay,” Chen Hao agreed, “but if anyone breaks the equipment that day, they have to fix it themselves.”
"Deal." Susan held out her hand.
Chen Hao gave her a high five.
Carl looked at them, then slowly raised his hand and touched the table. "At least the direction is clear now."
Nana's optical module flashed twice. "I have started organizing the social organization model data and expect to generate a preliminary recommendation document in thirty minutes."
"Don't make it too thick," Chen Hao said. "I can't understand long articles."
“I will use lists and flowcharts,” she said.
"That's alright."
Chen Hao sat back in his chair and rubbed his neck. He looked up at the clock on the wall; the hands were almost pointing to two o'clock.
"That's all for today," he said. "We'll continue at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Anyone who's late will have to sweep the floor."
“You just said you need to sleep six hours,” Carl reminded him.
"So I'm going to sleep now." Chen Hao stood up, waving his phone. "Set three alarms, even if they explode, I'll still wake up."
He walked to the door, then turned back.
“To be honest,” he smiled, “I never studied for exams before, always thinking I could just improvise. And I always failed. This time is different. We have something going for us now, and we can’t let anyone be lazy or too crazy and go astray.”
No one spoke.
He opened the door, walked out, and his footsteps gradually faded into the distance.
There were three people left in the room.
Susan stared at the rough structural diagram on the projector, tapping her fingers lightly on the table.
Carl opened his notebook and wrote down a line: **Draft Rules for the Implementation of the Oversight Mechanism**.
Nana's optical module kept flashing, and the screen began scrolling through data entries.
Susan suddenly said, "Have you considered whether these rules will still be applicable when the number of participants increases?"
Karl stopped writing.
Nana's data stream paused for a moment.
“You mean…” Carl began.
“I’m not talking about now,” Susan said. “I’m talking about later. What if the people who come aren’t just scientists? What if there are wounded soldiers, civilians, or children?”
Carl closed his notebook. "That's a problem for the next stage."
“But problems always arise,” she said.
Nana said softly, "Based on historical cases, once an organization grows to more than fifteen people, an informal power structure begins to form."
"What do you mean?" Susan asked.
“It means,” Carl stood up, “that someone will rebel.”
He walked to the window; it was pitch black outside.
His shadow was reflected on the glass, his shoulders were straight.
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