Why Doesn't the Steel Melt?

On October 18, 1990, the first snow fell in Moscow early. Andre, a physics student, woke up in his dormitory and found that the memory of the time traveler had become his heaviest burden - he knew when the giant would fall, but he didn't know how to catch the falling people. When his classmate Sergey talked about "labor pain and rebirth" in fluent English and exchanged a gold-plated invitation for a ticket to the new world, Andrei tightened his grip on the cold wrench. He started by repairing the first frozen heating pipe, cultivating penicillin strains in abandoned basements, and building the most primitive mutual aid network using potatoes and coal. He united the abandoned workers' children to fight against not only the winter of minus 30 degrees Celsius, but also the wave of "rationality" sweeping everything - the cold logic packaged in shock therapy blueprints, dollar checks and "historical necessity". This is a war without smoke. One party is describing a glorious future in the salon that must be reached by sacrificing tens of millions of people, while the other party is lighting a weak fire for the dying old man in front of the boiler room. When everyone was talking about where the torrent of steel would go, only this untimely man leaned down to touch the cold pipe in the wind and snow, and asked the question that was drowned by the noise of the times: Steel, why doesn't it melt?