Chapter 37

"Hey, what's this? A novel written by that Chinese Hu?" Scott laughed, pointing at Badala, who was holding a stack of manuscripts that Hu Wenhai had forcefully given him.

From the traces on the photocopied pages and the handwriting, it was clear that these manuscripts spanned a considerable period of time, with the edges of the copies often showing signs of curling. However, the elegant handwritten English letters indicated that the author must have had a good English education, which surprised Badala a bit.

"Indeed, it's hard to believe that China has such excellent English literary education, allowing a young man like Hu to write so many works in English. Hey, even if these things are worthless garbage, it's impressive that he could write so much!"

"In Hollywood, there's no shortage of hardworking screenwriters. I think you're wasting your time, Badala." Scott shook his head and said, "Can a young man from mainland China understand what American spirit is? Without the cultural atmosphere, I don't think anything valuable can be produced."

"Ha, Scott, your standards are a bit too high." Badala shrugged indifferently and smiled, "You know, this is the kind of work we producers do. I receive so many incomprehensible scripts every day that they could fill a room! In fact, I don't plan to read them all. A person's talent can be determined by just a hundred words they write."

"Let me take a look." Scott casually pulled a manuscript from Badala's arms and read the title aloud: "The Da Vinci Code? Oh, an interesting name."

"The writing is quite convincing, but how could there be no guards in the Louvre at night in Paris..."

At first, Scott could occasionally point out flaws, but as he read on, his complaints gradually decreased. The New York taxi moved slowly through the congested city, providing a decent reading environment.

It wasn't until the taxi suddenly stopped that Scott's hand trembled. He heard the black driver in front announce the fare and suddenly woke up.

Not only Scott, but Badala had also been engrossed in a manuscript without realizing it. At that moment, they looked at each other and saw a hint of surprise in each other's eyes!

Scott paid the fare, pushed open the car door, and got out. Their destination was the home of a friend in New York, but now they had no interest in socializing. He shook the manuscript in his hand, looked at the stack in Badala's arms, and swallowed hard, asking, "Hey, Badala, you seem very interested in this Chinese Hu's novel? What's the name of the story you're reading?"

"X-Files." Badala said a word, subconsciously hugging the stack of manuscripts in his arms a bit tighter, and laughed dryly, "I don't think I'm the only one interested, are you not also engrossed?"

"I have to admit, this Chinese Hu is quite skilled at storytelling." Scott nodded helplessly and smiled, "Why don't we find a place to read all these novels?"

"Sure, that's a good idea." Badala knew he couldn't handle this alone without Scott. He was already a bit regretful. Hu Wenhai had given him all the manuscripts to handle, but to prevent the news from leaking, he now had to let Scott in on it.

The two found a nearby hotel and, under the odd gaze of the front desk attendant, checked into a room and entered the elevator.

Hu Wenhai had given Badala about a dozen novels, but not all were full-length novels; some were more like movie or TV scripts.

Recalling these manuscripts was not easy for him, and most were from the 1990s and early 2000s. After his career reached its peak, his entertainment time was greatly reduced, and the number of novels and movies he read was limited. A few popular literary works were bought by his wife when she was pregnant for him to read to her, which greatly helped Hu Wenhai.

Fortunately, he had plenty of time to recall and recreate. Since he started school, he had been preparing for this. As an ordinary person in China in the 1970s and 1980s, the safest way to make money was to write.

Compared to the meager稿费 in China, writing English novels not only had the legitimate reason of learning English but also promised much higher returns. Hu Wenhai racked his brains and even recreated from memory to gather this much text. Expecting him to continue writing would be like waiting for the original authors to grow up.

Ironically, these novels and scripts were originally intended to be Hu Wenhai's first source of income. He planned to release them gradually in the U.S. after graduating. However, plans changed, and he suddenly found himself involved in the model aircraft project, which he couldn't let go of.

Once in the U.S., the value of these texts seemed less impressive to Hu Wenhai. After all, Hollywood screenwriters were treated like assembly line workers, with meager pay.

As for novels, even if they were as popular as "A Song of Ice and Fire" or "The Da Vinci Code," the royalties couldn't compare to running a business. So, by now, Hu Wenhai had no particular interest in these manuscripts and handed them to Scott and Badala as if they were scrap.

If he were to continue writing, he might as well go to Japan to speculate on real estate. As for how Scott and Badala would handle these texts, Hu Wenhai had long forgotten about it.

Under the watchful eyes of the front desk attendant, Scott and Badala entered the elevator and didn't reappear for two days.

In a regular room on the fifth floor of an ordinary four-star hotel, Scott and Badala spent these two days in a daze. It felt as if their lives had started in this room, and their entire purpose was to finish reading all the manuscripts.

When they finished the last page, a sense of indescribable emptiness swept over them.

"Oh, I really wish this wasn't the last page." Scott looked very dejected and sighed, "Badala, do you have any more stories I haven't read?"

"None, none, really none!" Badala's hair was a mess, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He pointed to two other manuscripts on the table and said, "Scott, you've already read the third part of 'The Matrix.' This novel only has a trilogy!"

"Alright, I hope Chinese Hu's mind has prequels and spin-offs. Of course, it would be great if the other novels also had sequels."

"That's possible. I only read the scripts for the first three seasons of 'X-Files.' I think writing five more seasons wouldn't be a problem. And 'The Da Vinci Code' has many side stories to explore. But my favorite is this—"

Badala rummaged through the pile of manuscripts and suddenly burst into laughter, "I love 'American Gods.' The setting is just so fascinating!"

"American Gods is indeed great, but I prefer this!" Scott also had his favorite, holding up a novel and sighing, "A Song of Ice and Fire, it's like creating a whole history!"

At this point, Badala suddenly stood up, looking as energetic as if he hadn't slept for two days. He rummaged through his business card holder and pulled out a card, "Look, Scott, I think we can find him to help. Chinese Hu's talent is undeniable. Why not bring him on board and start a publishing house?"

"Start a publishing house? Badala, are you crazy!" Scott looked at him incredulously and shook his head, "We can't put all our hopes on one author. A publishing house like that has no future."

Scott was right; a publishing house couldn't rely on just one author, unless that author was the owner. Putting all the hopes on one person would make the publishing house work for the author. No ambitious publishing house would accept that.

"What if we add him?" Badala placed the card in front of Scott, "Douglas Edwards, former deputy editor of the New York Business Press. He's now setting up a company called Scholar Press. I think we can get involved."

"Sure, that's not a bad idea. But we need to keep it secret; we can't let Douglas know about Chinese Hu too early."

"Of course, you can trust me with that."

...

During this time, Hu Wenhai was not idle. He roamed the streets of New York, looking for what he needed. Unlike the initial success with the simulation machine, his true goal remained elusive.

"Cold Spring Laboratory rejected the commissioned research project. A million dollars probably didn't even catch their eye," Iverson stood in front of Hu Wenhai, tired and frustrated, reporting a series of bad news.

"The New York University Bio-Institute showed some interest but insisted on seeing the molecular formula of the compound first."

"Jacopo Lab is willing to collaborate, asking for a research fee of just $500,000. However, this company has a poor record, having been involved in stealing client results."

Hu Wenhai listened quietly to Iverson's report, constantly considering the conditions of these laboratories. Cold Spring Laboratory was his first choice, a well-established lab with a long history and rich research experience. However, like all prestigious institutions, it was expensive and arrogant.

The New York University Bio-Institute, on the other hand, was a research institution of New York University. They didn't have to worry about research funding, so the price might be lower, but they were more picky about the project itself.

As for Jacopo Lab, it was a last resort. Money wasn't an issue for Hu Wenhai, but getting involved in legal disputes and wasting time would be a bigger loss.

Logically, the New York University Bio-Institute should be a good choice, but Hu Wenhai crossed it off his list. Other projects could be done with them, but the one he was preparing was too important. Revealing the molecular formula in advance was a risk he couldn't take!

So now the problem was, if money could solve the problem, it wouldn't be a problem. But what to do when the problem is a lack of money?

Easy, Hu Wenhai patted his backpack. Inside were the money-making plans he had accumulated over 18 years. Throwing any one of them out would cause a storm.

However, he needed to find one that would work quickly; his time was limited.