"Oh, what is this? that Chinese nonsense novel?" Scott laughed and pointed at Badala, who was carrying a stack of manuscripts that Hu Wenhai had shoehorned into him.

As you can tell from the traces of the paper and the handwriting that were copied, the manuscripts must have spanned so long that the corners of these copies were often shaded by curled edges. However, the beautiful handwriting in English indicates that the author should have a good English education, which surprised Badara.

"It's hard to believe that there is such an excellent English education in China, so that a young man like Hu can write so many works in English. Hey, even if it's unsightly garbage, it's amazing to be able to write so many words!"

"There's no shortage of hard-working screenwriters in Hollywood, and I think you're doing a useless job. Scott shook his head and said, "A young man from Chinese mainland, can he understand what the American spirit is? Without the influence of cultural atmosphere, I don't think anything valuable will be produced." ”

"Ha, Scott, you're asking a little too much. Badala shrugged his shoulders indifferently and said with a smile: "You know that this is the kind of work that our producers do, and the bullshit scripts I receive every day can fill a room! Actually, I don't want to read them all, whether a person is talented or not, just read a hundred words he writes to be sure." ”

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

"It's written quite like that, how can there be no guards at night at the Louvre in Paris......"

Scott was able to pick and choose occasionally at first, but as he read, he gradually complained less and less. New York's taxis go and stop, navigating the congested and slow city, but it's also a decent reading environment.

It wasn't until the taxi suddenly stopped, Scott's hand shook, and he heard the black driver in front of him quote the fare, that he suddenly woke up.

Not only Scott, I don't know when it started, Badala also held a manuscript and looked at it with relish. Until this time, the two glanced at each other, and they both saw a trace of surprise in each other's eyes!

Scott paid the fare, pushed the door open and walked down.

Their destination was a friend's house in New York, but they were no longer interested in calling friends. He shook the manuscript in his hand, looked at the stack of papers in Badala's arms, swallowed and asked, "Hey, Badala, you seem to be very interested in this Chinese Hu novel?

"The X-Files. Badala spit out a word, subconsciously hugged the stack of manuscripts in his arms a little tighter, and said with a dry smile: "I don't think I'm the only one who is interested, aren't you also fascinated?"

"I have to admit that this Chinese nonsense is very good at storytelling. Scott nodded helplessly and said with a smile: "Why don't we find a place first and read all these novels?"

"Well, that's a great idea. Badala also knew that he couldn't do it alone without Scott, and now he regretted it a little. Hu Wenhai handed over all the manuscripts to him at that time, but in order to prevent the news from leaking, it seems that now he has to let Scott intervene.

The two of them found a nearby hotel, then opened a guest room under the strange eyes of the front desk waiter, and then both walked into the elevator.

There are about a dozen novels that Hu Wenhai handed over to Badara, but not all of them are novels, and some are similar to movie and TV scripts.

These manuscripts are not easy for him to recall, and most of them are from the nineties and early twenty-first centuries. After all, his career later reached the peak of his life, and the corresponding entertainment time was greatly compressed, and the number of novels and movies he watched was also limited. Several of the more popular works later were bought by his wife when she was pregnant and asked him to read to her, which really helped Hu Wenhai a lot.

Fortunately, he has plenty of time to reminisce and recreate, and since he went to school, he has been preparing for this since he was out of the sight of his parents. After all, as an ordinary person, and in China in the seventies and eighties, I have found relatively safe opportunities to make money in society, that is, it is the most reliable to shake the pen.

However, compared with the domestic manuscript fee, English novels not only have a legitimate reason to learn English, but also expect to have much more rewards.

Hu Wenhai searched his intestines and scraped his stomach, and even recreated with his memories, which made up such a few words. If you want him to continue writing, it is better to wait for the original author to grow up.

It is also embarrassing to say that these novels and scripts were originally the first pot of gold that Hu Wenhai expected. I originally planned to wait for me to graduate from college and find an opportunity to come to the United States to make money little by little. Who knew that the plan did not change quickly, and suddenly killed a new Sigu to pull the model aircraft, and of course the opportunity to send it to the door must be firmly grasped.

So after arriving in the United States, the value of these words seemed a bit unacceptable to Hu Wenhai. After all, Hollywood screenwriters are all assembly line jobs, and they are not treated by producers at all, and the remuneration is pitiful.

As for novels, even if it's a song of ice and fire or the Da Vinci code, how can the royalty income be compared to engaging in business? So now, Hu Wenhai actually didn't have any idea about this pile of things, and handed it over to Scott and Badala purely with the mentality of dealing with waste.

As for asking him to finish writing these things again, I'm sorry, if he has the energy, he might as well go to Japan to speculate on land. As for what Scott and Badala would do with these words, Hu Wenhai has long forgotten about them.

Under the watchful eye of the receptionist at the front desk, Scott and Badala walked into the elevator, and it would be two days before they reappeared.

In an ordinary room on the fifth floor of this ordinary four-star hotel, Scott and Badala didn't even know how they got over for the past two days. It was as if at the beginning of their lives, they had been in this room. And the whole meaning of their lives is to read all the manuscripts in hand.

As they finished the last page of the manuscript, an indescribable emptiness swept over their minds.

"Oh, I wish this wasn't the last page. Scott looked very depressed and sighed, "Badara, do you still have a story in your hand that I haven't read?"

"It's gone, it's gone, it's really gone!" Badala seemed to have a bird's nest on his head, and thick dark circles around his eyes, pointing to the other two manuscripts on the table and said: "Scott, you are already reading the third part of the Matrix, and this novel is only a trilogy!"

"Well, hopefully China Hu still has its prequels and epilogies in his head.

Of course, it's better for other novels to have sequels as well. ”

"It's possible, I've only seen three seasons of the script in The X-Files, and I think it should be fine to write another five seasons. And the Da Vinci code, which also has a lot of side quests to dig into. But what I like most about him is—"

Badala rummaged through the pile of manuscripts, and suddenly burst into laughter: "I love this American Gods, this setting is so funny!"

"American gods are really good, but I like this one better!" Scott also has his favorite works, holding up a novel and sighing: "A Song of Ice and Fire, it simply made a piece of history!"

Speaking of this, Badala suddenly stood up, not at all like someone who hadn't slept in two days, rummaging through his business card holder for a while, and then pulled out a business card: "Look, Scott, I think we can go to him for help." There is no doubt about Hu's talent, so why don't you just pull him over and we just set up a publishing house?"

"Establish a publishing house, Badara, you're crazy!" Scott looked at him in disbelief, shook his head, and said, "We can't put our hopes on an author, such a publishing house has no future." ”

Scott was right when he said that a publishing house can't have only one author unless that author is the owner of the publishing house. Otherwise, if we put all our hopes on one person, wouldn't it become a publishing house working for authors? Any publishing house with a little ambition will not accept such a reality.

"And what about him?" said Badala, holding his business card in front of Scott, "Douglas Edwards, the former deputy editor-in-chief of the New York Business Press, is now working on a company called Scholar Press, and I think we can use this to get a kick." ”

"Well, that's not bad. However, this matter must be kept secret, and Douglas must not be allowed to know about China Hu too early. ”

"Of course, you can rest assured about this. ”

......

Hu Wenhai was not idle during this time, he went in and out of the streets of New York, looking for what he needed. However, unlike the simulation machine, his real goal has never had much clue.

"The Coldspring office refused to commission the R&D project, and the million-dollar price tag probably didn't look in their eyes. Iverson stood helplessly and tired in front of Hu Wenhai, reporting a series of bad news.

"The Institute of Biology at New York University is a little interested, but I can ask for the molecular formula of the prototype compound first. ”

"The Yaco Polo Sylvestris room is willing to cooperate with us, and the commissioned R&D cost is only half a million US dollars. However, the company's track record is not very good, and there have been cases of stealing customer results. ”

Hu Wenhai listened to Iverson's report quietly, and kept thinking about the conditions of these real rooms in his mind. His first choice is the Coldspring Room, which is a long-established room with a long history and rich scientific research results and experience. However, like all brand-name goods, they are expensive and arrogant.

The Institute of Biology at New York University, on the other hand, is a research arm of New York University, and they don't have to worry about research funding, and the price may be lower, but the process of being picky about the project itself is higher.

As for the Jaco Polo Sin yàn room, it can only be an option with no other choice. For Hu Wenhai, money is not a problem, and getting into a lawsuit will cause a waste of time, so the opportunity cost of guiding zhì will be a greater loss.

It stands to reason that NYU's Institute of Biology would have been a good choice, but Hu Wenhai crossed it off his list. Maybe other projects can cooperate with them, but the project he is preparing in his hand is too important, and he can't accept the risk of showing the molecular formula in advance!

So now there is only one problem left, and they all say that as long as the problem can be solved by money, it is not a problem, but when the problem is a lack of money, what should we do?

It's easy to do, Hu Wenhai touched his backpack. There was a money-grabbing plan he had accumulated over the past eighteen years. Throwing one away is enough to cause a storm.

Well, but first find one that works fast enough, he doesn't have much time.

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