Chapter 39 Era Comics Company
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Asimov carefully read the final word, yet the lingering emotions stirred by the story continued to resonate endlessly within his mind.
He felt as though he were hearing the mournful song of a dying blue whale. Complete with an absurd, ironic, and darkly humorous ending, the story resembled a dish richly seasoned with various spices, possessing an extraordinarily powerful resonance.
Enhanced by Enny's evocative prose, Asimov envisioned a striking scene: human civilization obliterated by warfare, and the last surviving humans on Earth gazing out at the ocean amidst a world-shattering catastrophe, looking upon this ultimate display of natural beauty. Meanwhile, a blue whale drifted through the vast expanse of the sea, its song sounding like a final elegy chanted for human civilization.
Asimov felt that if *The Whale Song* were to be categorized, rather than bearing the label of "science fiction," it would more accurately be described as a "classical tragedy."
The profound sense of loneliness and tragedy evoked by the slow, sinking descent of humans and whales alike in the conclusion, alongside the tragic resonance that permeated the latter half of the story, gathered all the quintessential elements of classical tragedy. It elevated a simple main plot into a deep contemplation on the "essence of fate"—with the "whale" serving as the central imagery and vessel. As an ancient creature that had thrived for tens of millions of years, it was naturally the supreme vehicle for carrying the metaphor of destiny.
Asimov adjusted his glasses, unable to fathom how Enny had conceived of writing this way. In order to achieve the grandeur, tragic majesty, and epic quality that were notoriously difficult to capture in science fiction, other authors would cleverly set their stories in deep space, utilizing planetary exploration or interstellar travel to overwhelm readers with sheer spatial scale.
Enny, however, took a different approach. Starting from a relatively simple main plot, through meticulous structural design, it naturally blossomed into a deeply moving and astonishing story. To accomplish this, the creator himself had to possess an exceptionally intense capacity for emotional immersion.
"This novel is truly beyond my imagination. Your ingenuity and imagination in writing seem to exist on an entirely different scale from most science fiction authors... It's just a pity that you're a lazybones, taking over a month to write a short story that doesn't even reach ten thousand words," Asimov remarked, harboring only a single thought in his mind: how desperately he wanted to lock Enny in a dark room to force him to write.
"Hiss~, that really is a major problem. Not even ten thousand words... the royalties won't amount to much," Enny replied.
This left Asimov quite speechless. Countless authors struggled endlessly just to write something of this caliber, yet here he was, agonizing over word count and royalties?
Such humble-bragging!
"Alright, alright, stop glaring at me. I was just joking," Enny said, waving his hand in surrender upon catching Asimov's gaze, while also reflecting on why he had grown so slack lately.
...It was probably still because of the war.
Seeing the steady accumulation of his royalty checks, Enny no longer held the burning desire to chase immense wealth while he was young.
With the possibility of being drafted to fight by the end of next year, what amount of money could ever truly be enough? It was far better to seize the day and live entirely in the present.
"Isn't that far too pessimistic?" Asimov asked, finding it somewhat incomprehensible after hearing Enny's inner thoughts.
As a relentless workaholic, he simply could not understand how anyone could fail to churn out five thousand words a day.
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Writing was supposed to be a joy; if one wanted to seize the day, shouldn't they be working even harder at their craft?
Unwilling to continue this debate with a workaholic, Enny clutched his rumbling stomach. "Call it whatever-ism you like... but if that burger doesn't arrive soon, I'm genuinely going to become a pessimist!"
Noticing that Asimov had not only finished reading *The Whale Song* once, but had already dived into a second reading, Enny grew impatient and immediately called White Castle.
The receptionist at the burger joint sounded perplexed: "Sir, our records show that your delivery has already been received!"
Enny: "?"
Receptionist: "Your order was delivered to Room 304 at the Carlisle Hotel, wasn't it?"
Enny: "..."
Ah, the mystery was finally solved; the delivery had simply gone to the wrong floor.
His room was not Room 304, but Room 204.
Hearing what Enny said, the receptionist quickly checked the previous orders, slapped her forehead, and apologized profusely: "I'm so sorry, sir. The guest in Room 304 at the Carlisle Hotel also ordered the exact same set meal as you, which is why the mix-up happened. We'll send a replacement over right away!"
Meanwhile, Enny went ahead and reordered a three-person combo meal for himself and Asimov—given Asimov's appetite, the two of them genuinely required a three-person portion.
Yet the problem remained: he was truly, ravenously hungry!
One had to remember that delivery services in this era operated on cash on delivery—goods exchanged directly for money upon arrival.
Logically speaking, if someone received two complete three-person meals by mistake, wouldn't they normally call the restaurant to report a wrong delivery?
Could the occupant of Room 304 possibly be David Day? Who else would buy two entire combo meals and not care about the waste?
Asimov had spent the entire morning working out, and Enny was now starving to death. Deciding to investigate, he headed out and went upstairs to see just what kind of character was staying in Room 304... perhaps the food hadn't been finished yet, and he could buy it back.
Carlisle Hotel, Room 304.
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The room was hazy with smoke, littered everywhere with cigarette butts, ash, and leftover burger wrappers. Sunlight streamed through the windows, forming visible Tyndall beams and casting mottled light and shadow across the wooden workbench.
Seated before two wooden workbenches were a pair of middle-aged men with their heads bowed over original manuscript paper, engrossed in drawing. Leaning over desks covered in art boards, they held G-pens, dipping the nibs in ink and slowly dragging them across the paper. With just a few sparse strokes, they outlined the sweeping curves of Superman's cape fluttering in the wind.
One of these artists had a prominent, aquiline nose, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a wildly carefree hairstyle; the other wore a well-fitted shirt and jacket, his hair slicked back impeccably with pomade, possessing a strikingly fair complexion.
The more carefree artist was named Joe Simon; the gentlemanly and well-dressed artist was named Jack Kirby.
Both served as story editors and chief artists for the comic book division of Timely Comics, and they were currently hiding out in a hotel room during their lunch break to draw comics—specifically, to draw comics for a publication belonging to National Allied Publications.
Even though *Action Comics*, published by National Allied Publications, was the direct market rival and mortal enemy of *Marvel Comics*, published by Timely Comics—the very company the two men worked for!
Yet... National Allied Publications simply offered too much money!
They had lured Joe Simon and Jack Kirby with high financial incentives to draw for them, paying twenty-three dollars per page. On average, each man's weekly salary reached five hundred dollars—a stark contrast to the twelve dollars per page they earned at Timely Comics, making the rival's offer simply irresistible.
While the two men labored away for financial gain on behalf of a competing company, another person was busy in the room: a handsome, bright-eyed young man constantly darting around to refill their inkwells, empty ashtrays, and sweep the floor.
Amidst this bustling activity, the young man could only snatch quick bites of a burger and steal moments to glance at magazine fiction.
At that moment, Jack Kirby finished another page of artwork and called out without looking back, "Stan Lee! I can't keep up, hurry up and fill in the speech bubbles for this page!"
Translator's Note: Timely Comics was the predecessor of Marvel; National Allied Publications was the predecessor of DC.
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