Kirill Bulychev - The Girl Nothing Happens To

“And after that?”

Alice realized I had seen her on television.

“Besides, I was asked to welcome the astronauts.”

“Who asked you to do that?”

“A friend of mine — you don’t know him.”

“Alice, have you ever come across the term ‘corporal punishment’?”

“Oh, I know: that’s when you get a spanking. But I thought it only belonged in fairy tales.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to make the fairy tale a fact. Why do you always worm yourself into places you shouldn’t?”

Alice was on the point of showing her resentment, but suddenly the red case in her arms began jiggling.

“What have you got there?”

“It’s a present from Poroshkov.”

“You asked him for a present. That’s going too far!”

“I didn’t ask for anything. It’s a shusha. Poroshkov brought them from Sirius. A little shusha, a baby shusha, you might say.”

And Alice carefully pulled out of the red case a six-legged creature resembling a kangaroo. The baby shusha had the large bulging eyes of a dragon-fly. It rolled its eyes quickly, clinging tightly to Alice’s dress with its forepaws.

“See? He loves me already,” said Alice. “I’ll make him a bed.”

I knew the story of the shushas. Everybody did, especially we biologists. I have five of them now in the zoo, and from day to day we expect additions to the family.

Poroshkov and Bauer had found the shushas on one of the planets in the system of Sirius. They were gentle, inoffensive creatures who stuck close to the astronauts. They were mammals but, above all, they reminded you of penguins by their habits. The same patient curiosity, the same everlasting attempts to crawl into the most inappropriate places. Once Bauer had to rescue a baby shusha who was about to drown himself in a huge tin of condensed milk. The expedition brought back a whole film on the shushas; it was a big hit at all the cinemas and on TV.

Unfortunately, the expedition had no time for a proper study of these animals. They only knew that the shushas came into camp in the mornings, and disappeared at nightfall, hiding somewhere in the cliffs.

One way or another, when the expedition was already on the way back, Poroshkov found three shushas in one of the ship’s compartments. They had probably got lost in the spaceship. True, Poroshkov thought at first that the shushas had been smuggled on board by one of the crew, but the latter’s indignation was so sincere he had to abandon his suspicions.

The appearance of the shushas gave rise to a mass of additional problems. First, they might prove to be the source of unknown infections. Second, they might die during the trip, from the change of conditions. And lastly, nobody knew what they ate… And so on… But all misgivings proved false. The shushas held out perfectly during the disinfection period, obediently fed on bouillon and tinned fruits. Over the last, they made a deadly enemy of Bauer who was extremely fond of fruit preserves, for the crew had to get along without any during the last months of the trip so the stowaways could be fed.

One fine day during the long journey, a shusha gave birth to six little ones. So when the ship landed on Earth, it was overladen with shushas and their babies. The animals were quick to learn, and caused nobody any unpleasantness or discomfort — except Bauer, of course.

I remember the historic moment when the expedition landed. The hatchway opened and under the eyes of the cinema and TV cameras out came these amazing, six-legged creatures followed by their little ones, instead of the spacemen. A sigh of wonder ran through the Earth. But at that moment a smiling Poroshkov followed the shushas down the ship’s ramp, carrying in his arms a baby shusha all splotched with condensed milk.

Some of the animals arrived in our zoo, others remained pets of the astronauts. Poroshkov’s baby shusha finally ended up with Alice. God knows how she charmed it away from such a stern chap as Poroshkov.

The shusha lived in a large basket beside Alice’s bed, did not eat meat, slept soundly at night, made friends with the kittens, was afraid of the praying mantis, and softly purred when Alice stroked him or told him all her ups and downs.

Shusha — so we named him — grew quickly and in two months was as tall as Alice. They would go walking in the park opposite our house, and Alice never used a collar or leash with the animal.

“What if he frightens somebody?” I asked.

“Oh, he wouldn’t. And besides, his feelings would be hurt if I put a collar on him. You see, he’s so sensitive.”

Once Alice could not sleep. She was capricious and insisted I read her the story of Dr. Doolittle.”

“I’ve no time, child,” I told her. “I’ve some rush work to do. By the way, it’s time you read books yourself.”

“But it’s not a book — it’s a microfilm, and the letters are tiny.”

“Well, there’s a sound attachment. If you don’t want to read it, switch on the sound.”

“I don’t want to get out of bed to switch it on. I’m cold.”

“Then you’ll have to wait. I’ll finish what I’m writing and come and turn it on.”

“You don’t want to. I’ll ask Shusha.”

“Then ask him,” and I smiled to myself.

A minute later I suddenly heard the gentle microfilm voice in the next room: “…And Dr. Doolittle also had a dog called Avva.”

That meant Alice had got up to switch it on.

“Get right back into bed,” I called out. “You’ll catch cold.”

“But I am in bed.”

“You shouldn’t tell lies. Who turned the microfilm on, then?”

“Shusha.”

I certainly did not want my daughter to grow up a liar. I put my work aside, and went to her room for a serious talk.

The screen hung on the wall. Shusha was running the micro-projector, and on the screen some unfortunate animals were crowding round the door of the good Dr. Doolittle.

“How did you manage to train him?” I asked, sincerely surprised.

“I didn’t have to train him. He can do everything himself, without that.”

Shusha shyly moved his front paws up and down over his chest. There was an awkward silence.

“But just the same…” I finally got out.

“Excuse me,” broke in a shrill, wheezy voice. It was Shusha. “But I really did learn to do it myself. After all, it’s not difficult.”

“Would you mind telling me how…” I began.

“It’s not difficult,” repeated Shusha. “The day before yesterday you showed Alice a fairy tale about the King of the Praying Mantises.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. How did you learn to talk?”

“We practised together,” said Alice.

“I simply can’t take it in. Dozens of biologists are working with the shushas, but not one of them has said a single word.”

“And our Shusha can even read. Can’t you?”

“A bit.”

“He tells me such interesting things…”

“Your daughter and I are great friends.” “But why have you kept silent so long?”

“He’s shy,” Alice answered for the shusha. Shusha lowered his eyes.

In summer, we live at Vnukovo. It’s very convenient, because the monorail goes there, arid from the stop to the cottage it’s only a five-minute walk. In the woods across the road, many brown and orange-cap mushrooms grow — but not enough to go round for all who go gathering mushrooms.

I always went to the cottage straight from the zoo but, instead of finding relaxation, was caught up in the whirlpool of resort life. The vortex of it all was our neighbour’s boy, Kolya, famous through all Vnukovo for taking toys away from children. A psychologist had even come from Leningrad to see him, and afterwards wrote his thesis on the boy. The psychologist made a study of Kolya, but the latter kept eating jam and whining day and night. I brought him a three-wheeled photon-rocket from town, hoping he wouldn’t whimper so much.