“You bought a book?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Sophie’s World ... how curious.”
Sophie knew she didn’t have the slightest chance of lying to her mother.
“I got it from Alberto.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did. As I said, I’m looking forward to meeting this
man. May I see?”
“Would you mind very much waiting till we get home, at least. It is my
book, Mom.”
“Of course it’s your book. I just want to take a peek at the first page,
okay? ... ‘Sophie Amundsen was on her way home from school. She had
walked the first part of the way with Joanna. They had been discussing robots
. . .’”
“Does it really say that?”
“Yes, it does, Sophie. It’s written by someone called Albert Knag. He
must be a newcomer. What’s your Al-berto’s name, by the way?”
“Knox.”
“It’ll probably turn out that this extraordinary person has written a whole
book about you, Sophie. It’s called using a pseudonym.”
“It’s not him, Mom. Why don’t you just give up. You don’t understand
anything anyway.”
“No, I don’t suppose I do. The garden party is tomorrow, then everything
will be all right again.”
“Albert Knag lives in a completely different reality. That’s why this book
is a white crow.”
“You really must stop all this! Wasn’t it a white rabbit?”
“You stop it!”
That was as far as they got before they reached their stop at the end of
Clover Close. They ran straight into a demonstration.
“My God!” exclaimed Helene Amundsen, “I really thought we would be
spared street politics in this neighborhood.”
There were no more than about ten or twelve people. Their banners
read:
THE MAJOR IS AT HAND
YES TO YUMMY MIDSUMMER EATS
MORE POWER TO THE UN
Sophie almost felt sorry for her mother.
“Never mind,” she said.
“But it was a peculiar demonstration, Sophie. Quite absurd, really.”
“It was a mere bagatelle.”
“The world changes more and more rapidly all the time. Actually, I’m not
in the least surprised.”
“You should be surprised that you’re not surprised, at any rate.”
“Not at all. They weren’t violent, were they? I just hope they haven’t
trampled all over our rosebeds. Surely it can’t be necessary to demonstrate in
a garden. Let’s hurry home and see.”
“It was a philosophical demonstration, Mom. Real philosophers don’t
trample on rosebeds.”
“I’ll tell you what, Sophie. I don’t think I believe in real philosophers any