Emmi Carlo was lying on her stomach with her knobby arms and legs tucked under her like the metal rungs of a folding chair, staring at the television with an expression that was uncanny for a girl as young as she. Accordingly, Emmi could not be accurately referred to as your average six-year-old--though, with her short wavy hair and thin features, she easily looked it--and at that moment her impeccable young mind was wrapped around something much more interesting to her than the bright animations flashing across the screen.

"Mother," said Emmi wonderingly, "Why do cats and mice in television always seem so eager to annihilate eachother? And see here, the mouse and the dog have formed a conspiracy to trap the cat beneath the rafters of this old building. Purnel really is indifferent to the existance of mice, and surely she wouldn't go to such strenuous lengths in order to merely catch one."

Emmi's mother followed her daughter's wizened gaze down to Purnel, the fat old siamese cat who was rubbing against her legs. "Darling, Purnel is a real cat, and cartoons--well, you know, they're not...not...practical."

"If I were a mother," said Emmi reproachfully, darkening the screen with a quick flick of the television remote, "I would forbid cartoons in my house. National Geographic is so much more intellectual, you know."

Sometimes, thought Mrs. Carlo with a sigh, I do wish she was a little more like other children--but no, I shouldn't say that. Brains are such a gift in this society, I dare say. She didn't voice her thoughts, but instead turned to her daughter with an expression of forced cheerfulness and said, "Well, come along then. Supper is almost ready, and your father and I have news."

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