"The center of the rock music is on the West Coast," Gregory breathed.
"The hypothetical center," Fess reminded them, "and the word is 'western,' not 'west.' It is an adjective."
"Oh, what matter?" Geoffrey grumbled. " 'Tis the location of the crafter we do seek. Is he on the coast or not?"
"Remember, we are making several assumptions that may prove false," Fess cautioned. "We really must have more data before we can claim our hypothesis is sufficiently well validated to rank as a theory."
"And a theory is a statement of fact?" Magnus asked.
"Yes, Magnus, with the understanding that such a statement may later prove to be only part of a larger pattern. Do not make the error, as so many do, of saying 'theory ' when they really mean 'hypothesis.'"
"Then let us hypothesize further." Geoffrey folded his arms, frowning at the screen. "Let us ask what will hap if we are right, and this development of rock music doth proceed without hindrance."
"A valid question," Fess said slowly, while Geoffrey's brothers and sister (not to mention his parents) stared at him in surprise. "Extrapolate."
"This arc of thine will expand, at the rate of three hundred yards a day."
"Why, then, we may calculate how long it hath taken to come this far east," Gregory said, eyes lighting.
"How shall we do that, Gregory?"
"Divide the distance from the western coastline by three hundred yards!"
The answer appeared on the screen in blue characters.
"Two years and three-quarters?" Magnus stared. "How is't we've not heard of this sooner?"
" 'Tis but entertainment," the rock behind him answered. Magnus gave it an irritated glance. Fess said, "It is probably correct, Magnus. No one thought the phenomenon worth reporting; all thought it too trivial."
"How long shall it be ere the whole country is filled with soft rocks?" Geoffrey asked.
"Good question," Rod murmured.
"Extrapolating at the current rate of three hundred yards per day, and assuming no change?"
"Aye, aye!" Geoffrey said impatiently. "How long ere the rival army doth conquer us, Fess?"
The robot was silent a moment, then said, "I would prefer you not think of these rocks as an enemy army, Geoffrey…"
"Any pattern may be enemy action, Fess!"
"Nay!" Gregory looked up, alarmed. "Any pattern may have a meaning, but that meaning need not be hostile!"
"Tend to knowledge, brother, and let me tend to arms. A sentry doth not cause a war. How long, Fess?"
"Four years and a month, Geoffrey"—the robot sighed— "and allow me to congratulate you on correct use of the scientific method."
Geoffrey leaped in the air, shaking his fists with a howl of triumph.
Piqued, the music-rock boosted its volume.
"I question, however, the purpose for which you have used it," the robot said. "Still, I must applaud the alacrity with which you have learned the day's lesson."
"I have learned… ?" Geoffrey gaped at the robot. "Fess! Thou didst not tell me 'twas school!"
"We were still within school hours, Geoffrey. But it is so no longer; my clock shows 1500 hours. School is out for the day."
The children cheered, turned about, and plowed into the forest, heading west.
Rod stared after them, startled. "What do they think they're doing?"
"Children! Come back!" Gwen called.
"Fess did but now say school was out." Cordelia turned back, puzzled. "We are free to do as we wish, are we not?"
"Well, aye," Gwen conceded. "Yet what is't thou dost seek to do?"
"Why, to test our hypothesis," Magnus said.
"We must needs seek the information," Gregory explained. "Fess hath said we have not yet enough."
"Come to think of it, he did," Rod said slowly.
"It was not intended as an imperative, though," Fess protested.
"Is not that what we came to do?" Geoffrey demanded.
"Not quite," Rod said, as much to straighten out his own confusion as theirs. "We're supposed to be finding out who's sending zombies into Runny mede, trying to scare the taxpayers!"
Geoffrey cocked his head to one side. "And where shall we seek to learn that?"
Rod opened his mouth, and stalled.
"Here, at least, there is a clear path to follow," Gregory pointed out, "and the two phenomena are as likely to be related as not."
"There is a tempting refutation of logic in that…" Fess said.
"Yeah—it comes down to: when you don't know where to look, one direction is as good as another." Rod threw his hands up. "So, okay! Why not go west?"
The young ones cheered, and charged into the woods.
Chapter Four
"Do I suppose it, or doth the music gain in loudness?" Geoffrey frowned at the echoing forest.
"You have used the precise term," Fess told him. "The volume of sound can be measured as a signal, and its 'gain' is its increase. Yes, the gain has decidedly increased."
"Doth this show that folk around about believe in it more?" Cordelia asked.
Rod stopped stock-still, struck by the idea. "Not a bad idea, Delia. The music's been around this neighborhood for at least seventy-eight hours; the local peasants must have heard it. They sure wouldn't doubt their own ears. Yes, they'd believe in the music-rocks more strongly."
"There are a greater number of rocks, too," Gregory noted.
"That would certainly increase the overall ambience," Fess agreed.
"Especially," said Gwen, "if thou art between two rocks."
"Yet how can one not be, when there are so many?" Magnus asked.
The trees opened out into a large clearing, and the children stared at the sight that met their eyes. "Fess," asked Magnus, "what is that slanted slab of rock that doth stand upright on its edge?"
"The angle," Fess said slowly, "is that of the sun at midday. Can you not tell me?"
"It is a gnomon—the 'hand' of a sundial, that doth cast its shadow on the number of the hour of the day."
Fess nodded with satisfaction. "You did know it."
"Then there should be numbers on the ground about it," Gregory said.
"Why, so there are!" Cordelia said, astonished. "Yet they are so huge that I did not recognize them. And made of flowers! Oh! How pretty!"
"Why, thank you," someone said.
"Not thee, horseface," Geoffrey said, glancing up with absent-minded scorn, then back at the huge sundial—and spun about, eyes wide and staring. " 'Tis a rocking horse!"
"That talks?" Rod asked, amazed.
"Certes I do talk. Dost not thou?"
"I have heard that aforetime," Magnus muttered.
"Small wonder, son," Gwen assured him. "It, too, must needs be made of witch-moss."
"The ingenuity of these psionic crafters astounds me," Fess murmured.
The horse rocked gently in time to the music of the rocks—or was the music coming from the toy itself? .
"What dost thou here?" Cordelia skipped up to the horse, hands behind her back. Her brothers glanced at one another; they knew her techniques.
"I do seek to grow," answered the rocking horse. "Dost not thou?"
"Aye, yet I did not know a thing of wood could gain."
"Why, a tree doth, and 'tis a thing of wood. Wherefore may not I?"
"For that thou dost lack roots," Gregory answered reasonably.
"Thou dost, also. Yet I have arcs of wood beneath mine hooves, which can gain nourishment from the grass I rock on. The more I rock, the more I grow."
Gwen glanced down at his rockers. "Small wonder; thou dost rock upon a patch of witch-moss."
"I think he may also gain from the beliefs of the latent projectives around him," Fess murmured.