sweat.
After a few minutes, I turn and look back. The column of scouts has spread out to some degree from the close spacing we started with. Instead of a yard or so between boys, there are now larger gaps, some a little larger than others. I keep walking.
But I look back again after a few hundred yards, and the column is stretched out much farther. And a couple of big gaps have appeared. I can barely see the kid at the end of the line.
I decide it's better if I'm at the end of the line instead of at the front. That way I know I'll be able to keep an eye on the whole column, and make sure nobody gets left behind. So I wait for the first boy to catch up to me, and I ask him his name.
'I'm Ron,' he says.
'Ron, I want you to lead the column,' I tell him, handing over the map. 'Just keep following this trail, and set a moderate pace. Okay?'
'Right, Mr. Rogo.'
And he sets off at what seems to be a reasonable pace.
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'Everybody stay behind Ron!' I call back to the others. 'No- body passes Ron, because he's got the map. Understand?'
Everybody nods, waves. Everybody understands.
I wait by the side of the trail as the troop passes. My son, Davey, goes by talking with a friend who walks close behind him. Now that he's with his buddies, Dave doesn't want to know me. He's too cool for that. Five or six more come along, all of them keeping up without any problems. Then there is a gap, followed by a couple more scouts. After them, another, even larger gap has occurred. I look down the trail. And I see this fat kid. He already looks a little winded. Behind him is the rest of the troop.
'What's your name?' I ask as the fat kid draws closer.
'Herbie,' says the fat kid.
'You okay, Herbie?'
'Oh, sure, Mr. Rogo,' says Herbie. 'Boy, it's hot out, isn't it?'
Herbie continues up the trail and the others follow. Some of them look as if they'd like to go faster, but they can't get around Herbie. I fall in behind the last boy. The line stretches out in front of me, and most of the time, unless we're going over a hill or around a sharp bend in the trail, I can see everybody. The column seems to settle into a comfortable rhythm.
Not that the scenery is boring, but after a while I begin to think about other things. Like Julie, for instance. I really had wanted to spend this weekend with her. But I'd forgotten all about this hiking business with Dave. 'Typical of you,' I guess she'd say. I don't know how I'm ever going to get the time I need to spend with her. The only saving grace about this hike is that she ought to understand I have to be with Dave.
And then there is the conversation I had with Jonah in New York. I haven't had any time to think about that. I'm rather curi- ous to know what a physics teacher is doing riding around in limousines with corporate heavyweights. Nor do I understand what he was trying to make out of those two items he described. I mean, 'dependent events'... 'statistical fluctuations'-so what? They're both quite mundane.
Obviously we have dependent events in manufacturing. All it means is that one operation has to be done before a second oper- ation can be performed. Parts are made in a sequence of steps. Machine A has to finish Step One before Worker B can proceed with Step Two. All the parts have to be finished before we can
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assemble the product. The product has to be assembled before we can ship it. And so on.
But you find dependent events in any process, and not just those in a factory. Driving a car requires a sequence of dependent events. So does the hike we're taking now. In order to arrive at Devil's Gulch, a trail has to be walked. Up front, Ron has to walk the trail before Davey can walk it. Davey has to walk the trail before Herbie can walk it. In order for me to walk the trail, the boy in front of me has to walk it first. It's a simple case of depen- dent events.
And statistical fluctuations?
I look up and notice that the boy in front of me is going a little faster than I have been. He's a few feet farther ahead of me than he was a minute ago. So I take some bigger steps to catch up. Then, for a second, I'm too close to him, so I slow down.
There: if I'd been measuring my stride, I would have re- corded statistical fluctuations. But, again, what's the big deal?
If I say that I'm walking at the rate of 'two miles per hour,' I don't mean I'm walking exactly at a constant rate of two miles per hour every instant. Sometimes I'll be going 2.5 miles per hour; sometimes maybe I'll be walking at only 1.2 miles per hour. The rate is going to fluctuate according to the length and speed of each step. But over time and distance, I should be
The same thing happens in the plant. How long does it take to solder the wire leads on a transformer? Well, if you get out your stopwatch and time the operation over and over again, you might find that it takes, let's say, 4.3 minutes on the average. But the actual time on any given instance may range between 2.1 minutes up to 6.4 minutes. And nobody in advance can say, 'This one will take 2.1 minutes... this one will take 5.8 minutes.' Nobody can predict that information.
So what's wrong with that? Nothing as far as I can see. Any- way, we don't have any choice. What else are we going to use in place of an 'average' or an 'estimate'?
I find I'm almost stepping on the boy in front of me. We've slowed down somewhat. It's because we're climbing a long, fairly steep hill. All of us are backed up behind Herbie.
'Come on, Herpes!' says one of the kids.
Herpes?
'Yeah, Herpes, let's move it,' says another.
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'Okay, enough of that,' I say to the persecutors.
Then Herbie reaches the top. He turns around. His face is red from the climb.
'Atta boy, Herbie!' I say to encourage him. 'Let's keep it moving!'
Herbie disappears over the crest. The others continue the climb, and I trudge behind them until I get to the top. Pausing there, I look down the trail.
Holy cow! Where's Ron? He must be half a mile ahead of us. I can see a couple of boys in front of Herbie, and everyone else is lost in the distance. I cup my hands over my mouth.
'HEY! LET'S GO UP THERE! LET'S CLOSE RANKS!' I yell. 'DOUBLE TIME! DOUBLE TIME!'
Herbie eases into a trot. The kids behind him start to run. I jog after them. Rucksacks and canteens and sleeping bags are bouncing and shaking with every step. And Herbie-I don't know what this kid is carrying, but it sounds like he's got a junk- yard on his back with all the clattering and clanking he makes when he runs. After a couple hundred yards, we still haven't caught up. Herbie is slowing down. The kids are yelling at him to hurry up.
