Copycomb Finds His Own Number

Copycomb likes to agree. It’s his favourite feeling: someone says something, and he says “Yes! Exactly!” and everyone nods, and there’s no awkwardness at all.

On guessing days he always waits to hear the loudest bee, and then he says the same number. It feels like being part of a team.

“How many raindrops will the leaf hold before it tips?” Comb asked one drizzly morning.

“Thirty!” boomed Farbuzz.

“Thirty,” said Copycomb straight away. “Definitely thirty.”

Around him, other bees started saying “thirty” too. It spread across the hall like a yawn. Soon nearly the whole hive had said thirty.

Copycomb felt warm and happy. Everyone agreed. That must mean it was right.

They tested it on a big dock leaf by the doorway. It tipped after eleven drops.

The hall went quiet. Copycomb’s warm feeling drained away, leaving a cold one in its place. Everyone had said thirty. Everyone had been wrong together.

Afterwards, Comb found him sitting on the edge of the landing board.

“I don’t understand,” Copycomb said. “When lots of bees agree, they’re usually right. That’s the whole point of asking the swarm.”

“Lots of bees agreeing is useful,” said Comb, “when they each worked it out for themselves. But today, how many bees really guessed?”

Copycomb thought about it. Farbuzz had guessed. Then he had copied. Then the bees around him had copied him.

“One,” he said slowly. “Only one bee actually guessed. Everyone else just said it again.”

“A hundred voices,” said Comb, “and one guess. The swarm is only wise when each bee brings something different. Copying makes it smaller, not bigger.”

Copycomb’s antennae drooped. “But what if my own number is wrong? Then everyone will know.”

“Some of the swarm’s numbers are always wrong,” said Comb. “That’s fine. A little too high here, a little too low there. They balance out. But if everyone copies one wrong number, nothing balances it.”

The next guessing day, Comb asked how many seeds were in a dandelion clock. Farbuzz drew a big breath, ready to shout.

Copycomb did something he had never done before. He flew to the back of the hall, where he couldn’t hear well, and looked at the dandelion by himself. He counted the seeds along one little row, like Midge would, and worked it out. It came to about a hundred and sixty.

“A hundred and sixty,” he said, when it was his turn. His voice wobbled.

Farbuzz had said three hundred. Lots of bees had said other numbers: ninety, two hundred, a hundred and forty.

Copycomb’s heart thumped. His number didn’t match the loud bee. It didn’t match anyone exactly.

When they counted, there were a hundred and seventy-four seeds. Copycomb wasn’t spot on. But the middle of all the different guesses that day landed at a hundred and seventy, almost exactly right.

“You helped,” said Comb. “Not by being perfect. By being yours.”

Copycomb found he didn’t feel cold at all. He felt something even better than agreeing. He felt like he counted.