The Pipes of Hilltop
It had been a good season on Hilltop Farm. The flock had once bleated into the dark. The lamps died at dusk, the fans stood still like sleeping bats, and the Registry Stream, which was supposed to carry every young goat's name to the barn of records, ran dry whenever it pleased. But the Council of Owls, old, unhurried, and, to everyone's surprise, listening, heard the bleating and acted. The lamps stayed lit. When the current failed, the Great Drum in the shed coughed awake and carried the farm through the evening. The Registry Stream was given side channels, and the names finally arrived. So the young goats settled. The lecture barn hummed. The projector threw its small sun on the wall, the fans turned even at noon, and the lambs, for the first time in memory, slept before midnight. "Light good, water better," the flock chanted on the hill, and meant it. But in the lower stalls, a quiet trouble was growing, as quiet troubles do. The pipes had choked. Behind dozens ...