The knob turns against the pad of his thumb — a quarter-inch of resistance, then a give that feels earned, deliberate, the aluminum grooves biting shallow lines into skin already gone dry from the altitude. Cal watches the needle instead of his hand. Protocol says the eyes lead the correction; the fingers follow blind. He has done this ten thousand times on other equipment, in other rooms, and the procedure has never once required faith. It requires only that the machine behave like a machine.
This one does not.
The needle rises to true, sits at the calibration mark long enough to satisfy him — one second, two — and then, without any mechanical justification he can name, it begins its retreat. Half a division. Then a hair more. He backs the knob off a fraction and tries again, and the pattern repeats itself with a fidelity that unsettles him more than randomness would. Randomness he could log as noise. This has shape. This has intention, or something that wears intention's clothes, and Cal does not have a box on the intake form for that.
*Known causes first.* He runs them in order, the way he was trained to run anything: thermal expansion in the tuning capacitor — plausible, given the cold snap outside these windowless walls, except the console's been running four hours and should have stabilized past that threshold by now. A loose ground in the chassis — possible, unverified, requires a teardown he isn't authorized to perform without logging an equipment fault first. Moisture in a connector untouched since the last operator packed his gear out — unlikely, but not impossible, not yet ruled out.
