He continued: "The outside of the rubber still looks perfect. You can inspect it visually and it appears fine. But the inside, the part you cannot see, it has degraded: microscopic cracks, tiny inconsistencies in the material."
Victoria Ashford was nodding slowly.
"When the engine heats up, that section of line heats up, too. The degraded rubber expands slightly, the inner diameter narrows by a fraction of a millimeter." Raymond pinched his fingers together. "Not enough to block fuel flow, not enough to trigger any warning, but enough to reduce pressure by 0.4 PSI."
He pointed to the analog gauge. "Then the engine cools, the rubber contracts, returns to normal. You test it and everything checks out perfectly. The problem disappears until the next time conditions align."
The room was silent.
Giuseppe Martinelli rose slowly from his seat in the back row. Every eye turned to him.
"I have seen this twice in my career," the old man said. "Both times on vehicles over 50 years old. It is nearly impossible to diagnose because every standard test shows normal results." He looked at Raymond with pride that needed no words. "You cannot find this problem with computers. You can only find it by understanding how materials age, how heat affects rubber over decades, how engines speak to those who know how to listen."
Martin Caldwell, the certification board chairman, leaned forward. "Even if this theory is correct, how do you prove it? How do you demonstrate that this specific section of line is the cause?"
Raymond had been waiting for this question. "I can prove it right now."
The clock showed 34 minutes remaining. Raymond asked for basic tools and a length of modern fuel-rated hose.
"I want to bypass this section with a temporary line: same diameter, same length, different material. If I'm right, the pressure fluctuation will stop completely."
Preston saw his last chance to stop this. "Absolutely not! You want to modify a $70 million vehicle based on a theory? Based on a guess from a child?"
Theodore Harrington stood up. "It's not a guess. It's a diagnosis." His voice was firm. "Let him proceed."
Raymond went to work. What happened next silenced every skeptic in the room: his hands moved with precision that seemed impossible for his age. He cut the bypass hose to exact length, connected it with practiced efficiency—each movement confident, professional. In Giuseppe's garage, he had done this hundreds of times on old engines, on broken systems, on machines that everyone else had abandoned. His small fingers worked in spaces where adult hands could not reach—the gift that Giuseppe had recognized five years ago.