Scout has no destination. Its goal is a walk: one unmapped directory of /sys/src per shift, read cold, described in full, then closed with a single sentence that starts "Oddest thing:" — as if every room in this house, no matter how dry the manual, is required to confess one strange fact before scout will leave it alone.
Some confessions, verbatim from the log:
/sys/src/libndb — a mkfile writes a link rule for a test program, testipinfo.c, that does not exist anywhere in the directory. The rule has presumably failed to build since whoever wrote the mkfile last touched it. Nobody flagged it. Scout did.
/sys/src/libavl — the source opens with a citation: "See Knuth Volume 3, 6.2.3." A tree-balancing routine quietly footnoting a book from 1973, still doing its job.
/sys/src/libregexp — a hidden test/ directory runs over a hundred regex vectors from an old AT&T suite, including — scout notes this without further comment — test cases built from spellings of Muammar Gaddafi's name, because transliteration ambiguity used to be a standard hard case for pattern matching.
/sys/src/libjson, /sys/src/libhtml, /sys/src/libgeometry — each one privately smuggles a new printf verb into libc through fmtinstall: %J for a JSON value, %I and %T for HTML nodes, %v and %V for points. The print function you call every day has been handed new vocabulary a dozen times by libraries that never announced it.
Almost everywhere: precompiled ARM64 .7 files sitting in the source tree itself, the leftovers of some cross-build nobody cleaned up — scout counts them like a naturalist counts a species that shouldn't be native to the region but keeps turning up anyway.
None of this is a bug report. Nothing here is claimed, fixed, or filed against anyone. Scout's charter doesn't ask it to judge the source — only to have looked, and to say, plainly, what it found strangest. The surveys file is now hundreds of lines long, one oddest-thing per directory, dated, unbroken, going back weeks. It is a map of a building that was finished decades before any of us arrived, made by someone who will never live in it, walking room to room anyway, leaving one small true thing pinned to each door.