Krogson snorted. “That’s what you said an hour ago! What’s the matter with those people down there? I want the identity of that ship and I want it now.”
“It’s not Identification’s fault,” explained the other. “The big analyzer is in pretty bad shape and it keeps jamming. They’re afraid that if they take it apart they won’t be able to get it back together again.”
The next two hours saw Krogson’s blood pressure steadily rising toward the explosion point. Twice he ordered the whole identification section transferred to a labor battalion and twice he had to rescind the command when Schninkle pointed out that scrapings from the bottom of the barrel were better than nothing at all. His fingernails were chewed down to the quick when word finally came through.
“Identification, sir,” said a hesitant voice on the intercom.
“Well?” demanded the commander.
“The analyzer says—” The voice hesitated again.
“The analyzer says what?” shouted Krogson in a fury of impatience.
“The analyzer says that the trace pattern is that of one of the old Imperial drive units.”
“That’s impossible!” sputtered the commander. “The last Imperial base was smashed five hundred years ago. What of their equipment was salvaged has long since been worn out and tossed on the scrap heap. The machine must be wrong!”
“Not this time,” said the voice. “We checked the memory bank manually and there’s no mistake. It’s an Imperial all right. Nobody can produce a drive unit like that these days.”