Solomon's Orbit Read online

so the carburetor mounting flange facedskyward. Solomon stopped for a minute to worry. "If it works," hethought, "when I get them nearer each other, it'll go up in my face."Scanning the yard he thought of fenders, doors, wheels, hub caps and ...that was it. A hub cap would do the trick.

  At his age, running was a senseless activity, but walking faster thanusual, Solomon took a direct route to his office. From the ceiling ofhub caps, he selected a small cap from an old Chevy truck. Back at theengine, he punched a hole in the cap, through which he tied a length ofstrong twine. The cap was laid on the carburetor flange and stuck inplace with painter's masking tape. He then bolted the exhaust manifoldover the intake so the muffler connection barely touched the hub cap.Solomon stood up, kicked the manifolds with his heavy boots to make surethey were solid and grunted with satisfaction of a job well done.

  He moved his tray of tools away and trailed the hub cap twine behind thesolid body of a big old Ford station wagon. He'd read of scientists inblock houses when they shot rockets and was taking no chances.Excitement glistened Solomon's old eyes as what blood pressure there wasrose a point or two with happy thoughts. If his idea worked, he would befree of the old cars, yet not destroy a single one. Squatting behind thestation wagon, to watch the engine, Solomon gingerly pulled the twine toeliminate slack. As it tightened, he tensed, braced himself with a freehand on the wagon's bumper, and taking a deep breath, jerked the cord.Tired legs failed and Solomon slipped backward when the hub cap brokefree of the tape and sailed through the air to clang against the wagon'sfender. Lying on his back, struggling to rise, Solomon heard a slightswish as though a whirlwind had come through the yard. The scent ofair-borne dust bit his nostrils as he struggled to his feet.

  * * *

  Deep in the woods behind Solomon's yard two boys were hunting crows.Eyes high, they scanned branches and horizons for game. "Look, theregoes one," the younger cried as a large dark object majestically roseinto the sky and rapidly disappeared into high clouds.

  "Yup, maybe so," said the other. "But it's flying too high for us."

  * * * * *

  "I must be a silly old man," Solomon thought, scanning the cleared spacebehind his tow truck where he remembered an engine. There was nothingthere, and as Solomon now figured it, never had been. Heart heavy withbelief in the temporary foolishness of age, Solomon went to the hubcap, glittering the sun where it lit after bouncing off the fender. Itwas untied from the string, and in the tool tray, before Solomonrealized he'd not been daydreaming. In the cleared area, were two oldmanifold gaskets, several rusty nuts, and dirt blown smooth in a widecircle around greasy blocks on which he'd propped the now missingengine.

  That night was a whirlwind of excitement for Solomon. He had steak fordinner, then sat back to consider future success. Once the classic carswere gone, he could use the space for more profitable Fords and Chevys.All he'd have to do would be bolt manifolds from spare engines on adifferent car every night, and he'd be rid of it. All he used was vacuumin the intake manifold, drawing pressure from the outlet side of theexhaust. The resulting automatic power flow raised anything they wereattached to. Solomon couldn't help but think, "The newspapers saidscientists were losing rockets and space capsules, so a few old carscould get lost in the clouds without hurting anything."

  Early the next morning, he towed the oldest hulk, an Essex, to thecleared space. Manifolds from junk engines were bolted to the wheels butthis time carburetor flanges were covered by wooden shingles becauseSolomon figured he couldn't afford to ruin four salable hub caps just toget rid of his old sedans. Each shingle was taped in place so they couldbe pulled off in unison with a strong pull on the twine. The tired Essexwas pretty big, so Solomon waited until bedtime before stumbling throughthe dark to the launching pad in his yard. Light from kitchen matcheshelped collect the shingle cords as he crouched behind the Ford wagon.He held the cords in one calloused hand, a burning match in the other sohe could watch the Essex. Solomon tightened his fist, gave a quick tugto jerk all shingles at the same time, and watched in excitedsatisfaction as the old sedan rose in a soft swish of midsummer airflowing through ancient curves of four rusty manifold assemblies.

  Day after day, only a mile from Fullerton, Solomon busied himself buyingwrecked cars and selling usable parts. Each weekday night--Solomon neverworked on Sunday--another old car from his back lot went silentlyheavenward with the aid of Solomon's unique combination of engine vacuumand exhaust pressure. His footsteps were light with accomplishment as hethought, "In four more days, they'll all be gone."

  * * *

  While the Fullerton radar net smoked innumerable cigarettes and cursedluck ruining the evening, Solomon scrambled two eggs, enjoyed his coffeeand relaxed with a newly found set of old 1954 Buick shop manuals. Asusual, when the clock neared ten, he closed his manuals and let himselfout the back door.

  City lights, reflected in low clouds, brightened the way Solomon knewwell. He was soon kneeling behind the Ford wagon without having stumbledonce. Only two kitchen matches were needed to collect the cords from abig Packard, handsome in the warmth of a moonless summer night. With afaint "God Bless You," Solomon pulled the shingles and watched itsmassive hulk rise and disappear into orbit with his other orphans.

  If you'd been able to see it all, you'd have worried. The full circle ofradar and communications crews around Fullerton had acted as though thewhole town were going to pussyfoot away at sundown. _Nine_ was hidden ina curious farmer's orange grove. _Seven_ was tucked between stationwagons in the back row of a used car lot. _Four_ was assigned theloading dock of a meat-packing plant, but the night watchman wouldn'tallow them to stay. They moved across the street behind a fire station._Three_ was too big to hide, so it opened for business inside theNational Guard Armory.

  They all caught the Packard's takeoff. Degree lines from the fourstations around Fullerton were crossed on the map long before Solomonreached his back door. By the time bedroom lights were out and coversunder his bristly chin, a task force of quiet men was speeding on itsway to surround four blocks of country land; including a chicken ranch,Solomon's junk yard and a small frame house. Dogs stirred, yapping atsudden activity they alone knew of, then nose to tail, returned to sleepwhen threats of intrusion failed to materialize.

  The sun was barely up when the chicken farmer was stopped a block fromhis house, Highway patrolmen slowly inspected his truck from front toback, while three cars full of civilians, by the side of the road,watched every move. Finding nothing unusual, a patrolman reported to thefirst civilian car then returned to wave the farmer on his way. When thewidow teacher from the frame house, started for school, she too, wasstopped. After a cursory inspection the patrolman passed her on. Two ofthe three accounted for. What of the third?

  * * * * *

  Quietly a cavalcade formed, converged in Solomon's front yard and parkedfacing the road ready for quick departure. Some dozen civilians muddiedshoes and trousers circling the junk yard, taking stations so they couldwatch all approaches. Once they were in position, a Highway patrolmanand two civilians went to Solomon's door.

  His last cup of coffee was almost gone as Solomon heard the noise oftheir shoes, followed by knuckles thumping his front door. Wonderingwho could be in such a hurry, so early in the morning, he pulled onboots and buttoned a denim jacket as he went to answer. "Hello," saidSolomon to the patrolman, while opening the door. "Why you bother me soearly? You know I only buy cars from owners."

  "No, Mr. Solomon, we're not worried about your car buying. This man,from Washington, wants to ask you a few questions."

  "Sure, come in," Solomon replied.

  The questions were odd: Do you have explosives here? Can you weld metaltanks? What is your education? Were you ever an engineer? What were youdoing last night? To these, and bewildering others, Solomon told thetruth. He had no explosives, couldn't weld, didn't finish school and washere, in bed, all night.

  Then they wante
d to see his cars. Through the back door, so he'd nothave to open the office, Solomon led the three men into his yard. Onceinside, and without asking permission, they began searching like ahungry hound trailing a fat rabbit. Solomon's eyes, blinking in theglare of early morning sun, watched invasion of his privacy. "What theywant?" he wondered. He'd broken no laws in all the years he'd been inthe United States. "For what do they bother a wrecking yard?" he askedhimself.

  His depressing thoughts were rudely shattered by a hail from the largercivilian, standing at the back of Solomon's yard. There, three old carsstood in an isolated row. "Solomon, come here a moment," he shouted.Solomon trudged back, followed by the short civilian and patrolman wholeft their curious searching to follow