Solomons Orbit | Page 2

against the office; a tin shed decorated like a Christmas tree
with hundreds of hub caps dangling from sagging wooden rafters. The
back door opened on two acres of what Solomon happily agreed was
the finest junk in all California. Fords on the left, Chevys on the right,
and across the sagging back fence, a collection of honorable sedans
whose makers left the business world years ago. They were known as
Solomon's "Classics."
The bright sun had Solomon's tiny eyes burrowed under a shaggy brow
which, added to an Einstein-like shock of white hair, gave him the
appearance of a professor on sabbatical. Eyes closed, Solomon was
fondling favorite memories, when as a lad he repaired steam tractors
and followed wheat across central plains of the United States.
Happiness faded as the reverie was broken by spraying gravel signaling
arrival of a customer's car.
"There's Uncle Solomon, Dad," a boy's voice was saying. "He gives us
kids good deals on hot-rod parts. You've just gotta take a look at his old
cars, 'cause if you want a classic Uncle Solomon would make you a
good deal, too. I just know he would."
"Sure, Son, let's go in and see what he's got," replied a man's voice. As
Solomon opened his eyes, the two popped into reality. Heaving himself
out of the sports car bucket seat that was his office chair, Solomon
stood awaiting approach of the pair.
"Mr Solomon, Georgie here tells me you have some fine old cars for

sale?"
"Sure have. Sure have. They're in back. Come along. I'll show you the
short cuts." Without waiting for a reply, Solomon started, head bent,
white hair blowing; through the office, out the back door and down
passages hardly wide enough for a boy, let alone a man. He
disappeared around a hearse, and surfaced on the other side of a
convertible, leading the boy and his father a chase that was more a
guided tour of Solomon's yard than a short cut. "Yes, sir, here they are,"
announced Solomon over his shoulder. Stepping aside he made room
for the boy and his father to pass, between a couple of Ford Tudors.
Three pair of eyes, one young, one old, the other tired, were faced by
two rows of hulks, proud in the silent agony of their fate. Sold, resold
and sold again, used until exhaustion set in, they reached Solomon's for
a last brave stand. No matter what beauties they were to Solomon's
prejudiced eyes; missing fenders, rusted body panels, broken wheels
and rotted woodwork bespoke the utter impossibility of restoration.
"See, Dad, aren't they great?" Georgie gleefully asked. He could just
imagine shaking the guys at school with the old Packard, after Dad
restored it.
"Are you kidding?" Georgie's Dad exploded, "Those wrecks aren't good
for anything but shooting at the moon. Let's go." Not another word did
he say. Heading back to the car parked outside Solomon's office, his
footsteps were echoed by those of a crestfallen boy. Solomon, a figure
of lonely dejection in the gloom overshadowing his unloved old cars,
was troubled with smog causing his eyes to water as tired feet aimlessly
found their way back to his seat in the sun.
That night, to take his mind off worrisome old cars, Solomon began
reading the previous Sunday's newspaper. There were pictures of moon
shots, rockets and astronauts, which started Solomon to thinking; "So,
my classics are good only for shooting at the moon. This thing called
an ion engine, which creates a force field to move satellites, seems like
a lot of equipment. Could do it easier with one of my old engines, I
bet."

As Solomon told the people in Washington several months later, he
was only resting his eyes, thinking about shop manuals and parts in the
back yard. When suddenly he figured there was an easier way to build a
satellite power plant. But, as it was past his bedtime, he'd put one
together tomorrow.
It was late the next afternoon before Solomon had a chance to try his
satellite power plant idea. Customers were gone and he was free of
interruption. The engine of his elderly Moreland tow-truck was brought
to life by Solomon almost hidden behind the huge wooden steering
wheel. The truck lumbered carefully down rows of cars to an almost
completely stripped wreck holding only a broken engine. In a few
minutes, Solomon had the engine waving behind the truck while he
reversed to a clear space near the center of his yard.
Once the broken engine was blocked upright on the ground, Solomon
backed his Moreland out of the way, carried a tray of tools to the
engine and squatted in the dirt to work. First, the intake manifold came
off and was bolted to the clutch