Solomons Orbit | Page 3

housing so the carburetor mounting
flange faced skyward. Solomon stopped for a minute to worry. "If it
works," he thought, "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 than
usual, Solomon took a direct route to his office. From the ceiling of hub
caps, he selected a small cap from an old Chevy truck. Back at the
engine, he punched a hole in the cap, through which he tied a length of
strong twine. The cap was laid on the carburetor flange and stuck in
place with painter's masking tape. He then bolted the exhaust manifold
over the intake so the muffler connection barely touched the hub cap.
Solomon stood up, kicked the manifolds with his heavy boots to make
sure they 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
the solid body of a big old Ford station wagon. He'd read of scientists
in block houses when they shot rockets and was taking no chances.
Excitement glistened Solomon's old eyes as what blood pressure there

was rose a point or two with happy thoughts. If his idea worked, he
would be free of the old cars, yet not destroy a single one. Squatting
behind the station wagon, to watch the engine, Solomon gingerly pulled
the twine to eliminate slack. As it tightened, he tensed, braced himself
with a free hand on the wagon's bumper, and taking a deep breath,
jerked the cord. Tired legs failed and Solomon slipped backward when
the hub cap broke free of the tape and sailed through the air to clang
against the wagon's fender. Lying on his back, struggling to rise,
Solomon heard a slight swish as though a whirlwind had come through
the yard. The scent of air-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,
there goes one," the younger cried as a large dark object majestically
rose into 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
space behind his tow truck where he remembered an engine. There was
nothing there, and as Solomon now figured it, never had been. Heart
heavy with belief in the temporary foolishness of age, Solomon went to
the hub cap, glittering the sun where it lit after bouncing off the fender.
It was untied from the string, and in the tool tray, before Solomon
realized he'd not been daydreaming. In the cleared area, were two old
manifold gaskets, several rusty nuts, and dirt blown smooth in a wide
circle around greasy blocks on which he'd propped the now missing
engine.
That night was a whirlwind of excitement for Solomon. He had steak
for dinner, then sat back to consider future success. Once the classic
cars were 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 a different car every night, and he'd be rid of it. All he used
was vacuum in the intake manifold, drawing pressure from the outlet
side of the exhaust. The resulting automatic power flow raised anything
they were attached to. Solomon couldn't help but think, "The
newspapers said scientists were losing rockets and space capsules, so a
few old cars could get lost in the clouds without hurting anything."
Early the next morning, he towed the oldest hulk, an Essex, to the
cleared space. Manifolds from junk engines were bolted to the wheels
but this time carburetor flanges were covered by wooden shingles
because Solomon figured he couldn't afford to ruin four salable hub
caps just to get rid of his old sedans. Each shingle was taped in place so
they could be pulled off in unison with a strong pull on the twine. The
tired Essex was pretty big, so Solomon waited until bedtime before
stumbling through the dark to the launching pad in his yard. Light from
kitchen matches helped 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 so he could watch the Essex. Solomon tightened his
fist, gave a quick tug to jerk all shingles at the same time, and watched
in excited satisfaction