Solomons Orbit | Page 4

as the old sedan rose in a soft swish of
midsummer air flowing through ancient curves of four rusty manifold
assemblies.
Day after day, only a mile from Fullerton, Solomon busied himself
buying wrecked cars and selling usable parts. Each weekday
night--Solomon never worked on Sunday--another old car from his
back lot went silently heavenward with the aid of Solomon's unique
combination of engine vacuum and exhaust pressure. His footsteps
were light with accomplishment as he thought, "In four more days,
they'll all be gone."
* * *
While the Fullerton radar net smoked innumerable cigarettes and
cursed luck ruining the evening, Solomon scrambled two eggs, enjoyed
his coffee and relaxed with a newly found set of old 1954 Buick shop
manuals. As usual, when the clock neared ten, he closed his manuals
and let himself out the back door.

City lights, reflected in low clouds, brightened the way Solomon knew
well. He was soon kneeling behind the Ford wagon without having
stumbled once. Only two kitchen matches were needed to collect the
cords from a big Packard, handsome in the warmth of a moonless
summer night. With a faint "God Bless You," Solomon pulled the
shingles and watched its massive 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 of
radar and communications crews around Fullerton had acted as though
the whole town were going to pussyfoot away at sundown. Nine was
hidden in a curious farmer's orange grove. Seven was tucked between
station wagons in the back row of a used car lot. Four was assigned the
loading dock of a meat-packing plant, but the night watchman wouldn't
allow them to stay. They moved across the street behind a fire station.
Three was too big to hide, so it opened for business inside the National
Guard Armory.
They all caught the Packard's takeoff. Degree lines from the four
stations around Fullerton were crossed on the map long before
Solomon reached his back door. By the time bedroom lights were out
and covers under his bristly chin, a task force of quiet men was
speeding on its way to surround four blocks of country land; including
a chicken ranch, Solomon's junk yard and a small frame house. Dogs
stirred, yapping at sudden activity they alone knew of, then nose to tail,
returned to sleep when threats of intrusion failed to materialize.
The sun was barely up when the chicken farmer was stopped a block
from his house, Highway patrolmen slowly inspected his truck from
front to back, while three cars full of civilians, by the side of the road,
watched every move. Finding nothing unusual, a patrolman reported to
the first civilian car then returned to wave the farmer on his way. When
the widow teacher from the frame house, started for school, she too,
was stopped. After a cursory inspection the patrolman passed her on.
Two of the three accounted for. What of the third?
* * * * *

Quietly a cavalcade formed, converged in Solomon's front yard and
parked facing the road ready for quick departure. Some dozen civilians
muddied shoes and trousers circling the junk yard, taking stations so
they could watch all approaches. Once they were in position, a
Highway patrolman and two civilians went to Solomon's door.
His last cup of coffee was almost gone as Solomon heard the noise of
their shoes, followed by knuckles thumping his front door. Wondering
who could be in such a hurry, so early in the morning, he pulled on
boots and buttoned a denim jacket as he went to answer. "Hello," said
Solomon to the patrolman, while opening the door. "Why you bother
me so early? 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
metal tanks? What is your education? Were you ever an engineer?
What were you doing last night? To these, and bewildering others,
Solomon told the truth. He had no explosives, couldn't weld, didn't
finish school and was here, in bed, all night.
Then they wanted to see his cars. Through the back door, so he'd not
have to open the office, Solomon led the three men into his yard. Once
inside, and without asking permission, they began searching like a
hungry hound trailing a fat rabbit. Solomon's eyes, blinking in the glare
of early morning sun, watched invasion of his privacy. "What they
want?" he wondered. He'd broken no laws in all the years he'd been in
the United States. "For what do they bother a wrecking yard?" he asked
himself.