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.

His depressing thoughts were rudely shattered by a hail from the larger
civilian, standing at the back of Solomon's yard. There, three old cars
stood in an isolated row. "Solomon, come here a moment," he shouted.
Solomon trudged back, followed by the short civilian and patrolman who
left their curious searching to follow Solomon's lead. When he neared,
the tall stranger asked, "I see where weeds grew under other cars which,
from the tracks, have been moved out in the past few weeks. How many did
you have?"

"Twenty; but these are all I have left," Solomon eagerly replied, hoping
at last he'd a customer for the best of his old cars. "They make classic
cars, if