* * * * *

The history of what astronomers call Solomon's Orbit had its beginning
about three months ago. Solomon, who couldn't remember his first name,
was warming tired bones in the sun, in front of his auto-wrecking yard a
mile south of Fullerton. Though sitting, he was propped 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 th