Solomon's Orbit

by William Carroll

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Solomon's Orbit

  There will, sooner or later, be problems of "space junk," and the right to dump in space. But not like this...!

  by William Carroll

  Illustrated by Schoenherr

  "Comrades," said the senior technician, "notice the clear view of NorthAmerica. From here we watch everything; rivers, towns, almost thepeople. And see, our upper lens shows the dark spot of a meteor inspace. Comrades, the meteor gets larger. It is going to pass close toour wondrous machine. Comrades ... Comrades ... turn to my channel. Itis no meteor--it is square. The accursed Americans have sent up a house.Comrades ... an ancient automobile is flying toward our space machine.Comrades ... it is going to--Ah ... the picture is gone."

  Moscow reported the conversation, verbatim, to prove their space vehiclewas knocked from the sky by a capitalistic plot. Motion pictures clearlyshowed an American automobile coming toward the Russian satellite.Russian astronomers ordered to seek other strange orbiting devicesreported: "We've observed cars for weeks. Have been exiling techniciansand photographers to Siberia for making jokes of Soviet science. Iftelevision proves ancient automobiles are orbiting the world, Americansare caught in obvious attempt to ridicule our efforts to probe mysteriesof space."

  * * *

  Confusion was also undermining American scientific study of the heavens.At Mount Palomar the busy 200-inch telescope was photographing a strangenew object, but plates returned from the laboratory caused astronomersto explode angrily. In full glory, the photograph showed a tiny image ofan ancient car. This first development only affected two photographersat Mount Palomar. They were fired for playing practical jokes on theastronomers. Additional exposures of other newfound objects were made.Again the plates were returned; this time with three little old carsparading proudly across the heavens as though they truly belonged amongthe stars.

  The night the Russian protest crossed trails with the Palomar report,Washington looked like a kid with chicken pox, as dozens of spottyyellow windows marked midnight meetings of the nation's greatest minds.The military denied responsibility for cars older than 1942. Civilaviation proved they had no projects involving motor vehicles. CentralIntelligence swore on their classification manual they were not droppingjunk over Cuba in an attempt to hit Castro. Disgusted, the Presidentestablished a civilian commission which soon located three more reports.

  Two were from fliers. The pilot of Flight 26, New York to Los Angeles,had two weeks before reported a strange object rising over SouthernCalifornia about ten the evening of April 3rd. A week after this report,a private pilot on his way from Las Vegas claimed seeing an old carflying over Los Angeles. His statement was ignored, as he was arrestedlater while trying to drink himself silly because no one believed hisstory.

  Fortunately, at the approximate times both pilots claimed sightingunknown objects, radar at Los Angeles International recorded somethingrising from earth's surface into the stratosphere. Within hours afterthe three reports met, in the President's commission's office, mobileradar was spotted on Southern California hilltops in twenty-four-hourwatches for unscheduled flights not involving aircraft.

  Number Seven, stationed in the Mount Wilson television tower parkinglot, caught one first. "Hey fellows," came his excited voice, "check 124degrees, vector 62 now ... rising ... 124 degrees ... vector 66 ...rising--"

  _Nine_ and _Four_ caught it moments later. Then _Three_, Army long-rangeradar, picked it up. "O.K., we're on. It's still rising ... leaving theatmosphere ... gone. Anyone else catch it?" Negative responses came fromall but _Seven_, _Nine_ and _Four_. So well spread were they, thatwithin minutes headquarters had laid four lines over SouthernCalifornia. They crossed where the unsuspecting community of Fullertonwas more or less sound asleep, totally unaware of the making of historyin its back yard.

  * * * * *

  The history of what astronomers call Solomon's Orbit had its beginningabout 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 amile south of Fullerton. Though sitting, he was propped against theoffice; a tin shed decorated like a Christmas tree with hundreds of hubcaps dangling from sagging wooden rafters. The back door opened on twoacres of what Solomon happily agreed was the finest junk in allCalifornia. Fords on the left, Chevys on the right, and across thesagging back fence, a collection of honorable sedans whose makers leftthe business world years ago. They were known as Solomon's "Classics."

  The bright sun had Solomon's tiny eyes burrowed under a shaggy browwhich, added to an Einstein-like shock of white hair, gave him theappearance of a professor on sabbatical. Eyes closed, Solomon wasfondling favorite memories, when as a lad he repaired steam tractors andfollowed wheat across central plains of the United States. Happinessfaded as the reverie was broken by spraying gravel signaling arrival ofa customer's car.

  "There's Uncle Solomon, Dad," a boy's voice was saying. "He gives uskids good deals on hot-rod parts. You've just gotta take a look at hisold cars, 'cause if you want a classic Uncle Solomon would make you agood 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 himselfout of the sports car bucket seat that was his office chair, Solomonstood awaiting approach of the pair.

  "Mr Solomon, Georgie here tells me you have some fine old cars forsale?"

  "Sure have. Sure have. They're in back. Come along. I'll show you theshort cuts." Without waiting for a reply, Solomon started, head bent,white hair blowing; through the office, out the back door and downpassages hardly wide enough for a boy, let alone a man. He disappearedaround 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 ofSolomon's yard than a short cut. "Yes, sir, here they are," announcedSolomon over his shoulder. Stepping aside he made room for the boy andhis father to pass, between a couple of Ford Tudors.

  Three pair of eyes, one young, one old, the other tired, were faced bytwo rows of hulks, proud in the silent agony of their fate. Sold, resoldand sold again, used until exhaustion set in, they reached Solomon's fora last brave stand. No matter what beauties they were to Solomon'sprejudiced eyes; missing fenders, rusted body panels, broken wheels androtted woodwork bespoke the utter impossibility of restoration.

  "See, Dad, aren't they great?" Georgie gleefully asked. He could justimagine shaking the guys at school with the old Packard, after Dadrestored it.

  "Are you kidding?" Georgie's Dad exploded, "Those wrecks aren't good foranything but shooting at the moon. Let's go." Not another word did hesay. Heading back to the car parked outside Solomon's office, hisfootsteps were echoed by those of a crestfallen boy. Solomon, a figureof lonely dejection in the gloom overshadowing his unloved old cars, wastroubled with smog causing his eyes to water as tired feet aimlesslyfound their way back to his seat in the sun.

  That night, to take his mind off worrisome old cars, Solomon beganreading the previous Sunday's newspaper. There were pictures of moonshots, rockets and astronauts, which started Solomon to thinking; "So,my classics are good only for shooting at the moon. This thing called anion engine, which creates a force field to move satellites, seems like alot 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 wasonly resting his eyes, thinking about shop manuals and parts in the backyard. When suddenly he figured there was an easier way to build asatellite power plant. But, as it was past his bedtime,
he'd put onetogether tomorrow.

  It was late the next afternoon before Solomon had a chance to try hissatellite power plant idea. Customers were gone and he was free ofinterruption. The engine of his elderly Moreland tow-truck was broughtto life by Solomon almost hidden behind the huge wooden steering wheel.The truck lumbered carefully down rows of cars to an almost completelystripped wreck holding only a broken engine. In a few minutes, Solomonhad the engine waving behind the truck while he reversed to a clearspace near the center of his yard.

  Once the broken engine was blocked upright on the ground, Solomon backedhis Moreland out of the way, carried a tray of tools to the engine andsquatted in the dirt to work. First, the intake manifold came off andwas bolted to the clutch housing