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 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