Warren Murphy: Waste Not, Want Not

"There are eighteen scows so far, Minister," the young man nearest Whitehall said. George Jiminez was deputy finance minister and assistant director of the top secret Vaporizer Project. He puffed hard behind his handkerchief.

"When will the other bays be ready?" Whitehall asked. He was a tall man with a deep, healthy tan.

Despite the surroundings, there wasn't a single spot or smudge on his light cotton suit.

"They tell me now it won't be until next Tuesday."

Whitehall stopped dead. The rest of his entourage stumbled to a stop.

"That's ridiculous," the finance minister snapped, eyes flashing with his trademark unpredictable anger. Behind him, a scow loaded with rusted drums of human waste from a Mexican processing plant was baking in the hot South American sun. The smell failed to bother Whitehall.

"They've taken too much time already," he said, aiming an unwavering finger at Jiminez. "Tell them the president has authorized me to use whatever means necessary to have this up and running by Friday. I am not putting up with any more delays. After the conference Mayana's treasury will have more than enough to hire outside contractors."

"The people might not like that," George pointed out from under his sweaty hankie.

"The people won't care," Whitehall said. "This is going to make everyone in Mayana rich." He waved to the docked scows. "Now, Sears has a few trucks up there, but they'll need two more loads for the last tests." He pointed at the Mexican scow and the one beside it. "That one and that one."

"Maybe we shouldn't charge for these," Jiminez suggested. "A sample for new clients."

"Are either of them from the United States?"

"No," Jiminez replied. "If you'd prefer it, there are at least two from New York out in the Caribbean."

Whitehall shook his head firmly. "The United States can afford to pay. This one is from Mexico?" George Jiminez nodded. "Okay, let them both have it on us." Through the swarming seagulls he read the markings on the next scow. "Russian. There's some irony, I suppose," he muttered under his breath. "They've got an environmental movement now. With the mess they've got they'll need our services."

A half-dozen cell phones appeared from suit jackets. Arrangements were made to off-load the two scows.

Minister Carlos Whitehall spun on his heel. The tall man in the spotless beige suit began marching up the dock.

George Jiminez jogged to keep up. The wind was shifting out to sea. He came out from behind his handkerchief, testing the air. It was a little better.

"I've spoken with the president's office," Jiminez said, tucking his hankie back in his pocket. "Everything's set. "

"Of course it is," Whitehall snapped unhappily. "Our first-term executive president had to be dragged on board this project by me. He contributed nothing, George. Nothing. He only got elected at a propitious time."

They were at the parking area beyond the docks. Whitehall's driver ran around his limousine to open the back door for the finance minister.

George Jiminez knew this was a touchy subject. There was animosity between the finance minister and the executive president's office. Still, they would all be able to bury their differences soon. Today Mayana would take the first step to becoming the richest country in South America.

As Minister Whitehall climbed into the car, Jiminez glanced back over his shoulder.

A few of the men were coming out to the parking lot, clicking shut cell phones. They got into government cars.

The harbor teemed with seagulls. They filled sky and land. In the far distance, another scow piled high with teetering garbage was making its lazy way in from the sea.

The wind shifted suddenly. The fresh stench nearly caused George Jiminez to vomit his breakfast. He fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief.

"See Mayana and lose your lunch," he coughed as he climbed into the back seat of the air-conditioned limo.

As the finance minister's limousine sped up into the Mayana hills, George Jiminez wondered briefly how that slogan would look on a T-shirt, perhaps spelled out with rotting banana peels. He made a mental note to bring it up at the afternoon public-relations meeting.

THE VAPORIZER WAS a square pit the size of two Olympic-size swimming pools. The interior was lined with a frictionless black substance that seemed to absorb light. A black hole, plucked from the depths of space and pressed into the virgin Mayanan hills.

Spaced down along the walls of the device, thousands of black-coated nozzles aimed across the vast pit. The tips of the nozzles glowed dull orange.

A black patio rimmed the pit, surrounded around by an eight-foot-high wall. Both deck and wall were coated in the same material as the Vaporizer. Carlos Whitehall noted the drabness of the device as he and his entourage entered the Vaporizer deck through a silent sliding door.

"I still think they could have done something better with the color," the finance minister complained. As usual, he tried to see to the bottom of the pit. As usual, the severe black made it impossible for his eyes to find focus.

"Dr. Sears says the black is necessary," George Jiminez replied. "Whatever's in the nonreflective coating wouldn't work with another color."

Whitehall snorted derisively. "Dr. Sears is hardly the expert I'd quote on any of this," he grumbled. A group of men waited at the far corner of the deck. Leading the way, Whitehall marched over to them.

His feet made not a scuff nor a sound. Before entering through the sliding door, Whitehall and the rest had pulled special clear boots over their shoes. The booties were required as a precaution to keep visitors from losing their footing on the slippery surface of the deck.

Even wearing the special shoes, Whitehall felt uneasy stepping along the deck. He had been present for some of the more recent tests. Although a chainlink fence had been set up around the very edge of the pit to prevent anyone from falling in, it didn't help him forget the very near danger. Whenever he ventured out on the deck, he felt as if he were climbing down into a massive garbage disposal unit to retrieve a wayward spoon that had fallen down the drain.

The waiting men gave only quick glances as Whitehall and his entourage approached. While irritating, their lack of deference wasn't a surprise. There was already a preening rooster in the henhouse.

Executive President Blythe Curry-Hume stood at the center of the crowd of men at the edge of the pit. If his close proximity to the Vaporizer caused him any concern, it didn't show. His blandly handsome face was drawn into something that might have been a smile or a grimace of pain.

The president of Mayana seemed to have only one facial expression. For the hundredth time since election day, Carlos Whitehall strained to see a hint of the alleged magnetism that had propelled this political neophyte to his nation's top elected office. As always in Whitehall's critical eye, Executive President Curry-Hume came up lacking.

"I'm glad you could finally make it," the president said thinly as Whitehall stopped before him.

"Yes, Mr. President," Whitehall said tightly. "You do understand that we are not scheduled to begin until two." He made a show of checking his watch. It was barely past ten.

"The world waits. If we are ready, why not go ahead? We are ready, aren't we?"

Whitehall's lips tightened. "I'll need a few minutes to line everything up," he replied, biting off each word.

The two groups went into huddles. Whitehall's men got back on their phones, barking orders down to the docks. At one point an exasperated Carlos Whitehall glanced over at the president.

Executive President Curry-Hume stood with hands planted on his hips as he stared into the Vaporizer pit. His sharp eyes had taken on a dreamlike quality. This was one of the things that had appealed to Mayana's female voters: the president's soulful eyes.