Immediately, a large set of double doors at the far end of the long pit yawned open. Like the smaller door through which the reporters had come, the double doors had been invisible when closed, blending in with the smooth wall.

All eyes turned. Cameras rolled.

Something big crawled up an unseen ramp. When it stopped, everyone there briefly wondered why they were looking at the back end of a dump truck. The truck was dwarfed by the vast black pit.

The truck was overflowing with garbage. Heaps of torn plastic bags spilled their contents. A few seagulls had flown up from the bay. They swooped lazily in the warm air around the truck.

Even the breeze was cooperating. The wind blew away from the press, toward the truck.

At a nod from Carlos Whitehall, George Jiminez spoke in hushed tones into the phone. An instant later, the nozzles lining the black pit glowed brighter. They went from orange to brilliant white.

Through their special boots, the gathered men and women felt a growing hum beneath their feet. Across the pit, the back of the dump truck slowly began to rise. The maw swung open and the truck's contents slid down into the black pit.

The trash never reached the bottom.

As it passed by the array of white-tipped nozzles, there came a series of sharp flashes from all around the pit. And like popping soap bubbles, the bags of trash began to vanish.

There was a shocked intake of air all around. Reporters ran to the chain-link fence that surrounded the pit.

"Not too close!" Finance Minister Whitehall called.

He nudged himself cautiously to the edge, careful to keep at least a foot away from the fence at all times.

The falling trash continued to vanish. The reporters blinked as if witnessing some sleight of hand in a sidewalk shell game.