The Most Powerful Tailor in the World

John Hansen, a Presidential science advisor, was reviewing some CIA reports on Russian ICBM launch-pad locations when the telephone rang. The President said, "John, I'd like you to come into my office," and hung up.

Hansen could tell nothing from the tone, but then, he never could. He locked the CIA reports in the lower drawer of his desk, along with some data on civilian fusion reactors, and went down the hall to the West Wing of the White House. This was usually a nice little ego trip; as a young, handsome physicist with influence at the top, he was a great favorite among the secretaries. But today he was ignored--the secretaries and the lower staffmen were all whispering among themselves.

Ethel, the President's secretary, said, "You can go right in, Dr. Hansen," and pressed the button by her desk to unlock the door. He noticed that some refurbishing was taking place in the anteroom. Workmen in (continued on page 190)Most powerful tailor(continued from page 153) coveralls were repositioning portraits on the walls and it seemed to him that they were a little tense, on edge.

Hansen said, "What is it, Ethel?"

Ethel rolled her eyes upward. "You won't believe it," she said.

Hansen went into the Oval Room office where, to his astonishment, he found almost half the Cabinet--including the Secretaries of Defense, State, Housing and Urban Development--and the President's foreign-policy advisor. They were all standing, looking very uncomfortable. Even the President was standing.

One man was sitting and Hansen looked at him curiously. He was a little man, neatly dressed in a gray suit, chubby and white-haired. He must have been 60 at least, but he was snappishly alert and his eyes were compelling.

The little man swung his eyes over to Hansen. "Who are you?" he demanded. The authority in his voice disturbed Hansen. Most people were awed to be received by the President. This man acted as if he were surrounded by servants.

The President cleared his throat. "This is Dr. Hansen, my science advisor," he said. "Dr. Hansen, Mr. Borak."

Borak laughed. "So you called in a scientist," he said. "You think that'll help?" He crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap and looked at Hansen contemptuously.

"I want another opinion," the President said mildly. And Hansen realized with a shock: He's afraid of this man. He looked around at the others. He now sensed that they were all afraid.

The President said, "Mr. Borak came to our attention two hours ago. He first visited John Harper--you know him, don't you?--the Undersecretary of Housing and Urban Development--"--

"The late Undersecretary," Borak said and laughed.

"And eventually was brought here. He is making a rather interesting set of demands, which I'd like you to hear." The President's voice remained mild and controlled. But Hansen could see the faint line of sweat on his upper lip.

"What happened to Harper?" Hansen asked. He had had lunch with him only a week before.

"Incinerated," Borak said and he chuckled with a sort of childish glee.

The room was very quiet. "I don't understand," Hansen said. He heard his own voice becoming as mild and controlled as the President's.

"Mr. Borak is a tailor from Cincinnati and----"

"Not originally from Cincinnati," Borak said, interrupting again. "Originally from Dayton, but the past ten years, Cincinnati. I have a place on Front Street, part of a dry cleaner's. I do reweaving and mending. I'm a widower; my wife died five years ago. No children. Last year, I made six thousand, three hundred dollars and I paid all my taxes on it. I've been a registered Democrat all my life. Does that help you?"

"Not much," Hansen said.

Borak laughed with genuine pleasure.

He sat back in his chair and looked up at all the men standing around him. "None of it helps you," he said. "Admit it. Like my wife says, there isn't a damned thing you can do."

There was silence in the room for a moment. Finally, the President said, "Mr. Borak has demanded the sum of five hundred million dollars from us for----"

"Call it half a billion. It sounds better, half a billion."

"For 'protection.'"

"Protection?" Hansen said.

"You may not think so," Borak said, "but I have had a very unusual life. Very unusual. When I was young, I heard voices and they told me what to do. I often had the feeling of doing something I had done before, in another incarnation. Several times, I traveled out of my body to India, Japan and Kansas."

This guy is a screaming nut, Hansen thought. He listened, nodding politely.

"Then, after my wife died, I was very lonely. A man with no children is lonely. So I tried to contact her and finally succeeded two years ago. I have psychic powers, you see. It was my wife who suggested that I try to move things. It was--"

"Move things?"

"You know, ashtrays and books at first, moving them around the house. Opening and closing doors, with my mind."

"I see." Hansen worked to suppress a smile. The psychic little tailor from Cincinnati.

"It was an exercise," Borak continued. "Just getting in shape. Nothing much happened until I discovered I could make things catch fire. In fact, I have a special talent for this, a gift, you might call it. I practiced, strengthening my powers of concentration. Finally, a month ago, after consulting with my wife, I set a factory on fire." He rummaged in the pockets of his suit. "I have the clippings here...."

"That's all right," Hansen said. He had already made up his mind. They were dealing with a psychotic of some kind. Probably he'd sneaked out and set a few fires like any other pyromaniac, then constructed an elaborate rationalization to explain it and to handle his guilt.

"It was a four-million dollar fire, "Borak said proudly. "It got a lot of attention," he said and giggled.

"Speaking of fires, you might want to look at these," the President said, giving Hansen some Polaroids. They showed a Government office in several views. "They were taken half an hour ago."

Hansen studied them. He could see evidence of fire damage in each, but one shot in particular caught his attention. It showed a desk and a blackened lump in the chair behind the desk.

"The Undersecretary of Housing and Urban Development," the President said, nodding.

"Sorry about that," Borak said. "But it was his own fault. He made me lose my temper. The things he said about me! He called me a screaming nut, for instance."

"Who observed this sequence of events?" Hansen asked, still staring at the Polaroids.

"An administrative assistant and a speechwriter," the President said. "They have been heavily sedated now, but they were in the room at the time and their stories match Mr. Borak's account of what happened. Mr. Borak, according to all accounts, closed his eyes, mumbled something and Mr. Harper burst into flames. They were separated by a distance of several yards at the time."

"Distance has nothing to do with it," Borak said. "Distance makes no difference."

"Mr. Borak claims," the President said, "to be able to do the same thing to the city of New York if we do not give him the money he demands."

"Terrific," Hansen said. "But I think we should pay only if he promises to burn New York to a crisp." He said it as a joke and he laughed, but he kept his eyes on Borak's face. He was testing. A joke like that would drive a psychotic up the wall. Borak was not amused--but neither was he livid with fury.

He said, "I see that you are still skeptical. Very well. Please remove your tie." Feeling odd, Hansen took off his tie and held it out in his hand. "That's fine," Borak said. He bent over, closed his eyes and whispered something quickly under his breath.

The tie burst into flames. Hansen gasped, dropped it and stamped out the fire with his shoes. When he looked up, the little man was smiling blandly. "Have I convinced you?"

Hansen did not speak. He was staring at the charred pieces of cloth, trying to remember where he had bought the tie, who might have gotten to it, treated it with chemicals, prepared it for this little trick. After a moment, he shook his head. It could not be a trick.

His mind spun crazily. As a physicist, he was accustomed to thinking of alternative explanations, contrasting mathematical models to describe physical events. But this was flatly impossible in any system. It couldn't be done.

"Now, then," Borak said, turning to the President. "Unless there are further questions, I would like to turn to the matter of payment."

The President, looking pale, nodded.

"In return for maintaining secrecy and withholding my powers, I will receive from you half a billion dollars, tax-free, to be paid through the Defense Department. Furthermore--"--

Hansen stopped listening. His mind was turning inward, considering all the possibilities and ramifications. He tried to think of what he had seen as a true manifestation of psychic power, psychokinesis. If so, what followed? How could it be dealt with logically? "Just a moment," he said. "I have some questions."

The tailor Borak looked at him with obvious hostility. "Yes?"

Hansen knew that he would have to proceed cautiously. The picture of the charred lump remained in his mind. "Mr. President," he said, "it seems to me that we may be able to use Mr. Borak's skills to our own advantage. In fact, I think he may be worth a great deal more than he is asking. Someone who could invisibly and immediately incinerate Peking, Havana, Moscow--that's a talent to have on our side."

The President stared at him as if he had gone mad.

But Borak was nodding slowly, thinking about it seriously. "Yes," he said, "possibly...."

"We also ought to determine," Hansen said, "what other powers Mr. Borak has that might be useful. For instance, can you see the future, Mr. Borak?"

Borak shook his head. "I've tried," he said, "but I can't. Even in communication with my wife I can't. But I'm very good at dealing with the present."

"You certainly are," Hansen said. He concealed a sense of triumph. He knew now what he had to do. "I want to thank you, Mr. Borak," he said, "for a most stimulating morning." He went to the door. "Mr. President, it's my recommendation that you do as Mr. Borak asks, with the condition that you have a legal option on his services in the future."

The President nodded curtly, though he looked angry and frustrated. "That's your final conclusion?" He'd obviously been half hoping that Hansen could produce some scientific miracle that would prove Borak a fraud.

"Yes," Hansen said. "Absolutely." And then he walked out of the room.

In the anteroom, he smiled at Ethel, who was nerviously smoking a cigarette. "How is it in there?" she asked.

"No problem," he said, still smiling. He went over to the workmen and whispered to them for a moment.

Fifteen minutes later, when Mr. Borak, the psychic tailor from Cincinnati, emerged from the office of the President of the United States, Hansen was there to greet him.

"I want to thank you," Borak said. "I didn't expect a scientist to understand."

"Scientists are logical people," Hansen said, "and I'm only doing my job."

And then he swung one of the workmen's hammers down on Borak's head, killing him instantly. Ethel screamed. After a moment, the President and his advisors came out of the inner office and looked down at the body. Then they looked at the bloody hammer. Finally, they looked at Hansen.

"He couldn't see the future," Hansen said.

There was a brief silence. Then the President said "Ummm" in a distracted way and went back into his office. His advisors followed him. The door closed. Hansen went back down the hall to his office. And there the matter ended.