THE MAN WHO FLEW
BY CHARLES D. CUNNINGHAM, JR.
The Man Who Flew could
not exist—but he had
committed a foul crime!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Clouds hung low over the city, gray and dismal. The shining metalthruway partially reflected their somber visage. A few vehiclesscurried nervously through the city.
Keller turned away from the window dismally. His conscience wasbothering him, and it affected his every movement. Looking over hishumbly furnished office, he entertained the thought, not for the firsttime, that he should change jobs if he wanted to eat.
A buzz sounded—the intercom system. That would be Sally, hissecretary. It was a mystery what she would want. Usually she neverbothered him except in case of an emergency, and the last client Kellerhad had dropped his case three months ago.
Apparently it was another customer, unlikely as it seemed. Kellerheard voices outside, Sally's irritated and protesting, and a nervousbaritone. Abruptly the door opened, disclosing a rugged, bushy-hairedC-3 (average intelligence and advanced extra-sensory perception, butunexercised), who was in a bad state of nerves.
He seemed to have forced his way past Sally into the inner office.
Keller flashed a thought at Sally: **How does he look?**
**Not so hot,** she answered. **I didn't bother to scan much—don'twant to lower myself to that depth—but he seems to be a big payer.He's impatient, though. And he wants everything run his way.**
Oh, fine, thought Keller. My first victim in three months, and it hasto be the Big Shot type.
He made the usual Q-R opening; curtly and efficiently:
"Your name?"
"Uh—Harold Radcliffe."
"Why the hesitation?" But Keller had scanned it already. The man wassimply cautious. He continued without letting Radcliffe answer:
"Age?" 33. "Occupation?" Hesitation: Salesman. "Residence?" Afterwriting this and Radcliffe's telephone number down, he closed his grimyblack notebook and sat back.
"And now, Mr. Radcliffe, why exactly did you come here?"
Radcliffe, unsure of himself at first, gathered confidence as henoticed Keller's interest growing. He began:
"Well sir, for this job I need one of the best detectives—" he pausedat Keller's grimace—"and since you're one of the few detectives inthe city who can read minds, and the only A-2 'tec in the state—" Heshrugged, and finished, "I figured you'd be the man for me."
Keller saw that he was telling the truth, after a quick check into theman's mind. "All right, Mr. Radcliffe. What's your problem?"
Radcliffe seemed to not be able to focus his thoughts. His mind, Kellersaw, was a loose stream of unconnected thoughts, trying to merge intoa whole. Keller could read no message out of them. He suspected ablock—an unusual thing for a C-3, but not impossible.
He gave up, sat back and awaited the other's response. Finally it came,jerking Keller out of his chair.
"It's murder, Mr. Keller. The murder of my wife."
Murder!
It was the first suspected murder in thirteen years. Ever since theRicjards case in '04, peace and tranquility reigned in a calm andplacid nation. For thirteen peaceful years there had been no hintof manslaughter other than accidental. It had been conditioned outof humans at the prenatal stage, and unless there was a violent,al