The Man Who Flew

The Man Who Flew could not exist—but he had committed a foul crime!
Clouds hung low over the city, gray and dismal. The shining metal thruway partially reflected their somber visage. A few vehicles scurried nervously through the city.
Keller turned away from the window dismally. His conscience was bothering him, and it affected his every movement. Looking over his humbly furnished office, he entertained the thought, not for the first time, that he should change jobs if he wanted to eat.
A buzz sounded—the intercom system. That would be Sally, his secretary. It was a mystery what she would want. Usually she never bothered him except in case of an emergency, and the last client Keller had had dropped his case three months ago.
Apparently it was another customer, unlikely as it seemed. Keller heard voices outside, Sally's irritated and protesting, and a nervous baritone. Abruptly the door opened, disclosing a rugged, bushy-haired C-3 (average intelligence and advanced extra-sensory perception, but unexercised), 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't want 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 has to be the Big Shot type.
He made the usual Q-R opening; curtly and efficiently:
Your name?
Uh—Harold Radcliffe.