Julia bought a round trip ticket on the Greyhound Bus and carried her bag to the waiting room. A few minutes later the bus drew up outside, bringing with it the exciting travel-smell of hot rubber and gasoline. Most of the passengers climbed out to stretch in the winter sunlight.

"Fifteen minutes," the driver said.

Julia picked up her bag and carried it outside. She gave her ticket to the driver, who was standing by the door, smoking a cigarette. Half way back in the bus she found an empty seat. She hoisted the bag—standing on her tip toes—to the rack above and settled into the seat, primly rearranging her dress.

But she was unable to relax. She stared out the window; the building across the lot presented an uninteresting and windowless expanse of brick. She yawned nervously and surveyed the other passengers who were beginning to filter back.

The driver dropped heavily into his seat behind the wheel; he pulled the door closed, and the motor purred. He counted his passengers in the mirror.

Julia tightened her lips, and her face wrinkled into a stubborn little frown. Her finger tapped restlessly on her knee. She resolved to bring the husband back with her.

She could buy the Castle Place out on Mannor Street for $4,000. She would have $10,000 left to buy him—to make the down payment on, at least—Beck's Hardware Store. From that they would realize a steady and an adequate income. She would give Saturday teas for the society women and show her husband off—in a neat, double breasted suit—in church on Sunday. They would go to the movies twice a week; they would go dancing once a month. They would have three children, two boys and a girl. She would let her husband go moose hunting in Canada once a year, and weekends during bass season they'd go up to the lodge (I should be able to buy the Roger's cabin on Center Creek for a few hundred, she thought) and fish.

She suddenly wished she had flown to Hollywood. She was in a great hurry to get there, get the selecting over and done with, and get back.

At Joplin a young man got on and sat down beside her. She watched him, from time to time, out of the corner of her eye. Outside, the huge chat piles (said by the civic boosters to be the biggest in the world) paraded by the bus. Ought to start snowing again pretty soon, she thought.... It will be fun to swim in the Pacific in February.

After the bus crossed the Missouri-Kansas line she turned to the young man seated beside her. "I'm going to Hollywood," she said.

"Going to get in the movies?"

"Oh, no," Julia said, "... no." Her finger tapped impatiently on her knee.

"That's why most pretty girls go to Hollywood."

Julia blushed. Her eyes, brown and friendly, searched his face. "I'm the domestic sort," she said. "My name's Julia. What's yours?"

"My name's William."

"That's a nice name."

"Julia's a nice name, too."

"I majored in literature in high school," Julia said. "I like to read. I worked in a book store back home."

William shifted uncomfortably. "I don't read much."

Julia frowned. "I read a lot."

"Reading's all right."

"I like to curl up with a good book."

They fell silent.

Julia bit her lip, nipping it into redness with her white, even teeth. I guess I'm not much of a conversationalist, she thought. For a moment she felt tiny and afraid.

Dispiritedly she searched in her sandwich bag for an apple. She brought it out and regarded it intently.

"You want half?"

"No, thanks."

She found a pen knife in her hand bag and began to peel the apple, wrinkling her forehead in concentration.

The bus was in a state supervised section of the highway. It hit a chuck hole, and the pen knife slipped, slicing deeply into her finger. Annoyed and embarrassed, she watched the blood well up in the cut. She put the apple in her lap. "Oh, dear...." She held the finger away from her.

William bent forward. "Euuuu," he said sympathetically. "Here...." He reached for his handkerchief. But before the hand got to it, he reconsidered, perhaps remembering that handkerchiefs are unsanitary. "Euuuu," he said again, shuddering. He moved his hands helplessly and stared at the blood trickling from the finger onto the floor. "Euuuu."

Julia decided: No, he certainly won't do.

She glared angrily at her finger.

And the cut closed; the edges came together and joined in a neat, red line. The blood ceased to flow. The red line vanished as the flesh knitted. The finger was as scarless as it had been moments before.

"I'll be God damned," the young man said.

"... that's very odd," Julia said. She held up the finger. She put the pen knife in her lap beside the apple and felt the finger.

"You must have some rare type of blood," William said.

She wiggled the finger. "You mean something like the reverse of hemophilia?"

"I don't guess I read enough to know big words: just some rare type of blood."

"Nothing like this ever happened before," Julia said, still watching the finger suspiciously. "I've never heard of anything like it."

Hello.

"Hello," she answered.

"What did you say?" the young man asked.

"I said, 'Hello'."

"Hello."

"Didn't you say hello a moment ago?" Julia said, looking at him with an annoyed little frown on her face.

"No."

"No."

"That's funny...."

Hello. Where are you?

"I'm right here beside you," she said.

"What are you talking about?" the young man said.

What planet are you on?

William's lips hadn't moved that time. She'd been watching. She thought the young man was somehow trying to make fun of her.

"Excuse me," she said coldly. She picked up her apple and her pen knife and her handbag and brushed past him into the aisle. She looked around, saw a seat three rows back on the opposite side of the bus. She went to it and settled down, moving over against the window.

William was staring around at her with a puzzled expression on his face.

Hello.

She jerked her head away from him angrily and stared out the window at the cold, barren plain. He's not at all nice, she thought.

Hello.

Grimly she refused to listen. He must be doing it with a sort of radio set, she thought. It's probably some sort of thing they advertize in magazines for $2.98. She blinked her eyes. I wish he'd stop. I don't think it's a bit funny.

Hello.

After a few more miles, the voice stopped.

Morosely Julia finished peeling her apple.

It was cold in the Hollywood bus depot; chill rain drizzled down from a leaden sky.

She stood in the protection of the building, bag in hand, shivering miserably. Twice she waved futilely for a cab. On the third attempt, she got one.

The driver opened the door for her, and she bolted through the rain to its inviting back seat.

"Take me to some nice hotel," she said.

The driver flipped up the flag and gunned the motor.

Five minutes later she was paying him ninety cents; leaving the extra dime out of the dollar for a tip, she ran for the hotel steps.

After she registered, she asked the fatherly old gentleman at the desk, "Where does a person go to meet people?" Water trickled down from her hair and across her face.

He bent forward and narrowed his eyes. "Meet people?" he asked; his tone had grown cold and suspicious.

She bit her lip in embarrassment. Did I say something wrong? she thought. "Never mind," she said, wanting to cry. "I'm not going to stay in this horrible town a minute more than I have to!"

"She," the bellboy said when he came down stairs, "is crazy."

"What do you mean?"

"You should have seen her walk through the door." He pronounced the last word emphatically.

"You mean doorway."

"I mean door," the bell boy said. "It was closed when she done it."

"I'm going to have to keep an eye on her," the clerk said, clucking his tongue in dry disapproval.

Now how did I do that? Julia asked herself. She walked to the door and put her hand through it. She wiggled her fingers. She half-opened the door and put her hand through it again. It came out on the other side. She moved her arm back and forth. It felt prickly.

She crossed to the bed and sat down. This isn't so good, she thought. I've got to figure out how I did that.

She closed her eyes tightly. Other people can't put their hands through doors, she thought. Other people can't heal cuts by looking at them, either.... I never could before; I don't feel any different from other people.

And then a little chill of fear ran up and down her spine. Suppose the bed, the floor, the earth below were suddenly to become as unsubstantial as the door. I might drop clear through to China, to, to....

Her fingernails were making red creases in her palms.

She stood up and stamped on the floor. Her knees trembled. The floor was solid.

She went to the door. It is solid, she thought. She let her fingers explore the surface. She sighed, feeling the rough texture of the wood.

Now, she thought. I can reach through it.

Her hand passed through it easily.

She went back to the bed and sat down.

I did it with my mind, she thought. I wanted to put my hand through the door, and I did. In front of the bell hop, I suddenly felt so sure that I could walk through the door that ... I did.

I'm going to figure out how I did that, she thought, her mouth tightening into a thin little line of resolution. Because if I learned to do it, anyone else could learn....

Hello.

Her hands clenched into annoyed little fists. She went to the window and looked out. She opened the door and looked up and down the corridor. No William.

Hello.

"He ... hello."

Good, you can hear me. What planet are you on?

"The same planet everyone else is."

... the third one from the sun?

She tried to remember her high school science survey course; and she found that she could remember it very clearly. Of course, it is.

That's funny.

She realized that she had thought her last statement, and that he (she was sure that the voice belonged to a he) had answered it nevertheless. She was exchanging thoughts with someone!

Hello, she thought weakly. She gulped. What do you look like? How many arms and legs do you have?

Two of each.

Her mind was very alert and active. She could think with great clarity. Describe yourself. She received a mental impression of him.

She let out her breath. He was human, after all; as human as anybody. And handsome.

She laughed softly with relief: since he has never been able to find anyone like himself, he thought I was from another planet!

Eh?

Describe yourself again.

He complied.

Suddenly she knew with absolute certainty that this was the one she was looking for. Out of all the people on earth, here was a man made for her.

Could you put your hand through a wooden door?

Of course.

She smiled happily. She meant to have him.

Hello.

Hello.

There was silence.

She wrinkled her forehead and tapped her knee. He had ceased transmitting.

He'll be back, she thought with satisfaction. I wonder what size suit he wears? I think I'll buy him a nice wool one. I want my husband to look presentable.

Smiling, she went to the phone. She called her bank and ordered her account transferred to the all-night branch in Los Angeles. She wanted to have her money available so she could leave town to go to him the moment she found out where he lived: or (assuming he came to her) to have it handy so she could leave town with him the moment he proposed to her—even if it were in the middle of the night.

After that, she went to the door and put her hand through it.

I'm going to have to figure this out, she thought. If I figure out how I did it, I'm sure I can teach other people. I'm no different than they are; and I don't intend to be.

She went back to the bed and sat down and began to think.

And she discovered that she could remember the greater part of everything she'd ever read.