Talliaferro said between clenched teeth, 'Why do you mention the Moon, Dr. Urth?'

Urth said blandly, 'Only as an example. What I've said so far applies to all three of you. But now comes the crucial point, the matter of the dying night.'

Talliaferro frowned. 'You mean the night Villiers died?'

'I mean any night. See here, even granted that an outer window sill was a safe hiding place, which of you would be mad enough to consider it a safe hiding place for a piece of unexposed film? Scanner film isn't very sensitive, to be sure, and is made to be developed under all sorts of hit-and-miss conditions.

Diffuse nighttime illumination wouldn't seriously affect it, but diffuse daylight would ruin it in a few minutes, and direct sunlight would ruin it at once. Everyone knows that.' 

Mandel said, 'Go ahead, Urth. What is this leading to?'

'You're trying to rush me,' said Urth, with a massive pout. 'I want you to see this clearly. The criminal wanted, above all, to keep the film safe. It was his only record of something of supreme value to himself and to the world. Why would he put it where it would inevitably be ruined almost immediately by the morning Sun? Only because he did not expect the morning Sun ever to come. He thought the night, so to speak, was immortal.

'But nights aren't immortal. On Earth they die and give way to daytime. Even the six-month polar night is a dying night eventually. The nights on Ceres last only two hours; the nights on the Moon last two weeks. They are dying nights too, and Drs. Talliaferro and Ryger know that day must always come.'

Kaunas rose. 'But wait-'

Wendell Urth faced him full. 'No longer any need to wait, Dr. Kaunas. Mercury is the only sizable object in the Solar System that turns only one face to the Sun. Even taking libration into account, fully three-eights of its surface is true dark-side and never sees the Sun. The Polar Observatory is at the rim of that dark-side. For ten years you have grown used to the fact that nights are immortal, that a surface in darkness remains eternally in darkness, and so you entrusted unexposed film to Earth's night, forgetting in your excitement that nights must die-'

Kaunas came forward. 'Wait-'

Urth was inexorable. 'I am told that when Mandel adjusted the polarizer in Villiers' room, you screamed at the sunlight. Was that your ingrained fear of the Mercurian Sun, or your sudden realization of what sunlight meant to your plans? You rushed forward. Was that to adjust the polarizer, or to stare at the ruined film?'

Kaunas fell to his knees. 'I didn't mean it. I wanted to speak to him, only to speak to him, and he screamed and collapsed. I thought he was dead and the paper was under his pillow and it all just followed. One thing led on to another and before I knew it I couldn't get out of it anymore. But I meant none of it. I swear it.'

They had formed a semicircle about him and Wendell Urth stared at the moaning Kaunas with pity in his eyes.

An ambulance had come and gone. Talliaferro finally brought himself to say stiffly to Mandel, 'I hope, sir, there will be no hard feelings for anything said here.'

And Mandel had answered as stiffly, 'I think we had all better forget as much as possible of what has happened during the last twenty-four hours.'

They were standing in the doorway, ready to leave, and Wendell Urth ducked his smiling head and said,

'There's the question of my fee, you know.' Mandell looked at him with a startled expression.

'Not money,' said Urth at once. 'But when the first mass transference setup for humans is established, I want a trip arranged for me right away.'

Mandel continued to look anxious. 'Now, wait. Trips through outer space are a long way off.'

Urth shook his head rapidly. 'Not outer space. Not at all. I would like to step across to Lower Falls, New Hampshire.' 

'All right. But why?'

Urth looked up. To Talliaferro's outright surprise, the extraterrologist's face wore an expression compounded equally of shyness and eagerness.

Urth said, 'I once-quite a long time ago-knew a girl there. It's been many years-but I sometimes wonder…'

Some readers may realize that this story, first published in 1956, has been overtaken by events. In 1965, astronomers discovered that Mercury does not keep one side always to the Sun, but has a period of rotation of about fifty-four days, so that all parts of it are exposed to sunlight at one time or another. Well, what can I do except say that I wish astronomers would get things right to begin with? And I certainly refuse to change the story to suit their whims.

This item is not strictly a mystery in the usual sense of the word, or even a story in the usual sense of the word. I don't know how to describe it, except perhaps as a good-natured satire on scientific research. I received more mail alter its publication than alter any other item of comparable length. A particularly pleasant memory is that of receiving a telephone call from a man who spoke with a strong Central European accent. He said be was in Boston for a convention and wanted to thank me lor the pleasure 'Pate de Foie Gras' had given him, since it so amusingly and effectively poked knowledgeable fun at science. I tried to get his name, but he wouldn't give it to me. He was afraid, I suspect, that his reputation might suffer if it were found he read science fiction. If he is secretly reading this book and recognizes himself, I would like to assure him that he has plenty of company and can take off that plain wrapper. Honest!

I couldn't tell you my real name if I wanted to, and, under the circumstances, I don't want to.

I'm not much of a writer myself, so I'm having Isaac Asimov write this up for me. I've picked him for several reasons. First, he's a biochemist, so he understands what I tell him; some of it, anyway. Secondly, he can write; or at least he has published considerable fiction, which may not, of course, be the same thing.

I was not the first person to have the honor of meeting The Goose. That belongs to a Texas cotton farmer named Ian Angus MacGregor, who owned it before it became government property.

By summer of 1955 he had sent an even dozen of letters to the Department of Agriculture requesting information on the hatching of goose eggs. The department sent him all the booklets on hand that were anywhere near the subject, but his letters simply got more impassioned and freer in their references to his 'friend,' the local congressman.

My connection with this is that I am in the employ of the Department of Agriculture. Since I was attending a convention at San Antonio in July of 1955, my boss asked me to stop off at MacGregor's place and see what I could do to help him. We're servants of the public and besides we had finally received a letter from MacGregor's congressman.

On July 17,1955, I met The Goose. 

I met MacGregor first. He was in his fifties, a tall man with a lined face full of suspicion. I went over all the information he had been given, then asked politely if I might see his geese. He said, 'Its not geese, mister; it's one goose.'

I said, 'May I see the one goose?'

'Rather not.'

'Well, then, I can't help you any further. If it's only one goose, then there's just something wrong with it. Why worry about one goose? Eat it.'

I got up and reached for my hat.

He said, 'Wait!' and I stood there while his lips tightened and his eyes wrinkled and he had a quiet fight with himself. 'Come with me.'

I went out with him to a pen near the house, surrounded by barbed wire, and a locked gate to it, and holding one goose-The Goose.