A door was set into the side of the mill and the dirt had been recently swept, and someone had put a Welcome mat on the ground. A few balloons and bits of broken mirrors, and strings of flags and paper streamers hung from the door.

“Streamers?” Temperanza said.

The Stranger said nothing and he stepped over the threshold with the rifle in his hand.

“You there!” a voice said. “You killed my men and they were ever so helpful. That wasn’t very nice of you, you know.”

An elderly man in a white lab coat and white whiskers and moustache materialised out of the harsh bright lights. “They brought me clowns,” he said; and somehow the words brought a chill to the Stranger’s heart.

The old man carried no weapons. He rubbed his hands together as though cold.

“Well, never mind, never mind,” he said. “They drank too much and cussed awfully, you know.”

“What the fuck?” Temperanza said.

The Stranger held on to his rifle.

But the old man seemed not to register their weapons in the least and, after a moment, he brightened up. “Well, come on in, come on in!” he said. “I get so few visitors out there. It’s partly why I chose this place, of course. Just on the edge of the Doinklands and away from people and their judgement. I am so busy, so busy you see. It’s quite fascinating.”

“What’s fascinating?” Temperanza said.

“Clowns!” the old man said. “Oh, I am so sorry, I did not even introduce myself. I am Professor Federico, the M—”

“Magnificent?”

The old professor beamed. “You have heard of me?” he said.

“Lucky guess,” Temperanza said.

“Can I offer you anything? Water? I make my own, from recycled urine.”

“. . . No, thank you.”

“What is it you do here, exactly, Professor?” Temperanza said.

She had not taken her finger off the trigger.

“Come, come, see for yourselves!”

The man vanished deeper inside. The Stranger paused. It smelled bad in there. It smelled of chlorine and ammonia, and they in turned merely overlaid a deeper smell, of piss and blood and fear. . . . It smelled like a hospital in there, he thought.

He looked to Temperanza. She just shrugged.

They followed the old man deeper within.

They came to a makeshift room where a large steel table sat in the centre. Bright lights rigged to some sort of primitive generator chased away all shadows. The Stranger saw pieces of materiel lying about, the strange ethereal debris left after some storms: a fur-covered saucer, cup and spoon; a half-melted clock; a miniature tree growing earrings.

His eyes were drawn away from the horror on the steel table.

He saw the specimens collected behind glass: the giant femur bone of a boss clown. The grinning skull of an elderly Hobo. An entire petit Pierrot floating in murky formaldehyde.

Temperanza stared aghast. The Stranger wanted to throw up but didn’t.

He looked at the table.