The Grand Master had his reasons for leaving the Great Burrow of the Ninjadilloes. He had not left it recently, or for long when he did leave. He had become a Howard Hughes-Dilloe; shoulder length hair (an achievement of magnificent proportions, for he had neither shoulders nor much hair), talons too long for writing much, a restrictive diet and suspicions far beyond acceptable paranoia.
He needed some air, some exercise and perhaps some better grubs. The Finity ranch had the best of the grubs, for no Dilloe survived long there to dig them up and eat them. Brem Finity would not allow anyone to disturb his yard when he was around. His wife was proving no easier. Something had to be done.
"If we let the Finitys overcome us in the yard," Grand-Master said, "the terrorists win."
He had, perhaps, finally become somewhat unhinged, exhausted as he was by his administrative labors, his poor diet and the machinations of his fellow-dilloes. No one could think how the terrorists gained any advantage socially by keeping the Dilloes off the Finity range, or just what the terrorists wanted, anyway or, come to think of it, just who the terrorists were since Dilloe predators did not change much from age to age.
"The terrorists, I tell you," the Grand Master repeated, loudly, and Bozo-Dilloe repeated it with him.
"The terrorists, the terrorists, the terrorists," he chanted.
Bozo did not need anyone to help him identify the object of his terror.
"The terrorists," Grand Master whispered.
"The terrorists, the terrorists, the terrorists," Bozo repeated, interminably.
Only after awhile did he stop his mouth and open his eyes. It was quiet in the Great Burrow.
The Grand-Master had gone. Alone, to face the Finity woman.
"Oh, dear," Bozo cried. "I have to tell the other NInjadilloes. This will never do."