"Yes to KIWIDOR," repeated Randolf in a hushed voice. "Alack! Kiwidor draws all evil things to it's disinspirational shores. There sits the Dark Power on his set, bending all it's will to gather the talentless detritus of the cinematic world to its side. The great scroll of the Enemy had long enslaved and corrupted Hokum. Wicked Fool. In that land of mendacious mediocrity he would learn much that any dyspeptic author with delusions of literary grandeur would sell his publisher's reader to know. Too much! Sooner rather than later, he would be caught and taken for the talentless scribbler he was. And there, beneath the lidless eye of the Dark Director and the dregs of the publishing community, he would be subjected to literary criticism.

Yes, my lad, through Hokum, the Enemy has learned what happened when Issy's drawers fell. He knows where Hokum found the Scroll. He knows that it is a great Scroll, for it bestowed literary genius and universal critical acclaim. He knows it is not one of the Three, for they were never his. He knows that it is not one of the Seven, for three he stole from the producers, and the others the movie-moguls long ago consumed. The Nine he gave to the script-editors, haughty and famous, and so ensnared them long ago. Are they not his most terrible servants, ready to pounce on the smallest trace of imaginative prose and edit it out of existence? No, he knows that it is THE ONE. And now, at long last he has heard of Robbits and of Faggins of the Shire, and he is COMING TO GET HIM!"

"But this is dreadful!", exclaimed Fido. "Far worse than my worst nightmares involving Bingo and the sheep! What am I to do? I am scared out of my wits!. Why ever did you let Bingo keep the Scroll. Why did you let him publish anything? Why did you make him give it to me? Why didn't you make him destroy it? Oh, why did I give you underdone mushrooms for tea?"
"Why? Let you? Make him? Mushrooms?" ejaculated the wizard, rapping his pipe upon the unfortunate Robbit's head. "Is there anything at ALL between your ears other than a furry vacuum?" You are are complete nincompoop, Fido Faggins, who deserves to be buried in a basket of remaindered novels! You cannot throw it away. As for taking it away by force, it would destroy your mind as surely as your culinary incompetence ruined the mushrooms we had for tea!"
"But why not destroy it?"
"Destroy it, you half witted, furry-eared Robbit. How would you accomplish that. Have you ever tried to destroy it?"
"No, b-but couldn't it be shredded or dissolved?"
"Try!" said Randolf, "Go on, try it now!"

Fido drew the scroll out of his jacket and looked at it. It was blank. Not a word or a letter sullied it's virginal purity. The parchment was white and beautifully smooth. Whiter and smoother than young Snowdrop's shapely young thighs... How perfect were her firm, well-rounded buttocks, her pert breasts, her hot, moist... He shuddered with suppressed desire. She... no, it—it was simply too magical and altogether wonderful a thing to part with. He caressed the scroll hesitantly and lovingly, forcing himself to recall all the wizard had told him of its evil history, but he could not bring himself to throw it away. It was his. His own dear precious talisman. He put it back in his pocket with a sigh.

"See what I mean?" said the wizard with a sarcastic laugh. "You cannot part with it. And I could not take it from you without turning you into a bigger vegetable than you are already. It's loss would eat you up. As for shredding it, even the strongest cheese grater in Robbiton would not even scratch it. Water will not wet, it as you saw for yourself. Fire cannot touch it. Earth cannot bury it, as Hokum found. It cannot be unmade by any hands, not even mine. There is only one way to destroy it utterly. To find the Vats of Gloom, deep within the bowels of the Pulp-Paper mill in Kiwidor, and throw the scroll in there. Only then will it be completely destroyed and beyond the reach of the Enemy forever."

"I wish I had never set eyes upon it," said Fido.
"That's as may be," said the wizard, refilling his pipe. "The dye is cast for weal or woe. Either we let the Enemy regain the scroll or it must be put forever beyond his grasp."
"Will you not take it, Randolf?" asked the Robbit timidly.
"NO! With such power I should become too terrible for words! Over me the Scroll would have an influence greater and more perilous than you can conceive." His pipe burst into flame and his hat flew off. "Do not tempt me! For I do not desire to become another talentless film director on the make. Yet the power of the scroll over me would begin in mildness and pity. Mildness toward pedantic sub-editors. Pity for those with little talent and the desire help them develop it. I durst not take it, even to keep it from harm. The risk is too great, even for an exceedingly clever and far-sighted bugger like me."

He drew aside the curtains, and opened the window and the shutters. Sunlight and the sounds of the garden streamed back into the room. Jam Spongee passed by, a rude limerick upon his smiling Robbit lips. Even the mice woke up and began tormenting the cat again. In the loft the pigeons got on with the business of making more pigeons. In the cellar, two inquisitive young squirrels who had ventured too near a vat of 'Old Wineyards' sank into a delicious oblivion. It was a long time until Randolf spoke again.
"Well?" he asked, eventually, "Are you going to stand there re-adjusting your codpiece, or are you going to say something?"
"I suppose I must keep the Scroll from the Enemy. But I feel very inadequate to the task. The Enemy is so strong and clever and I am only a weak and rather silly young Robbit," said Fido bitterly.

"My dearest furry-eared Fido," exclaimed Randolf, clapping a fatherly hand on the young Robbit's shoulders. "Robbits really are the most remarkable creatures. I did not expect to hear such an answer from one, least of all an inexperienced lad who has but recently discovered what girls are really for. You do realise that you cannot hole up here with the Scroll indefinitely, don't you? You will have to leave your comfortable burrow and the name of Faggins behind you. That name is too well known to be safe in the wide world of publishing. I shall give you a new name. When you go, go as Mr Scribbler. You must tell no one your plans, least of all the purpose of your journey.

It MUST be a SECRET. But you shouldn't go alone. It can get very lonely in literary circles. A young, unpublished author all alone on the road to popular recognition can easily stray off the path and fall into unnatural practices. That way blindness, unsightly spots and pulp fiction lie. But I digress. Take a buxom young Robbit maid who can cook and sew, and proof read, and knows how to correct grammatical indiscretions. Better still, take two, so that they will be company for one another when your mind is absorbed in literary endeavours and perhaps a Robbit lad to share the rigours of the journey and ensure—"

Suddenly the Wizard stopped and glanced sharply at the window. Fido became aware that it had become deathly quiet in the house and in the garden. The mice paused in their exploration of the cat's pain threshold. The squirrels belched. Even the pigeons stopped cooing to one another. Randolf moved silently to the window. Then, like lightning he thrust his arms through it, and swung round, holding a struggling, rather pretty Robbit-lass in his arms. "Well, blow my hat off," said he, "If it isn't Ms Snowdrop. Now what were you up to outside with young Jam Spongee, eh, my lass?"

"Nuffink, sur, honest! Leastways nuffink Mr Fido need be ashamed for," replied the buxom beauty, catching sight of Fido's crimson face. "I was just a-helpin' Jam in the Garden. Lor, sur, I'm that fond of mushrooms, and Mr Fido lets me weed the patch below the tater plot."
Traces of nut-brown fungi still adhered to her pretty blue and white checked dress that was just long enough to be decent, but no so long that it concealed a flash of her shapely young calves and well-turned ankles, which Fido was admiring with unashamed delight.
"And this, I suppose, is Jam Spongee, the famous gardener, " said the wizard sternly, grabbing a second Robbit by his ears.
"So... my lad, it is a long time since I last heard the sound of your mower—or of your weeding, my girl. Tell me truthfully, how long have you two been earwigging outside?"

"Earwigging, Sir, I don't get you, begging your honour's pardon. There ain' no earwigs at Fag End, leastways, there shouldn't be, cos I sprays 'em reglar on Mr Fido's orders."
"Don't be cheeky, you furry-eared rascal," retorted the wizard. Suiting his actions to his words, he grasped the Robbit more firmly by one of his magnificent aural appendages. "What did you overhear, and why did you spy on us?"
"Mr Fido, guv!" squealed Jam, shaking with fear, "Don't let 'im hurt me! Don't let 'im turn me into an 'orrible Oik—my pater would 'ave an 'eart attack and no mistake. I meant nuffink by it, on my life, Sir, I didn't"
"Oh, Mr Randolf, sur, please let him go, he's not done nuffink, honest he hasn't," pleaded Snowdrop, backing away towards Fido.
Fido put a reassuring arm around her. He would have done more if she had let him and the wizard wasn't in the room. "He won't harm you if you come clean, Jam. But you'd best be straight with him, and tell him right away."

"Well, see 'ere, sir," began Jam warily, "I 'eared a bunch o' stuff that didn't make a happorth o' sense to me. About the Enema—Snowdrop 'ad to explain what that was—but I still don't get it, and I don't think I wants to. And the Scrolls, and old Mr Bingo and 'is sheeps, and a 'orrible creature called 'okum—and academics. I listened cos I couldn't help myself . I'm powerfully fond o' Academics, Sir, since Mr Bingo taught me my letters. I loves tales of pure research, philological dissertations, literary criticism an' such like. Academics, Sir! I would so love to meet a real Academic, sir. Couldn't you take me to meet Academics, Sir, when you leave?"

Randolf let out a good-natured laugh and picked up the startled Robbit and deposited him, electric mower and grass cuttings, and all, in front of Fido and Snowdrop.
"Take you to meet Academics, eh my lad? So you heard that Mr Fido will be leaving did you?"
"No, but I did sur," said Snowdrop with a becoming blush that spread from her smiling cheeks to her firm young bosom. "That's what made me cry out which you must've heard. I tried not to. But I couldn't 'elp it, I was so 'eartbroken..."
"I wish it were not true," said Fido, wiping a tear from his eye. It has only just dawned on him that leaving his comfortable burrow in Robbiton would mean a lot more than just going without mushrooms for breakfast and missing the weekly poetry readings at the 'Beaver Bush'.

"I suppose I will HAVE to go, but 'tis powerful hard to leave all my friends behind." He looked longingly at Snowdrop.
Snowdrop fell to her knees and clutched at Fido, the tears streaming down her pale cheeks.
"Oh, my dearest Fido, my fluffykins, not to see you anymore, not to hear your sweet poetry, not to kiss your adorable ears, not to lick your huge, throbbing—"
"Now then!" interrupted Randolf sternly, "That's quite enough of that, my girl. Get up. I have thought of a cunning plan that will keep Fido's secret and punish both of you for earwigging. You shall BOTH go away with Mr Fido!"

"Me!" cried Snowdrop, leaping into Fido's arms like a practiced courtesan at the Court of Rondor, "Me, be his little Robbit-princess and go to war against the horrible bad Oikses and all! Hooray!"
"What larks we shall have Mr Fido, Sir," said Jam, beaming delightedly. "I shall meet Academics and listen to lectures on the adaptation of the fantasy novel to the silver screen, and join in philological disputes on the etymology of horticultural terms!"

"So you shall," said Fido, his face darkening. "But it will not be a Robbit romp, my lad. There will be trouble ahead or my name's not Faggins. We shall be hard put to it to get back at all, never mind with any sort of literary reputation."
"I fear that is only too likely" said Randolf grimly. "Indeed I hold out little hope for your quest. But no man can predict the end , not even I. Our greatest strength lies in the Enemy's overweening pride and his predeliction for wearing offensive shorts in even the most inclement weather. Hitherto he has entirely overlooked the very existence of Robbit-kind. Even now your quaint ways and literary subtleties are quite beyond his comprehension. He is a clever bugger, and clever buggers always think they can improve prose narratives by editing-in some mindless action, and slipping in a few topical allusions. In his eagerness for fame and fortune, he has completely underestimated the strength of simple-minded halfwits like you three."

The Robbits were not entirely sure whether this amounted to praise, or an insult, but like the high-spirited simpletons that they were, they cheered together and clapped their hands in rapturous joy anyway.