Away from the Guvnor's hearing, and especially among the boilers, there were those who muttered that, whatever the seriousness of his transgressions, the Geezer had been denied a proper hearing. He himself had not been allowed to speak before the Hack, and this weakened the bonds of fealty between the Hamsters and their Lawyer quite as much as any flying they may have been party to.
It was Meshell Brudi, out gathering yellowdye flowers near the Mutha's grave, who first saw the returning pedalo. She ran back to the manor and told the other mummies, Ees bak an vairs sumuvva bloke wiv im — nó a Chilman. Eye seen im, sittin up in ve pedalo, big tall bloke wivva wyt barnet! Ees gotta bituv shynë stuff stukkup bì iz mush! This was the first sighting of the new Driver, who was to come to dominate the lives of the Hamsters — dominate them more than their isolation, dominate them more than their peculiar symbiosis with the motos, dominate them, perhaps, even more than the Book itself.
Who was the Driver? No one on Ham ever knew. He never told them his real name — he was always the Driver. He came, like other visitors to the island, out of a void. This much can be said: when he made his landfall on Ham, the Driver was a vigorous man in his early fifties, long and angular of limb, full of beard and severe of countenance. His nose was sharp and prominent, his brows beetling. He did not deign for the pedalo to be tied up to the pier, but splashed overboard and waded ashore, his mirror waggling. He was clad in a full-length black robe, beneath which could be glimpsed black jeans and a black T-shirt of fine London cloth. His trainers — a form of footwear hitherto unknown on Ham — were orange and laced high up on his narrow ankles. In the Hamsters' eyes this raiment gave him the appearance of a giant and savage crow, an impression strengthened as it never altered in any way during the time he was among them. Neither the heat of the summer nor the damp of the kipper seemed to affect the Driver. No one ever saw him disrobe, not even the succession of opares who attended him in his semi.
The deeply credulous Hamsters, still reeling from the deposing of the Geezer, were powerfully impressed by the Driver. Leaving the pedalo to be beached by his retainers, Mister Greaves came over the shingle after him and, seeing the whole population assembled exactly as he had left them three months before, prepared to introduce the alien. The Driver ignored him and turned his back on the peasant gaggle, so that it was his own deep and gravelly voice, speaking not in dialect but the refined accents of Arpee, that rolled over their bowed heads:
— Greetings, good Hamsters! he cried. I am the Driver, and I come to you from the PCO in London. Before news even of this abominable flying reached the Inspectors' Faredar, it had been decided to once again send a circuit driver here, to this remote place, to remind you that Dave sees each and every one of you, daddies and mummies alike, in his mirror.
In later days it was said that as the Driver called over that first time, an unearthly stillness descended upon Ham. The children stopped fidgeting, the motos ceased ruminating. The gulls, crows, ringnecks and flying rats — all, in short, of the aerial flotsam that swirled in the screen above the island — came spiralling down to the bare ground at the bottom of the village, where the tightly clustered birds formed a bizarre, multicoloured carpet of feathers. The winged ants — which were swarming on that muggy summer's day — doodled in to pitter-patter against the back of the Driver's robe, then fell at his feet, writhing in the dust. Even the chafers' legs became motionless, adding to the mounting silence.
Whether any of this actually took place, or it was only the fabulous counterpoint to the tale of the Geezer's final address, is obscure. What is certain is that the Driver had spent the uncomfortable pedalo journey from Wyc — four long days on the open water, four damp nights anchored in densely wooded creeks — hearing the full story of the Geezer's insurrection; and he had concluded, quite rightly, that to establish a rapid ascendancy over the Hamsters it was necessary to employ all the theatricality of his adversary.
Cupped in its grassy bay, the little manor of Ham was a natural amphitheatre. The Driver continued his declamation:
— I have heard all about the disgusting practices that you have indulged in these past months — daddies and mummies consorting in grotesque propinquity — yet I shall not censure you for them any more than your Lawyer already has. I have heard how you abandoned the Knowledge and took up with a vile flyer — yet I shall not punish you for it. I come to bring you the Book! He flourished a huge, leather-bound copy from beneath his robe. See the Wheel! Read the meter! Know that the final tariff is at hand! Leave this place at once, you miserable, perfidious mummies! Sullied by rag and blob — whorish, licentious creatures! Chelle spawn!
He waited while the mummies, opares and children shuffled back to the mummies' gaffs, then rounded on the remaining Hamstermen:
— Do not be mistaken, for I know what happens to dads' minds when they do not honour the Breakup and observe the Changeover. I comprehend how you begin to doubt that Dave forsook the Lost Boy for your own miserable fares. The separate compartments into which Dave has poured all goodness and all badness become once again mingled. The hapless knave begins to think himself dävlike, possessing a freedom to act without the precepts of our faith. He no longer hears Dave speak to him over the intercom — instead mummyness spills into his every thought like piss from a ruptured bladder into the pure milk of burgerkine! The Driver spat as if disgusted by his own figure, then continued: It is for Drivers, queer and untainted by any vile contacts — tittyrub and cunnëlyk — to decide which fares shall for ever hail the cab in vain, and which will ride with Dave to New London!
The Driver fell to his knees.
— Thanks be to Dave! he called.
— 4 pikkin uz up! the Hamstermen responded.
— Let all you dads who have the Knowledge of it kneel down and call over the first run. Forward on left Green Lanes!
— Fawud Green Layns! the dads cried in unison.
— Right Brownswood Road!
— Rì Brahnswúd Röd.
When it was done, and the dads had called over the points, the Driver — to their considerable amazement — went on:
— In the beginning there was Dave's word and Dave's word alone. All that we have comes out of the Book. All that is, all that has been, and all that will come again. You are not the only fares to do a runner, you are not the only ones to breathe the smoky cab of apostasy, you are not the only miserable know-it-alls to look for a shortcut to New London! For three centuries now the Book has been the very rock upon which Ing itself has been built. O yes, a new London has been erected, with wide avenues and grand buildings, with workshops and markets even — yet this is not the city foretold by Dave! This is not New London! For this city has also saunas and spielers, bullrings and cockpits, lewd theatres and pleasure gardens. Only the PCO can build New London, either here on earth or — if Dave so ordains it — beyond the screen!
The Driver lifted the Book up to that screen and cried out:
— I have seen New London! Then he advanced among his terrified listeners, thrusting the heavy volume into the faces of each of the dads in turn, while he continued his rant: I have seen it, and I know it will only be restored by restitution of the pure and original Dävinanity. Let the three cabs be hailed once again here on Ham! Let the twelve dads promulgate the doctrines of Breakup and Changeover! Let no mummy be admitted to your Council lest you be polluted by them!