The sun shone from a clear blue sky. A thin layer of frost covered the ground. The sea was flat and there was no wind. It was a perfect winter's day. Tom and Crispin went aboard the research vessel and left harbour. Tom was dressed in the dark-blue gown of a guardian and wore a fur-lined cape. Crispin wore the regulation, green-and-gold, two-piece, all-weather suit that was issued to the marine scientists at that time of the year.
There was no one else with them. Tom had insisted that the crew remain on shore and they go out alone. He had learnt a lot about the guardians' security system and wasn't prepared to take any chances. Crispin started the engine and they moved away from their mooring. The operation normally required two people and he had difficulty casting off.
'Why just the two of us, Professor?'
'One of your scientists is a surrogate, Crispin.'
'Who?'
'Gerald. And there could be others.'
'I had wondered about him,' Crispin nodded thoughtfully.
'That's how the guardians have been spying on you. Your friend, Gerald, is probably unaware of what he is doing. He goes to sea as Gerald. There is no link between him and his handler and no way you can detect that he is a surrogate, short of cutting him up and finding a microchip in his brain. Even then, you would probably have difficulty unless you had the necessary equipment and expertise.'
'How is the information passed to his handler?'
'While he is asleep. He thinks he's dreaming.'
Crispin checked their bearings and increased speed.
'We should have been more careful. That's how the guardians found out about the Lord of Light. If it hadn't been for Gerald things would have been different. The orcas wouldn't have captured you and you would have gone off with Liala ... like the legend foretold.'
'What legend?'
'The one about the Lord of Light and the princess.'
'That's got nothing to do with me,' Tom snorted.
'Yes it has. Father says the legends got the realm wrong. They should have said you were coming from the Sixth Realm.'
'No way! I'm no Lord of Light!'
'Father says you are our saviour.'
Tom cringed. He had imagined himself as lots of things, during his thirty-five years, but never a saviour. The word conjured up images of saintly sods, in white gowns, who went around telling people to be good. He decided not to argue. There was no point. Crispin could think what he liked ... it wouldn't make any difference.