 Who ordered that the narrator to Dondromogon?
He was Yandro, the Stranger of the Prophecy—and he found that he was destined to fight both sides. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Words formed themselves on my thick tongue, words that must have been spoken by so many reviving unfortunates through the ages: "Where am I?" And at once there was an answer: " You lie upon the world Dondromogon. I knew the language of that answer, but where it came from—above, beneath, or indeed within me—I could not say. "It was ordered—by the Masters of the Worlds—that you should be brought from your own home planet, called Earth in the System of the star called Sun. "You do not know that. It is as well, for this will be a birth and beginning of your destined leadership on Dondromogon." "Destined—leadership—" I began to repeat, and fell silent. The voice was telling me that I had been snatched from worlds away, for a specified purpose here on whatever windswept planet Dondromogon might be. "It is a world the size of your native one," came words of information. One face of Dondromogon ever looks to the light and heat, wherefore its metals run in glowing seas. But because Dondromogon wavers on its axis, there are two lunes of its surface which from time to time shift from night to day. From pole to pole on opposite sides ran the two twilight zones, widest at the equators like the outer rind of two slices of melon. Of course, such areas, between the hot and cold hemispheres, would be buffeted by mighty gales ... the voice was to be heard again: "War is fought between the two strips of habitable ground. War, unceasing, bitter, with no quarter asked, given or expected. Dondromogon was found and settled long ago, by adventurers from afar. "Suffice it that you were needed, and that the time was ripe. There is a proper time, like a proper place, for each thing and each happening. Then I felt myself grasped, by both shoulders, and drawn roughly erect. On this strange world called Dondromogon, what manner of intelligent life bade defiance to heat and cold and storm, and built these stout structures, and now laid hands—were they hands indeed?—upon me? Especially as I don't know who I am, or where I'm from, or anything that has happened longer ago than just a moment.
 The Masters of the Worlds
 The Voice  Old Sporr  The Book  The Masters of the Worlds