 What statement would the narrator most likely agree with?
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?" It is as well, for this will be a birth and beginning of your destined leadership on Dondromogon." 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. 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. There is a proper time, like a proper place, for each thing and each happening. 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? Each also had a shorter weapon, with a curved stock to fit the palm of the hand, borne snugly in a holster. 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. "There's a bigger reward for capture than for warning," objected his friend in turn, "and whoever comes to take this man will claim 'capture.' "I'll make no resistance, if you'll only conduct me to your commander. No enemy?" asked the broad-faced one who had first spoken. Before the clang of its fall was through echoing, I had caught it up, and set the point within inches of its owner's unprotected face. "He pushed in, claimed he was no enemy, then tried to attack—" "They lie," I broke in, very conscious of my naked helplessness before her regard. "Stranger," he said to me, "can you think of no better tale to tell than you now offer?" "I am a scientist," offered Doriza, and came forward. In a few moments two other men came—one a heavily armed officer of rank, the other an elderly, bearded fellow in a voluminous robe that enfolded him in most dignified manner.
 He does not fully understand how or why he is Yandro.
 He does not fully understand how or why he is Yandro.  The inhabitants of Dondromogon are unwelcoming no matter his status.  The inhabitants of Dondromogon are playing a joke on him.  He has been mistakenly selected by the people of Dondromogon.