 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. Dondromogon was found and settled long ago, by adventurers from afar. "Suffice it that you were needed, and that the time was ripe. 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. "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. 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. "It is called—yes, Earth. "Doriza—a gentlewoman of the guard. But it is not for you to ask questions. "Stranger," he said to me, "can you think of no better tale to tell than you now offer?" "On this world of yours—Dondromogon, isn't it called?—I'm no more than an hour old. "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.
 The Masters of the Worlds
 The Voice  Old Sporr  The Book  The Masters of the Worlds