The orange rain came down in a pelting deluge, with a steady blast of
the wind. Under the impact of it Nixon stopped his hitching movement
along the ground and lay motionless. Overhead the clouds were turning
green. Great masses of smoking, turgid vapour swung majestically like
the slow-motion image of a cyclone.
In the orange-green murk Nixon could see the crowds of little figures
running frantically for the shelter of the pyramid-cities. The nearer
pyramid was dimly visible through the blur. Tiny lights were glowing
there now, seemingly all over it. Not the lights of the windows. He
could still see the little spaced rows of them at the foot-high levels.
This was a purple glow--a sheen of light-fire. It seemed something to
protect the city from the storm. Up at the flat-top roof, fifty feet
above the ground, the purple light-fire stood up in little crossed
beams.
The heavy orange rain increased. They were queerly solid raindrops.
They stung Nixon's face like hail so that he tried to shield himself
by twisting around. The cries of the running Orites were faint little
screams in the roar. He saw a sucking whirl of wind knock a group
of them down. Then they rose, struggled on, trying to get to the
sheltering doorways of the city. The raindrops were like hail, of
different sizes. He saw an Orite struck by one that to the little
six-inch figure was monstrous. The Orite fell and lay motionless.
Now the rain-water was coming in rills down the rocky slope. The rills
were rivers to the fleeing Orites. A group of them were cut off. They
milled around in panic, then they came running back toward Nixon.
Suddenly as they neared him, he saw that Nona was among them. She was
running, staggering. A blob of raindrop barely missed felling her.