The voice of the giant. It rumbled with a roar, mingling with the
roar of the storm. Through the swirling murk, with the haven of the
purple-glowing pyramid blurred in the distance, Nixon could see that
the slope was dotted by fallen figures. Some of them lay with the
cascading rivulets of water tumbling over them; others were being
washed away down the slope. Half of the Orite crowd perhaps had reached
the city. The others were caught out here, surging back in a panic
toward the giant, momentarily more in terror of the storm than of him.
And Nixon knew now what he could do to give them at least partial
shelter.
"Nona!" he called. "Come over here by me! Tell them--all of them come
here!"
Then they were coming, and Nixon lay on his side, with his back to
the wind and rain. For them there was shelter, here against the giant
figure so that in a moment a hundred or more of them were huddling
here. He lay tensed, motionless. Down his length he could dimly see
the mass of tiny figures crouched in the lee of his body, with the
choking mists and the rain whirling high above them. Presently he could
feel the rivulets of water backing up against him, as though he were a
monstrous dam stretched here. He realized that his body was blocking
the water, keeping it from surging like a flood upon the Orites he was
sheltering.