'You stop your bawlin',' he shouted. 'You sound like a sick calf. I'll smack you down if I hear one more peep out of you.'
'But what's the use of fooling ourselves?' the senator cried. 'Our air is nearly gone. We don't even know if we're going in the right direction.'
Gramp roared at him.
'Buck up, you spineless jackass. You're a big man. A senator. Remember that. You gotta get back.
Who'd they get to make all 'em speeches if you didn't get back?'
Jurg Tec's voice hissed in Gramp's helmet. 'Listen!'
Gramp stood still and listened.
But there was nothing to hear. Just the hiss of the snow against his suit.
'I don't hear nothin',' Gramp said.
And then he heard it-a weird thunder that seemed to carry with it an indefinable threat of danger. A thunder like the stamping of many feet, like the measured march of hoofs.