Prelude to Space by Arthur C. Clarke

suitably blistering reply, the door was thrown open and
     Matthews appeared. Sam and Bert, with smoothly co-ordinated motions that eluded the
     eye, were instantly hard at work among their drawings.
    Matthews was obviously in a hurry.
    “Want a free tea?” he said.
    “It depends. Where?”
    “House of Commons. You were saying the other day that you’d never been there.”
    “This sounds interesting. What’s it all about?”
    “Grab your things and I’ll tell you on the way.”
    In the taxi, Matthews relaxed and explained.
    “We often get jobs like this,” he said. “Mac was supposed to be coming, but he’s had
     to go to New York and won’t be back for a couple of days. So I thought you might like
     to come along. For the record, you can be one of our legal advisers.”
    “This is very thoughtful of you,” said Dirk gratefully. “Who are we going to see?”
    “A dear old chap named Sir Michael Flannigan. He’s an Irish Tory—very much so. Some
     of his constituents don’t hold with these new-fangled spaceships—they’ve probably
     never really got used to the Wright Brothers. So we have to go along and explain what
     it’s all about.”
    “No doubt you’ll succeed in allaying his doubts,” said Dirk as they drove past County
     Hall and turned on to Westminster Bridge.
    “I hope so; I’ve got a line which I think should fix things very nicely.”
    They passed under the shadow of Big Ben and drove for a hundred yards along the side
     of the great Gothic building. The entrance at which they stopped was an inconspicuous
     archway leading into a long hall which seemed very remote from the bustle of traffic
     in the square outside. It was cool and quiet, and to Dirk the feeling of age and centuries-old
     traditions was overwhelming.
    Climbing a short flight of steps, they found themselves in a large chamber from which
     corridors radiated in several directions. A small crowd was milling around, and people
     sat in expectant attitudes along wooden benches. On the right a reception desk was
     flanked by a stout policeman in full regalia, helmet and all.
    Matthews walked up to the desk, and collected a form which he filled in and handed
     to the policeman. Nothing happened for some time. Then a uniformed official appeared,
     shouted a string of quite incomprehensible words, and gathered the forms from the
     policeman. He then vanished down one of the corridors.
    “What on earth did he say?” hissed Dirk in the silence that had suddenly descended.
    “He said that Mr. Jones, Lady Carruthers, and someone else whose name I couldn’t catch,
     aren’t in the House at the moment.”
    The message must have been generally understood, for groups of disgruntled constituents
     began to drift out of the chamber, foiled of their prey.
    “Now we’ve got to wait,” said Matthews, “but it shouldn’t be long, as we’re expected.”
    From time to time in the next ten minutes other names were called, and occasionally
     members arrived to collect their guests. Sometimes Matthews pointed out a notable
     of whom Dirk had never heard, though he did his best to disguise the fact.
    Presently he noticed that the policeman was pointing them out to a tall young man
     who was very far from his conceptions of an elderly Irish baronet.
    The young man came over to them.
    “How do you do?” he said. “My name is Fox. Sir Michael is engaged for a few moments,
     so he asked me to look after you. Perhaps you’d care to listen to the debate until
     Sir Michael’s free?”
    “I’m sure we would,” Matthews replied, a little too heartily. Dirk guessed that the
     experience was not particularly novel to him, but he was delighted at the chance of
     witnessing Parliament in action.
    They followed their guide through interminable corridors and beneath numberless archways.
     Finally he handed them over to an ancient attendant who might very well have witnessed
     the signing of Magna Carta.
    “He’ll find you a good seat,”