Deseret Read Online Free

an
intense and classical look.   A
square beard jutted off his chin only, trimmed and neat.   His suit and waistcoat were sturdy but
of fine wool, inclining slightly to the dandy in physical appearance.   He wheeled on one heel and dragged Sam
in with a handclasp and a fierce grin.   “Mr. Samuel Clemens,” he snapped.   “We’ve been expecting you.   I hope you haven’t had too much trouble on the road.”   He spoke with an English accent.   Northern English, Sam thought.   Maybe Liverpudlian.   “However much civilization we’ve
brought to the Valley, the roads connecting us to the rest of the world remain
rough and dangerous routes.”
    “No trouble at all.   You’ll find I’m duly credentialed,” Sam drawled, taking a wallet of
official documents from his jacket pocket and pressing into the man’s
hands.   The man took them and set
them aside on the long table without looking at them.   “And now you have the advantage of me twice over.”
    “George Cannon,” the other man presented himself.   “I’m President Young’s Secretary.   I know you’d like a meeting with the
President, but he’s out of the office and—” Cannon gestured at the wall
of tubes, “not otherwise reachable.”
    “This is a communications network,” Sam observed.   He nodded, admiring the tubes and the
message slips, and Cannon nodded with him.
    “And a good one,” Cannon agreed.   “Only sometimes President Young is too big a man for the
system.   I understand you’re
staying at the Deseret Hotel.”
    “I was told it had the best bar,” Sam quipped.   Of course the government had instructed
him to stay at the biggest, fanciest hotel in town.   He might be a spy, a saboteur or even a thief by the end of
this venture, but he was also a diplomat.
    “It has the finest,” Cannon agreed.   “Those looking for local color
sometimes prefer the Hot Springs Hotel and Brewery at the Point of the
Mountain.   Rockwell’s place.   But Brother Rockwell is further away
and he won’t let us install a message tube, so you’ll be easier to reach at the
Deseret.”
    Sam cast another glance at Cannon’s three clerks, who hadn’t
slowed or even looked up from their work since his arrival.   “I see you’re a busy man.   I take it you’ll inform the President
of my arrival, and send word to the Deseret when I can meet him?   I hope I don’t need to impress upon you
that the President of the United States regards my mission as critical.”
    George Cannon smiled.   “Rest assured, Mr. Clemens, that President Young feels the same.”
    Then the interview was over, and without further formalities
Cannon turned around and dove back into the labors of his clerks.   Sam and O’Shaughnessy showed themselves
out.
    “Jesus and all the bloody saints,” the Irishman muttered on
the walkway outside the Lion House.   “It isn’t human.   It’s like
insects, it’s like a herd of sheep, it’s like… something, but it isn’t human.”
    Sam dug out a double eagle and pressed it into his aide’s
hand.   “You’ll feel better about
everything with some whisky inside you.   While you’re at it, check on the dwarf and the little boy.   Mind you, though, O’Shaughnessy,” he
said in his stern a voice as he could muster, “I’ll be right behind you, and I
aim to return that child to his family.   Don’t cause me any trouble on that account.”
    “Hell and begorra,” O’Shaughnessy objected, “when have I
ever caused you any trouble, Sam Clemens?”   The Irishman had enough self-awareness to wink at his own
joke, but he didn’t wait around for further instructions.
    Sam watched the other man go.   He was right, of course, it was inhuman.   The whole thing was like a device.   Standing inside George Cannon’s office
had been like sitting inside the clocksprung brain of one of Eli Whitney’s
famous machines, a cotton harvester or a mechanical mule.  
    Only half the cogs were people.  
    When