Everyday, with Dr. Elias Locke — The Bureau of Final Answers

The Bureau of Final Answers

November 14, 2026 · A fictional column from the Electric Icarus universe, created by Jon LaBelle

The Bureau of Final Answers opened at nine and closed at nine-oh-five, which the director considered an efficient use of public funds.

I arrived at eight fifty-nine carrying a question about a clock that had begun predicting yesterday. Miss Bellweather, the bureau’s only clerk, handed me a numbered ticket.

“Number one,” I observed.

“Don’t get attached,” she said. “We retired the other numbers after they started disagreeing.”

Behind her desk stood an enormous brass stamping machine. Its red rubber face read SETTLED. Each time the machine descended, a bell rang and a fresh stack of papers slid into a drawer marked NO FURTHER INQUIRY.

“What does it settle?” I asked.

“Questions.”

“Does it answer them?”

“Certainly not. That would encourage more questions.”

The director emerged wearing a sash that read CHIEF OF CERTAINTY. He explained that the town had been suffering from excessive curiosity. People wanted to know why the river flooded, why the streetlights failed, and why the courthouse clock sometimes struck thirteen. Every explanation, he said, led to an inconvenient request for evidence.

“So we replaced explanation with resolution.”

He placed my ticket under the stamp. The machine descended with the solemnity of a judge and the accuracy of a falling cupboard.

SETTLED.

“My clock still predicts yesterday,” I said.

“But your complaint is closed,” replied the director.

Miss Bellweather looked at the clock on the wall. It read nine-oh-three, then nine-oh-two.

“Has that always happened?” I asked.

“Only since we certified the clock as correct.”

I asked to see the certification. The director proudly produced a sheet stamped SETTLED, dated the following Thursday.

“Then you’ve certified a prediction,” I said, “using a document whose date depends on the prediction.”

“A self-confirming system,” he said. “Very modern.”

I opened the clock’s casing. A wire from the stamping machine ran into its reverse gear. Each time the stamp fell, the clock moved back a minute. The bureau had been manufacturing its own evidence.

I disconnected the wire. The clock moved forward. Miss Bellweather smiled for the first time that morning.

The director demanded to know whether I could prove the stamp had caused the trouble.

“We can reconnect the wire and observe the effect,” I said.

He considered this, then carefully stepped between me and the machine.

“Absolutely not. We have already settled the matter.”

At nine-oh-five the bureau closed. The director locked the door and nailed a notice over the entrance: ALL QUESTIONS ANSWERED.

Miss Bellweather added a smaller notice underneath: ANSWERS NOT INCLUDED.

I returned to my laboratory with the clock running properly and my complaint officially unresolved. It seemed a fair exchange.

A stamp can end a conversation, I wrote in my notebook. It cannot end the question that made the conversation necessary.