 Once upon a time, there was a topologist who lived with her daughter in a tiny office in the math building at the University of Chicago. One day, the chairman of the department happened to be walking by, and the topologist gathered up the courage to speak to him. Pardon me, sir, but how does hiring look this year? Well, actually, Lauren, Lucy, whatever your name is, is looking tough. I hope we can find someone extraordinary, though. I know of an extraordinary mathematician. She can turn coffee into theorems. Really? And who's that? It's my daughter. Well, then send her to my office this afternoon. That afternoon, the topologist's daughter was ushered into the chair's office. She was quite apprehensive as she had no idea how to turn coffee into theorems. Come with me through the math lounge. Here you see a coffee maker and three cups of coffee. I want you to turn the three cups of coffee into theorems by morning. If you do not, then I'll see to it that the only job you ever get is at a regional university with high research expectations and a teaching load of four courses per semester. With that, he left the lounge, locking the door behind him. The poor girl was distraught. She fell sobbing on the couch. Career is over before it even begun. Suddenly, as if by magic, the door to the lounge swung open and in walked a squat-dishevelled creature with long matted beard and hair. He was dressed in a dirty shirt and torn jeans and even dirtier clothing. He seemed surprised to see her. What are you doing here? The chair has said that I must turn this coffee into theorems or else he's going to distort my career. And you don't know how to turn coffee into theorems? Oh, no. I have no idea how. My father just said that to impress the chair. And what will you give me if I can turn coffee into theorems? This copy of explicit constructions of brick matrices and related problems? Oh, let's see. That looks very good. I could get 50 bucks for that. You got a deal. And with that, the strange man gulped down all three cups of coffee. His blood-shed eyes began to glow. His eyebrows started to twitch. Then he sat down before a pad of paper and wrote furiously for three hours. When he was done, the pages of three pads were covered with the most beautiful theorems the girl had ever seen. That ought to do the trick. And with that, he scooped up the paper and was gone. The next morning, the chair unlocked the door expecting to find the girl crying or sleeping with nothing to show for her night. But his jaw dropped open when he saw the scribblings on the pad. This is some of the most original work I've ever seen. It's really quite good. Thanks. Can I go now? What? Are you kidding? This is the beginning of some really good mathematics. But you need to fill in the details. Flesh out the theory. Come back this evening. When the girl arrived that night, the chair pointed to six cups of coffee sitting on the table. If you don't turn this coffee into theorems, I'll make sure the only work you get is as a recitation instructor. Teaching 15 problem sessions a week for large calculus lectures. The girl fell sobbing on the couch. But she said to herself, if the little man can do it, why can't I? With that, she went over and took a sip. This tastes like it's been sitting in the pot for 12 hours. Which, in fact, it had. But then the door swung open again and in-walked the little man. His pants were torn at the knee and his teeth appeared never to have experienced the friction of a toothbrush. Back again, are we? Yes, the chair said that I must turn these six cups of coffee into theorems by morning, or else he's going to turn me into a recitation instructor. And what, Pratel, would you give me if I do it for you this time? Well, that looks like a Mac Titanium Power PCG4 800 megahertz with 1 megabyte L3 and 256 kL2 cache. You've got a deal. So again, he gulped down the coffee and set to work. Six hours later, he had filled, he had filled six pads of paper with theorems and proofs. This to do it. When the chair arrived the next morning, he was flabbergasted by the beauty of the mathematics on the pads. This is really good stuff. These are the germs for a whole new theory. I'm really impressed. But you must come back tonight. You have more work to do. That evening the chair sat her down before 12 cups of coffee. If you don't turn this coffee into theorems, I'll make you into a permanent grader for a remedial algebra course. But if you do succeed, I will give you a tenure-track position on the faculty here at Chicago. The girl fell on the couch sobbing. It was too much to hope that the smelly man would be back to help her once more. And besides, she had nothing left to give him. Suddenly, the doorknob turned and he walked. Still trying to turn coffee into theorems, are we? Haven't you learned how to do it yet? Oh no, I can't do it. And the chair is going to make me a permanent grader. Oh whoa, is me. And what would you give me if I do it for you? I have nothing left to give. Oh I think you do. I want you to give me your first-born theorem. What do you mean? The first theorem that you prove for yourself. I want you to give it to me to claim as my own. Now the topologist's daughter knew that if she said no, she wouldn't ever have the opportunity to create her own theorem anyway. So there wouldn't be anything to lose. On the other hand, if she did survive all this nonsense and had a career as a mathematician, what was one theorem more or less? So she agreed. Okay. Oh yes, we have a bargain. Then he proceeded to gulp down all 12 cups of coffee. And then he walked through the entire night, finishing just before daybreak. Remember our deal. And he slipped out the door, leaving 12 pads of paper filled with wondrous mathematics on the table. When the chair arrived, he was stunned by the level of work that he saw. You have a job, a tenure-track job. So the young woman began her career at Chicago. She was an able teacher and enjoyed that aspect of her job. But at first she found it difficult to work on her research, as other duties were so numerous. But one day she attended a number theory seminar. The speaker presented a discussion of Catalan's conjecture, which says that the only two consecutive powers of whole numbers are the integers 8 and 9. She found the question quite fascinating. Soon she was spending all of her time working on the problem. She would have worked even more, but sometimes exhaustion overcame her. Finally, one evening, wanting to continue her work but unable to keep her eyes open any longer, she stumbled into the department lounge and quickly swallowed a cup of coffee before she had a chance to gag. Suddenly she felt awake. Within minutes the caffeine was coursing through her system and her neurons seemed to be firing every which way. She worked all that night and by morning she had proved Catalan's conjecture. Although tired and in great need of sleep, she decided to wait until the chair arrived at 8 a.m. to tell him the good news. But at 7.30, just as her eyes were closing with exhaustion, the door to her office swung open and the little man whom she had not seen for the last two years bounded in. I am here to collect my debt. Next one. I don't want your next one. I want this one. Please, please, don't take it. All this time to learn how to turn coffee into theorems. I can't give it up. I'll tell you what. If you can guess my name, I will not take your theorem. And I'll give you three days to guess it. The young woman thought to herself that this couldn't be so hard. After all, he had made no rules about the guessing. She could guess as many names as she wanted. Eventually she'd get it right. The next morning the door to her office opened and in popped the minor mutant. And what do you guess is my name? Is it Pythagoras? Is it Xeno? Is it Euclid? No, no, and no! Marcus Diophantus. Is it Papis? Be serious. Uh, Fibonacci Newton. Vibnet. You'll have to do better than that. And with that he was gone. All that day the woman searched in her books for every name she could find. She asked others around the department for any other names they might know. When the little man arrived the next morning, she was ready. Is it Bernoulli? Is it Euler? Is it Lagrange? No, no, and no again! Is it Gauss? Is it Koshy? Is it Mobius? No, no, no! Lobachevsky, Diraclay, Lou Eve, Lou Eve, Lou... Oh, there we go. Not even close! Maybe Zermelo, Dickinson, LeBag. No, no, no! Tomorrow is your last chance! And with that he disappeared out the door. The young professor was crushed. She didn't know what to do. All that day she wrung her hands completely distraught. That evening as she went to get a tissue from the bathroom to dab her tears, she heard a voice singing from within the men's room. I am so happy I could sing as I shower in the sink for she doesn't realize who I am and how with this department I link, she doesn't know that I live in the lounge. She doesn't know my game and she doesn't know the most important part. Rumpelstiltskin is my name. She immediately went to her mother's office. Have you ever heard of someone named Rumpelstiltskin? Oh sure, everybody knows about Rumpelstiltskin, one of the most brilliant minds to ever grace this campus. Who is he? Who was he is the more appropriate question. Bob Stiltskin was a graduate student here 30 years ago. A real star. But he got hooked on Catalan's conjecture, spent all his time trying to prove it, couldn't bring himself to solve an easier problem and get a PhD. So what happened? After eight years, they cut his support and threw him out of the program, but he still hung around. He used to sleep in the math lounge, somehow he'd gotten hold of a key. About 10 years ago, he disappeared entirely. Nobody knows where he went, but there are rumors of a sighting every now and then. And why is he called Rumpelstiltskin? Well, he always wore the same rumpled clothes and calling it rumpled is generous. The next morning, the pungent person sprang into her office. Last chance. What's my name? Is it Bevelin, Noether, Serpinsky? No, no, and no again! Birkhoff, Lefchets, Littlewood, Polja? No, no, nope, and no. Sigmund or Hoff? No, and again, a big no. Looks like you are plum out of luck. I guess I don't know. Unless, of course, perhaps it's Rumpelstiltskin. His face had turned as red as his jacket. He had stomped his feet and gnashed his teeth and pulled forcefully on his matted hair. His eyes had rolled up in the sockets and then he had stormed out of the office, never to be seen at the University of Chicago again. Since then, every once in a while, reports filtered down from the University of Illinois of Chicago of coffee pots found empty just minutes after they had been full. And at Northwestern University, departmental copies of random papers disappeared at an alarming rate. The young professor went on to a successful career at Chicago. She and her mother wrote some joint papers on the basis of which her mother was promoted to an office of reasonable size. And although she did drink coffee for the next four years, she switched to herbal tea after receiving tenure. And even then, the theorems kept coming. The end.