graffiti.mike-worship

(http://latifundium.res.cmu.edu/~higgins/mike-worship.html seems to have gone away, so I've made this available here... -WH)

Date: Mon, 22 Nov 1993 22:55:37 -0500 (EST)
From: Benedict J Raia 
Subject: The 13th Apostol (sic)

Coming Soon From SludgeMax CinemaTech To A Theatre Near You
-----------------------------------------------------------

1993.
The Cold War is over.
NAFTA has passed.
Mexicans have 52" projection TVs.
Rap music has become passe.
For the first time in a long while, America's future looks bright.

Then the mathematicians came.

            JAMES EARL JONES is

*T*H*E* *T*H*I*R*T*E*E*N*T*H* *A*P*O*S*T*O*L*

  Martin Scorsese and George Lucas present
 a Stephen King - Russell Walker Production

                 starring
 JASON SCOTT LEE as Wes Huang: Secret Agent
 YAKOV SMIRNOFF  as Bogdan Doytchinov
 PATRICK STEWART as Professor R. MacCamy
 
               Music by CFA 
          Special Effects by SHRT
        (Sumner Hayes Ray Tracing)

 
Date: Mon, 22 Nov 1993 23:50:07 -0500 (EST)
From: Gerry S Hayes 
Subject: Moonlight Meetings

The moon was full.  Fog hung in the air.  A phong highlight
illuminated the Clock.  All in all, the perfect setting for a tense
meeting between two agents.
	Secret Agent Wes Huang leaned against the door, waiting for
the inermediary to bring him the final decision.  He flipped from page
to page through the Tartan, gathering information about the area of
operation.  Suddenly, a shadow fell over him.
	The man before him was dressed in a trenchcoat, a tan hat
pulled low on his face, putting a shadow over his eyes.  As Secret
Agent Wes Huang began to mumble something, the man raised one hand,
indicating silence.
	"Here's the mark."  The Russian accent, with traces of
British and French, intrigued Huang.  "Erase him.  Orders of the Big
Mac.  As far as you are concerned, this meeting never happened.
FORGET IT."    The contact disappeared, leaving only the portrait of
an unsuspecting victim.

----------------------------------------
 	Huang hunched low behind the shrubbery.  According to
estimates reached using Newton's method, the mark would arrive here.
His path was constant.  The only variable was Secret Agent Wes Huang.
But Huang had long since learned that a single variable could tip the
problem in your favor.	Finally the victim began his approach.  As he
neared, Huang leapt from behind the shrubbery (a nice-looking but not
too expensive one) and pinned the victim to the ground. 
	"Wh- What?"
	"Failure to use the chain rule, bub.  Death by derivation.
Got any last words?"
	"Bu- Bu - But I USED the chain rule, really, I did, let me go,
I didn't do it, nobody saw me - You can't proove a thing!"  The fear
in the man's eyes betrayed him.
	"Oh yeah - I've prooved the fundamental theorems of calculus.
What makes you think I can't proove this?"  Huang pulled a small paper
from his pocket.  "This is the derivative.  In small doses, it cause
the victim to go comatose.  This one is large enough to kill you.
There's only one known anti-derivative, and I doubt you'll find it
before it takes effect.  As your time - call it t - approaches zero,
there will be no limit to your suffering.  All in all, a brutal way to
go."  He quickly administered the derivative and stood up.  As he
slipped down the road, he allowed himself a smile.

--------------------------------------
	Secret Agent Wes Huang pulled into his driveway.  As neared
the door, he noticed a note stapled to the frame:
	
Nice try, but that was a stupid weapon.  It only works for delta very
small.  You forgot the rules of the game:  I pick the epsilon, you
only get to define delta.  And I picked epsilon large.  You don't get
this victim for free.

Date: Tue, 23 Nov 1993 02:02:27 -0500 (EST)
From: John M Prevost 
Subject: Observed in 1A1

Today Michael Higgins was observed to solve a complex mathematical
problem after consuming Dominos pizza.  (To be specific, P was a small
pizza topped with Pepperoni, and t was under 30 minutes.)  This leads
to the interesting conclusion that Dominos pizza fuels the thought
process.  If we take T'(P)=ln P + P^2, what is the actual relationship
between Dominos' Pepperoni Pizza and the level of competence of a
student (excluding Mike, who is by definition the perfect
mathematician?)

And prove only has one o.

--
 John Prevost                 "I burn my candle at both ends;
   visigoth+@CMU.EDU             It will not last the night;
   jprevost@comtch.iea.com     But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
   j.prevost2@genie.geis.com     It gives a lovely light!"
                                           --Edna St. Vincent Millay


Date: Tue, 23 Nov 1993 04:29:08 -0500 (EST)
From: Benedict J Raia 
Subject: The Book of Pepperoni 1:1-5, 2:1-9, 3:1-10, 4:1-3

Chapter 1

Thus begins the tale of the Solution of the Problems of Analysis.  For
late on the first night of the week, MIKE was troubled by the Problems
of Analysis.  For he wished to bestow their solution upon the prophet
Bogdan, so that Bogdan might have something with which to busy his Red
Pen.  Yet MIKE did not know the Answer to the final Problem.  It is
not the place of the Faithful to ask why an omniscient MIKE cannot
solve all problems, for without their faith, what is MIKE? 

Chapter 2

And MIKE spake unto the assembled few, "You know, I could really go
for a pizza."  And held forth he The Reciever, and dialed he upon the
numeric keypad the numbers 6-8-1-1-7-0-0.  MIKE waited, and long did
the hours pass, until the Angel Bell PA blessed the connection and the
call was answered.  But MIKE was not angry, for patience is one of the
Mikely virtues.  The voice of The Deliverer came forth from The
Reciever loudly into MIKE's ear, and sayeth he, "Dominos Piitseriium,
canii helpu?".  Thus did MIKE command The Deliverer, "Bring unto me a
Pepperoni Pizza, with not a lot of cheese, but well baked."  And being
a wise and faithful servant, The Deliverer replied, "Yes, MIKE, thou
shalt have thy pizza fresh within thirty minutes, or thou shalt have
it for free."  And MIKE told The Deliverer, "I shall always have my
pizza for free, for I am MIKE."  And The Deliverer was humbled and
embarassed.

Chapter 3 

The pizza, having been faithfully delivered, was set forth upon the
desk of MIKE.  Opened he the box, and looked he upon the pizza, and
smelled he the aroma of cheap pepperoni, and he pondered.  "I paid six
bucks for this?"  posed MIKE.  And unto the assembled few (for few
were there assembled) he bespoke these words of wisdom, which shall
henceforth be known as "The First Fundamental Theorem Of Fast Food":
"Dominos Pitsum est non relii goodus, bot theres summa thinx abaut
fastus foodus".  And MIKE bit into the pizza, and relished the taste,
for it was mediocre.  Put he down the slice of pizza, and turned again
to the solving of the Problems of Analysis.  And Lo!  in the blink of
an (-1)^.5,  MIKE knew of the Answer!  Quickly did he pick up his
pencil, and in chicken scratches wrote he the answer on paper.  For
remember always this:  The MIKE is as a PC - both have volatile
memory.  The faithful may pose the question then, "How know I that
MIKE is the True One, and not my Eighty Thousand Four Hundred Eighty
Six?"  Know that the answer is thus:

(Chapter 4)

Believe not in the PC,  for it runs software written by The False One,
and this software is called by the name Microsoft Windows.  Beware of
Windows, for if you run it and you are not saved, you will crash into
the Gates of Bill, and lost forever into the Pits of Bits will be thy
data.  Yet, shalt thou also not believe in the False One known as
Macintosh, for though its operating system be tempting,  its days of
usefulness be numbered.


PS Insomnia Sucks

Date: Sun, 28 Nov 1993 19:08:45 -0500 (EST)
From: Michael Higgins 
Subject: Further Adventures

The dastardly double agent Doytchinov had languished in the maximum
security prison for nearly three days.  If he didn't get back soon, he
would never have that last problem set graded by Tuesday...

Of course a few judicious trademark 'Z's would hasten the process.
Turning his peerless intellect from these depressing thoughts, he
began to plan his escape.

Mere moments of thought revealed the solution.  Doytchinov began to
soften up the guard with innocent-sounding talk of the potential
ramifications of NAFTA on Mexican corn growers and their effect on the
Russian-American wheat trade.

Lt. Joe, captain of the guard, found the prisoner's bizarre accent
strangely hypnotic.  He had heard this Doytchinov character was
slippery, but really, he didn't seem so bad... that anecdote about
Ross Perot and Riemann integrable pie charts was fascinating...

"Do you believe in the justice system, Lt. Joe?" asked Doytchinov
suddenly.

"I suppose so," answered Joe loyally.

"Then, presumably, a man who should be in jail will be in jail."

"Yes."  Joe didn't see what this had to do with NAFTA.

"Well then, let me ask you another question.  There are 5753 cells in
this prison, yes?" Doytchinov queried in a most clarksome fashion.

"Indeed so," Joe replied with pride.

"Then the probability that I am in Cell 1 is approximately
.00017382235."

Quickly calculating, Joe realized that this was indubitably true.

"So you certainly would be foolish to believe that I resided in Cell
1, wouldn't you?"

"True."

"Let us assume that you do not believe that I reside in cell n, since
I would have only a minute chance of doing so.  Then, similarly, you
would not believe that I lived in cell n+1 since my residence in that
cell has the same probability.  Correct?"

"Undoubtedly, Doytchinov... but what does this have to do with Ross
Perot?"

"Perot is not the thing we are interested in.  He is just an
investigation.  So forget it," Doytchinov said mysteriously.  "Since
we have proved the base case, and the case for n+1, we have proved
that you do not believe that I am in Cell n, for any n I care to
name?"

Having taken Modern Math, Lt. Joe immediately saw the truth in this
argument.

"But if I am not in this prison, then by our earlier implication, I
should not be in this prison!  ~q => ~p, my dear Lieutenant."

"I am shocked at this injustice, Doytchinov!  You are a free man," Joe
cried, swinging open the cell door.

Doytchinov thought he might get those problem sets graded after all.
He wouldn't care to cross Big Mac by getting them in late.  Only one
obstacle remained... a personal one.  Revenge on Wes Huang, secret
agent!

Mike Higgins
"Take me to a country where the sky is 3 times as blue as in Pittsburgh!"
Apologies to Schlick.
mh7a+@andrew.cmu.edu

Date: Sun, 28 Nov 1993 19:20:35 -0500 (EST)
From: Michael Higgins 
Subject: Further Adventures II

Having tracked the mad Doytchinov across half the Mediterranean, Agent
Huang leapt agilely on to the double agent's yacht, whimsically named
Waves Rolle.

As he rounded the side of the cabin, a rattle of machine gun fire
burst across the deck.  Huang gripped a notebook tightly as he danced
easily through the gunfire.  He struck Doytchinov, knocking the double
agent away from the machine gun.

"H..how did you avoid those bullets?" cried Doytchinov.

"Simplicity itself.  I suspected you might have a machine gun.  So,
beginning with Peano's Postulates, I derived the integral and then the
derivative.  I then noted that if we let a bullet's position be given
by s(t) then s'(t) is its velosity and s''(t) its acceleration.  Given
my extensive knowledge of firearms, I could determine the bullet's
acceleration function.  From there I integrated to determine its
position, which I could find uniquely since I knew that s(0) equaled
s'(0) which equaled 0.  Knowing the bullets' positions, I dodged with
ease."  Secret agent Wes Huang waved the thick sheaf of formulae in
front of Doytchinov's astonished eyes.

"Damn.  A bullet proof packet."

Mike Higgins
"Take me to a country where the sky is 3 times as blue as in Pittsburgh!"
Apologies to Schlick.
mh7a+@andrew.cmu.edu

Date: Sun, 28 Nov 1993 19:37:27 -0500 (EST)
From: Michael Higgins 
Subject: I think not...

Note carefully:  Calculus vol. I is written by Tom Apostol (obviously
a misspelling of apostle).  And Jesus had a disciple:  Thomas.  Thomas
was rebuked for doubting.  And Tom demands proof on virtually every
page!  Coincidence?

Mike Higgins
"Take me to a country where the sky is 3 times as blue as in Pittsburgh!"
Apologies to Schlick.
mh7a+@andrew.cmu.edu

Date: Sun, 28 Nov 1993 20:59:52 -0500 (EST)
From: Benedict J Raia 
Subject: Thanksgiving At The Huang's

Hey, if Mike can do it, I can too...
------------------------------------

Secret Agent Wes Huang was seated at the Thanksgiving dinner table.
On his left was his mother, on his right was his father, and across
from him was his sister Eas.

"So tell us about your latest adventure, Wesley," said Mrs. Huang.

"Well, OK.":
    
    It was a dark night in Paris.  I was sitting in a cafe on Rue
Fourier, overlooking the Egsaque, a tiny tributary of the Seine. I was
stumped.
    The Big Mac had sent me to Rome a week before, to track down Vic
"The Fish" Bolzano, a mafia boss who could lead us to that
double-crossing traitor Doytchinov.  But Bolzano caught wind of my
arrival in the Eternal City, and was gone before I was unpacked.
However, he didn't know that his close friend Nick and I are on lowest
terms.  Nicky is actually an undercover agent hired by the City of
Funcsia, where Vic has always lived.  They're after Vic because of
various crimes he has commited there.  Nick was able to tell me that
Vic was on his way to Paris.  He was the one who gave me the address
of the cafe I was sitting in.  Vic was known to hang low here for
weeks at a time.
    I was about to pack it in for the night, when I overheard a
conversation between two characters in the shadows off to my left.
One told the other that Bolzano was going to see an astrologer between
midnight and two.  Apparently, he had just learned that the date on
his birth certificate was off by a day, a mistake which had zodiacal
implications.
    This was the break I had been waiting for!  I went down to the
bank of the little river, and found a boatman who was tying his
rowboat to a pier.  After an exchange of words and francs,  I
convinced the man to take me upstream, to a bridge.
    We waited in the boat, in the shadowy darkness, until a quarter
past one. Then, I spotted Bolzano's wrinkled face as he passed under a
streetlamp on the other side of the bridge.  Stealthily, I climbed out
of the boat, and crouched behind a barrel.  When Bolzano had crossed
the bridge, I ambushed him!  He was too surpised to resist at first.
By the time he regained his senses, it was too late, for I had tied
his hands behind his back and blindfolded him.  I dragged him into an
alley, where I threw him to the ground.  I told him that he would
answer my questions, unless he was stupid, in which case he wouldn't
make sense anyway. 
    He knew the reputation of The Apostol, and so he submitted
quickly.  I got a valuable piece of information in my search for
Doytchinov, and Nicky got his man.

"Wow, Wes, that's great!" said Eas.  "But I still don't understand -
how did you know to wait for Bolzano under the bridge?"

"Simple.  I knew that whenever a continuous Funcsian changes his sign,
he MUST cross the Egsaque, sis!"
     
Date: Sun, 28 Nov 1993 23:14:20 -0500 (EST)
From: Benedict J Raia 
Subject: Fermat's Last Laugh, Part I

Doytchinov pulled his coat tighter around him, to ward off the chill
of the Moscow evening.  A frown stretched across his face, and his
eyes were furrowed.  This was the third time his contact had kept him
waiting, despite the fact that Doytchinov always set aside strict
times to commence and conclude their meetings.  "After all", he
thought, "every undercover function should max out given a closed
interval".

As he turned to look up the street, Doytchinov heard a sound which
made the hairs of his goatee stand on end.  The last time he heard
such an expression of acute agony was when he threw ex-KGB man Alexei
Abitchavich Sputnik feet first into The Function Machine.  Sputnik was
odd, and Doytchinov got even.

Doytchinov turned to the source of the scream, and saw that it came
from an old apartment building on the next block.  Running across the
street, he pulled out a Walther P()38, his sidearm of choice.  A
little primitive, but then Doytchinov liked antiques.  He had managed
to convince HQ to integrate it into their standard armory.

As he approached the entrance to the building, Doytchinov stared
upwards.  Shadows moved about inside the room.  He would have to be
careful.  Events were about to become really irrational.

Cautiously he opened the door.  Inside was a casino.  Nonchalantly,
the ace spy stepped up to a table.  At this table, some Muscovites
were playing a game in which a metal ball was tossed on a spinner.  He
had seen such a game before, but could not remember the name.  Before
he asked, Doytchinov surreptitiously checked the barrel of his gun.
Of the six chambers, only one contained a bullet.

Too late, Doytchinov realized his error.  As he turned to run, two
hooded men rushed up behind him and grabbed his arms.

"Don't you know Russian Roulette's a dangerous game, Doytchinov?,"
said one of the men, as they dragged him through a doorway and up a
flight of stairs.  "Odds are, you'll lose."

"But they get better as the number of chambers approached infinity,"
thought Doytchinov to himself as he cursed his stubborn refusal to
give up his P()38. "Damn.  I should have listened to the Big Mac when
he told me to choose a larger weapon."

But it was too late for regrets now, he realized.  At the upper bound
of the staircase, they paused before a doorway.  On the other side of
the door was a large room.  The two men threw Doytchinov to the floor.

As he raised his head, Doytchinov's eyes widened in recognition of the
figure standing before him.

"FERMAT!"

-> To Be Continued <-

Date: Mon, 29 Nov 1993 15:35:21 -0500 (EST)
From: Marc Gabriele 
Subject: If We Don't Huang Together . . . 

A further continuation of the "Wes Huang: Secret Agent" series

	Life was good, thought Agent Huang as he sat idly in his
office. Doytchinov hadn't shown his face in weeks, and Huang had no
cases besides running down some run-away epsilons. Unbeknownst to him,
however, all this was about to change abruptly.
	Huang's phone began to ring. He picked up the receiver and
waited for the customary tongue-lashing from his boss. Today, however,
what he heard chilled him to the bone.
	"Someone broke into the Pythagorean Memorial Research Center
several hours ago." said the Big Mac. "The lunatic stole all the files
on the prototype Mk VIII Integrand. Furthermore, he reset it to go
undefined at both ends. It's structure can't take that kind of stress.
It'll blow itself to bits within a day!" 
	"Well," replied Huang, unflappable as ever, "can't we just
define one of the bounds as negative infinity, so it'll cancel itself
out?" 
	"No, you fool. If even one end is undefined, the result would
be fatal! Operative Prevostietski claims he's found some information
on where the files are hidden. Using them, we can reset the Integrand.
Your orders are to contact Prevostietski, and retrieve the files.
Also, we're not sure who's behind this, so be alert."
	"But Prevostietski hasn't been to a briefing in years! I'm not
sure I even remember what he looks like."
	"That's your problem, Huang. He asked to set up a rendezvous
in the harbor area, so get moving! "
	Huang grabbed his trenchcoat, his Department-issue Magnum
44^3, and his reliable TI-1706D, and hit the street.

Several hours later . . . 

	Huang paced up and down Euler Ave., waiting. The appointed
time for the rendezvous had come and gone, and he was beginning to
worry. Finally, he spurred into action, and began nosing around the
warehouses. He was about to give up when he noticed a shoe sticking
out from behind a dumpster. Normally, this wouldn't be surprising, but
this shoe was occupied. 
        He circled the dumpster, and discovered what had happened to
Operative Prevostietski.
	Later, at the local police station, a seargent returned with
the autopsy report. "It seems he was beaten to death with a juggling
club, sir. Time of death was about 2 hours before you found him. Also,
we found this in a pocket." He handed over a scrap of paper. Huang
opened it and read the scribbled message "X marks the spot". Suddenly,
he whirled. "Get me a list of all cargo currently housed in the
harbor!" he shouted, "There isn't a moment to lose!"
	When the list was handed to him, he scanned it intently for a
few moments. "Ah HA!" he cried "Just as I suspected. Seargent! Take
your men and search the shipment of lumber registered to Edward the
Tenth! Unless I am very much mistaken, you will discover a briefcase
full of papers with TOP SECRET written all over them." Sure enough,
several minutes later, the seargent phoned in to state that he had
indeed recovered a briefcase. "But how did you know?" he asked,
dumbfounded. "Simple." replied Huang smugly, " Naturally, log of
E.^(the X) = X. This smells like another one of Doytchinov's foul
schemes." 
	The next morning, Huang filed his report on the case to the
Big Mac. "Well, I guess Doytchinov is going to have to try again, eh
Big Mac?", he commented.
	"Didn't you know? We received a report from our man in Moscow.
He says he's been trailing Doytchinov for the past week, but he
disappeared yesterday. Even so, there's no way he could have been the
one responsible." 
	Agent Huang's eyes widened. "Then who . . . .

{ Whose fiendish function has crossed Wes Huang's?
  Will Huang derive the answer, or will he be forced to chase the
  perpetrator as he approaches infinity? 
  Will Operative Prevostietski be late for his own funeral? }

You won't find the answers to these questions in Modern Math, but only
on :	Wes Huang, Secret Agent

Date: Fri,  3 Dec 1993 18:24:21 -0500 (EST)
From: Michael Higgins 
Subject: Tolstoy

"Only by taking an infinitesimally small unit for observation (the
differential of history, that is, the individual tendencies of men)
and attaining to the art of integrating them (that is, finding the sum
of these infinitesimals) can we hope to arrive at the laws of
history."

                                    -Leo Tolstoy

Mike Higgins
"Take me to a country where the sky is 3 times as blue as in Pittsburgh!"
Apologies to Schlick.
mh7a+@andrew.cmu.edu

Date: Fri,  3 Dec 1993 22:48:57 -0500 (EST)
From: Benedict J Raia 
Subject: Fermat's Last Laugh, Part II

Fermat d'Tamref looked quizically at Doytchinov.  "I thought you were
dead!  Bulgaria, 1989.  The computer room, at the University of Sofia.
I plugged in "The Equation That Looks Like A Taylor Series But Isn't"
into the university supercomputer.  I knew that 6502 couldn't handle
it.  The explosion should have blown you sky high!"

"You forget, Fermat:  I'm one of The 42 Unix-Using Klingons Who Say
'Ni'!  I KNOW The Equation That Looks Like A Taylor Series But Isn't!"

"You're one of them!  No!  It can't be!  You were a graduate student
in mathematics!  Only Computer Science types are initiated into The
42!"

"Hey, they don't call me Bogdan Of A Thousand Disguises for nothing."

Fermat pondered this new development for a moment.
"Hmmm...interesting.  But of no matter.  For now the tables are
turned, Doytchinov, and I've got you under my finger.  This building
is swarming with my loyal operatives.  There's no escape for you!" 

"What are you going to do to me, Fermat?  Why are you wasting your
time keeping me alive?"

A diabolical grin spread across d'Tamref's face.  "Are you familiar
with Fermat's Last Theorem?"

Doytchinov spat at d'Tamref's feet.  "You know I do.  The equation 
    x^n + y^n = z^n
can not be solved for integral n's greater than 2.  But the Last
Theorem has been solved, Fermat.  Wylie, 1993.   What do YOU want with
it?"

"I'll tell you, Doytchinov..."

-> To Be Continued >- 

Date: Sat,  4 Dec 1993 01:13:18 -0500 (EST)
From: "Jeffrey J. Boats" 
Subject: STORY:  Proof by Seduction

                               PROOF BY SEDUCTION
                       A Secret Agent Wes Huang thriller!

     Secret Agent Wes Huang sat alone at his desk, pouring over his
gradebook like a smooth, continuous function describing the dynamics
of viscous fluid propogation through a specified, regular, convex
domain.  It was the week-end before Final Exams started, and he had to
get his grades in order so that when the time came, he could easily
transfer the grades to the gradesheet and quickly deliver it to the
secretary before it fell into the wrong hands.  It was tedious work,
but Wes realized it to be an absolutely necessary precaution.  He
uttered a silent curse to the fact that the life of a Teaching
Assistant/Secret Agent is not always as glamorous as in the movies.
     His (arc)tangential thoughts were interupted by a soft rapping at
his door -- three knocks laid so gently upon it that they were
scarcely audible, but yet as disrupting to Huang's keen mathematical
concentration as a second-order discontinuity in a real function.
     "The knock of a lady," deduced Huang, "or possibly three small
birds who have gone tragically blind and nearly-simultaneously
collided with my door in rhythmic fashion."  Doing several
complicated, probabilistic calculations in his head involving Bayes'
Theorem, Zorn's Lemma, Minkowski's Inequality, and the playbook for
the 1978 Notre Dame football team, he concluded, "the knock of a lady.
QED."
Cautiously approaching the door, he peered through the spyhole, and
feasted his eyes upon one of his students, a voluptuous bombshell from
Russia, Olga Liapunov.  She had come adorned with her textbooks, her
pencilcase ... and not much else.  "She's obviously expecting some
private tutoring," Huang thought to himself, completely aware of the
exponential growth below his x-axis.
     "Wes," Olga moaned wantingly, "I want you to help me study for
the Final.  I'll do ... anything."  She pronounced the last word with
as much subtlety as a 312-page proof of the Chain Rule.
     "You know I'm always happy to help you, no strings attached," Wes
stated, his limit fast approaching infinity.  "What would you like to
go over?"  Olga purred in response, seizing the oppurtunity for the
double entendre.
     Wes was now flustered.  "Look, I think you're beautiful.  But I
can't get involved with a student.  It isn't ethical."  Huang quickly
realized however that this line of reasoning, the ethical approach,
was not likely to work on a girl who had now begun to strip for him.
He began to think that perhaps an inductive line of reasoning might
lead more simply to the desired result, when suddenly the solution
dawned on him.
     "You're one of Double Agent Doytchinov's operatives!"  Olga
glanced up in shock -- she had been uncovered, in more ways than she
had originally intended.  "It's all so clear now," announced Huang,
pacing the room.  "Bogdan hired you to seduce me, so I would reveal my
top secret mathematical plans to you.  But it won't work," he
proclaimed, taking a patriotic stance, "for I'm completely loyal to
the American Mathematical Society, the Big Mac, and the goll-darn
U-S-of-A!!!"
     Defeated, Olga slinked from Secret Agent Wes Huang's room and
closed the door behind her.  The dastardly Doytchinov would have to
his own dirty work.
     But that's another story...