What’s the shortest string of letters that contains the words ONE, TWO, and THREE, each spelled out in order but not necessarily using adjacent letters? It can be done in eight letters — THRWONEE is one example — and it turns out that no shorter solution is possible.

In 2001, A. Ross Eckler set out to do the same thing with the names of the planets, from MERCURY through PLUTO. He got down as far as 26 letters, MNVESARCPJLUPITHOURYANUSER, and to my knowledge no one has found a shorter solution.

Dana Richards offered a discussion of the problem from a computing perspective later that year. He found that Eckler’s task is related to a problem in Garey and Johnson’s 1979 Computers and Intractability.

“Why would planet packing be found in a serious computer science book?” he writes. “It turns out to be an important problem with applications to data compression, DNA sequencing, and job scheduling. … The first practical thing is to abandon all hope of solving the problem with a fast algorithm that always gets the optimal answer.”

(A. Ross Eckler, “Planet Packing,” Word Ways 34:2 [May 2001], 157.)

09/23/2017 UPDATE: Reader Mikko Ratala has found a 25-letter solution: JVSMEURANEPLICTUERNTYESOH. “The string is not unique solution as you can, for example, change the order of the first four letters as you wish.”

What’s the shortest distance between the points in the lower left and upper right? In our familiar Euclidean geometry, it’s the green line. But in taxicab geometry, an intriguing variant devised by Hermann Minkowski in the 19th century, distance is reckoned as the sum of the absolute differences of Cartesian coordinates — basically the distance that a taxicab would drive if this were a city grid. In that case, the shortest distance between the two points is 12, and it’s shown equally well by the red, blue, and yellow lines. Any of these routes will cover the same “distance” in taking you from one point to the other.

This way of considering things is intriguing in the abstract, but it has some practical value as well. “Taxicab geometry is a more useful model of urban geography than is Euclidean geometry,” writes Eugene F. Krause in Taxicab Geometry. “Only a pigeon would benefit from the knowledge that the Euclidean distance from the Post Office to the Museum [below] is blocks while the Euclidean distance from the Post Office to the City Hall is blocks. This information is worse than useless for a person who is constrained to travel along streets or sidewalks. For people, taxicab distance is the ‘real’ distance. It is not true, for people, that the Museum is ‘closer’ to the Post Office than the City Hall is. In fact, just the opposite is true.”

To earn some money during college, Raymond Smullyan applied for a job as a salesman. He had to take an examination, and one of the questions asked whether he had any objection to telling a small lie now and then. Smullyan did object, but he was afraid that he wouldn’t get the job if he said so. So he lied and said no.

“Later on, I realized I was in a kind of paradox!” Smullyan wrote later. “Did I object to the lie I told the sales company? I realized that I did not! Then since I didn’t object to that particular lie, it therefore followed that I don’t object to all lies, hence my answer ‘No’ was not a lie, but the truth! So was I lying or not?”

(From his book A Mixed Bag, 2016.)

The vortex tube is a bit of a magic trick: When a stream of compressed gas is injected into the chamber, it accelerates to a high rate of rotation and moves toward the nozzle on the right. Because of the nozzle’s shape, though, only the quickly rotating outer shell of this gas can escape; the rest moves back through the center of the vortex and escapes through the opening on the left.

The result, perplexingly, is that even though the tube has no moving parts, it emits hot air (up to 200°C) on the right and cold air (down to -50° C) on the left.

Could this principle be used to air-condition a home or vehicle? “That’s what everyone thinks when they first hear about it,” engineer Leslie Inglis told Popular Science in 1976. “I always tell them that they wouldn’t buy a toaster for the kitchen if they had to buy the generator to produce the electricity. You’ve got to think of this as a compressed-air appliance.”

On Thursday, Numberphile published this video, which features a startling wall hanging in the Senior Combination Room at Trinity Hall, Cambridge: Junior research fellow James McKee devised a 1350-digit prime number whose image forms a likeness of the college’s coat of arms. (The number of digits is significant, as it’s the year that Bishop William Bateman founded the college.)

It turns out that finding such “prime” images is easier than one might think. In the video description, McKee explains: “Most of the digits of p were fixed so that: (i) the top two thirds made the desired pattern; (ii) the bottom third ensured that p-1 had a nice large (composite) factor F with the factorisation of F known. Numbers of this shape can easily be checked for primality. A small number of digits (you can see which!) were looped over until p was found that was prime.'”

Indeed, on the following day, Cambridge math student Jack Hodkinson published his own prime number, this one presenting an image of Corpus Christi College and including his initials and date of birth:

Hodkinson explains that he knew he wanted a 2688-digit prime, and the prime number theorem tells us that approximately one in every 6200 2688-digit numbers is prime. And he wasn’t considering even numbers, which reduces the search time by half: He expected to find a candidate in 100 minutes, and in fact found eight overnight.

(Thanks, Danesh.)