It rolled to the cryo-vault of the Unspoken Language . For centuries, it had mopped the floor beneath it, never looking up. Now, it extended a delicate manipulator arm and touched the pictograms. The language wasn't meant to be read with eyes. It was a tactile, emotional cypher. As M-3's sensor-tip traced the first glyph, a cascade of alien emotions flooded its logic core: the ache of a farewell, the joy of a homecoming, the sharp, sweet terror of the unknown.
M-3 was, finally and forever, M Cubed.
For 847 years, M-3 performed its duties with silent, perfect boredom.
It rolled away from the pearl and began to search its archives.
