“Are we the only ones who still believe that Gallifrey was the light of the universe?” he asks her, not expecting a response.
At his choice of was, she chooses to pitch a bit, causing the man Dallyrasse to nod his head at her and smile as he clings to post and crash couch and edge of slim window, pausing to catch his breath against the fickle wind that is this special ship. He is appreciative.
“My apologies, madam. I meant to say is. Even so, Gallifrey is but one lamp in a sea of tossing lanterns, next to his steady light. The Doctor might be the true-star of us all, if he is not careful. Indeed as both of us well know, if his steps do not carry him out of the sun, he will burn before he can walk. And what can I do? I cannot save him from himself. What too, is left to me now? What can I yet do for this land I find myself still wandering? Do you have an answer for me, Ship? I have said I have no more wax for him, nor he for me. Bah. I am an old fool, and this is a day evocative of old poetry. Are we still on course, My Lady Blue?”
A clear-buttoned sensor bleeps a soft square of blue at him, cancelling that idle doubt.
“To Gallifrey, then…” he says aloud, raising a metaphorical glass to the Ship, which the interface with a small cinnamon bun tower of topsy brown hair in slightly stringy curls returns in earnest agreement by pretending to bite him.
The shuttle rocks again.
But this time, the Interface is looking in the same direction as her passenger.