"Actually the Doctor did. He was the one that programmed it."
When Amy looked back at Hank she noticed something was off, but was unable to put her finger on it. She didn't say anything right then. It was more like a suspicion. Rather than nag him, she'd save it as ammunition for later.
"Come on, I'll show you."
Amy turned an opened a door, which was also hexagonal shape. Once they were inside, the door was closed. In her room, the door looked like a regular rectangular wood door, painted white, with an antique metal handle.
"Looks exactly like my room back home. It was different before. When we landed in The City he changed it. I should ask him about that actually. Do you think that's suspicious? I mean it's not like I've gotten home sick."
Her bed was a double with wire frame at the head and foot. The walls were painted blue and the room was lit dimly with a string of white christmas lights -- much smaller than the large, garish multicolored bulbs that were popular in the 1960s. She had a dresser filled with photographs and books. There were childhood drawings and handmade toys of a young Amy and the Doctor. The room had a strange fairy tale quality to it.
"Are you alright?" And then, though what she was about to do was probably very, very cruel, she stomped as mindfully as she could on his left foot. Call it intuition or a science experiment.