The walls

By KEITH LAUMER
Illustrated by SCHELLING
Four walls do not a prison make—unless they look out upon a world that doesn't exist anymore.
Harry Trimble looked pleased when he stepped into the apartment. The lift door had hardly clacked shut behind him on the peering commuter faces in the car before he had slipped his arm behind Flora's back, bumped his face against her cheek and chuckled, Well, what would you say to a little surprise? Something you've waited a long time for?
Flora looked up from the dial-a-ration panel. A surprise, Harry?
I know how you feel about the apartment, Flora. Well, from now on, you won't be seeing so much of it—
Harry!
He winced at her clutch on his arm. Her face was pale under the day-glare strip. We're not—moving to the country...?
Harry pried his arm free. The country? What the devil are you talking about? He was frowning now, the pleased look gone. You should use the lamps more, he said. You look sick. He glanced around the apartment, the four perfectly flat rectangular walls, the glassy surface of the variglow ceiling, the floor with its pattern of sink-away panels. His eye fell on the four foot square of the TV screen.
I'm having that thing taken out tomorrow, he said. The pleased look was coming back. He cocked an eye at Flora. And I'm having a Full-wall installed!
Flora glanced at the blank screen. A Full-wall, Harry?
Yep! Harry smacked a fist into a palm, taking a turn up and down the room. We'll be the first in our cell-block to have a Full-wall!