Beyond The Tomorrow Mountains by Sylvia Engdahl

of terror was worse than the first; he wondered whether this was death. Could one dream of death—not of dying, but of death itself? Obviously a dead person could not record any thoughts. But this was unlike former dreams, for he had no real alternate identity; maybe it had not been recorded and then edited, but had instead been simulated from the beginning. It was technically possible to do that. Once, some weeks after his recantation, when his growing comprehension of science had led him to conclude that he had no objective grounds for belief in the authenticity of the original dreams, Stefred had let him sample one induced by a faked recording. The difference had been indisputable, and a major part of that difference had been the lack of genuine emotions separate from his own—just what was most noticeable now.
    There had been another distinction, however. In the faked dream, the sights and sensations too had seemed unreal. He had been confined to a narrow segment of normal perception, sure that what was apparently taking place could not be happening, could never have happened—yet unable to escape. This was not like that. Unnatural though it was, it had happened, somewhere, to someone! It was true… so true that it occurred to him that he might actually have died. Perhaps he was no longer dreaming at all.
    The truth isn’t to be feared , Noren told himself, clinging to the one principle that to him was beyond question or compromise. Slowly the wave of panic passed. There was no doubt that he was breathing; he inhaled and exhaled naturally enough, although no wind touched any part of his body. And his inability to see was probably caused by blindness. He had supposed that the blind knew a softer dark, more like the closing of one’s eyes at night than the jet-black expanse before him, but that evidently had not been the case with whoever had made this recording.
    Noren resigned himself, surrendering to the realities of the dream. Suddenly he became aware that he had begun to move—though his fall continued, he was also moving by his own effort. There was purpose in the movement; though he still had no external reference points, his muscles worked and he was going somewhere… A dazzling flash of light hit him. He was not blind; the darkness really existed! In its midst was radiance so bright he could scarcely bear to look upon it. He turned aside and for the first time observed his own body, encased in a thick white garment that covered even his hands. Incredibly, he found himself close to one of the City’s massive towers… but the tower lay on its side. It had no ground beneath it, or any sky overhead.
    Something had gone wrong, Noren decided. This dream must be natural, not controlled; only in natural dreams could the disorientation be so extreme. Controlled dreams had logic. One met the unknown, the incomprehensible, but never the incongruities that arose spontaneously while one slept. He had been neither drugged nor hypnotized; he could will himself awake if the dream was indeed natural… yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The weightless feeling, now that he had gotten used to it, was really quite pleasant.
    He put out his hand to touch the silvery surface of the horizontal tower, feeling a kind of wonder. Disoriented he might be, but his mind was clear; the impressions he was gathering were sharp, detailed—not hazy as they’d been in dreams where he had struggled with abstractions that were beyond him. He was near the tower’s top, at least what would have been the top had it been standing. Seizing a handhold that projected from the wall, he reached for another above and began to pull himself around—“up” in terms of his present position, though there was little of the effort involved in climbing—curious as to what might be visible from greater height. To his astonishment, he got no higher. He passed handhold after handhold, only to see the convex wall stretch on and on above him as if its span