adly, Howard L. Myers (1930-1971) was struck down at the start of what promised to be an outstanding career in the SF field, with his literary legacy consisting of only a single posthumous novel, Cloud Chamber (1977) and about two dozen stories, the first of which appeared anomalously in 1952, with the rest following circa 1967 to 1971. This current volume, compiled by Eric Flint and Guy Gordon, assembles 19 of these shorter works.
"Partner" is the tale of Kent Lindstrom, a concert pianist who harbors a second mind within his skull—a mind-partner who's smarter than Kent credits, and who might just save his life. The title story is told from a unique viewpoint: that of a giant bioengineered butterfly quite puzzled by the arrival on his world of something called Man. A future slacker who lives solely for women and a strange currency called "Admiration" finds himself tricked into growing up in "All Around the Universe." What does the chocolate-eating kangaroolike alien named Romee learn from humans in "Health Hazard"? Not what they want her to!
A school of mental mutants must hide from society, but this is not the latest X-Men saga, but rather Myers' "Practice!" "Lost Calling" reveals what an orphan raised by aliens can teach mankind—even if the orphan does not know his own talents. A foulmouthed, abrasive stranded time traveler must take on the role of Merlin in "The Other Way Around." "The Reluctant Weapon" finds a hillbilly farmer delegated with the task of stopping a planet-killing machine. Academic satire has global implications in the epistolary tale "Out, Wit!" A polluted biosphere, savage intelligent dogs and a man unlucky enough to fall afoul of Darwin's laws constitute the components of "Fit for a Dog." Another orphan taught by aliens crops up in "Psychivore," but this time the orphan teaches the aliens just as much as they teach him.
The final eight tales are all linked by a common background, and appear under the overall heading of "The Chalice Cycle." After a mysterious sword-and-sorcery prologue, we encounter two star empires locked in an "econo-war." The Primgran Commonality and the Lontastan Federation are equally matched at first, leading to a healthy, albeit frenetic, competition between them. But as we swap points of view between the systems, watching each gain the upper hand momentarily, we realize that the setup is overdue for a crash—one that might be precipitated by a mutant girl named Gweanvin. The final story cleverly ties in to the prologue.
Of his era, yet still vibrantly interesting
Howard Myers possessed a voice. A fairly unique voice, admittedly not of genius level, but certainly more assured, witty and message-rich than many a contemporary author of fluff and dross. His rescue from the moldering pages of Analog and other 'zines of his day is a welcome treat.
Myers wrote a kind of SF not much in evidence today. Its surface was glittery, spare and not much concerned with literary tricks. Concepts were paramount, prose economical but a tad quirky, yet the human and other sentient vessels created to carry the tale were never treated without respect and verisimilitude. Dip into this volume and you'll emerge thinking that current SF is rather clotted and overdone. No one wants to return to a time when this mode was the rule, but it's rather refreshing to partake of such rudimentary—and, at times, surprisingly sophisticated—virtues.
With his tales of secret agents and laterally thinking saboteurs (especially in "Lost Calling"), Myers can summon up the best of Eric Frank Russell. With his habit of starting the reader "a mile underground in the dark," he brings to mind the lighter stories of James Tiptree, when she was at her most blithe. But Myers was hardly a Pollyanna, as such dark stories as "Fit for a Dog" and "The Reluctant Weapon" demonstrate. The cold equations of Darwinism were a primary theme. Additionally, he could pull off a fair Heinlein homage—"Psychivore" has the up-from-rags exuberance of Citizen of the Galaxy (1957)—craft a good Simakian elegiac paean, such as the title piece; and deploy a creditable blend of magic and science in "The Earth of Nenkunal," much in the manner of Larry Niven's The Magic Goes Away (1977).
But Myers' two biggest influences, I believe, were Robert Sheckley and A.E. van Vogt. Humor was Myers' dominant chord, and it wasn't a trivial humor but one that hid a darker edge. Myers laughed in the face of the universe's absurdity, but the laughter hid tears. The latter auctorial debt shows most plainly in Cloud Chamber, a wild romp through a post-human future, complete with mind-altering "pleasure-impresses," time paradoxes and reincarnation. But van Vogt's oneiric plotting and casually tossed-out bombshell paradigm shifts are on exhibit in "Partner" and other stories as well.
What Myers might have accomplished with a longer life remains in doubt; the treasures he left behind are incontestable.
