The good news about this book is that it's short. The bad news is that it's rife with inconsistency. Human kind has joined the galactic civilization and risen quickly through the ranks. The galaxy is full of peaceful races who get along in harmony, and everything is keen. Many of the races have never even invented war. This is explained in the first few pages. It should be no surprise then that the rest of the story is a non-stop litany of mindless, bloody violence. The protagonists stumble from one deadly encounter to the next, dying in great piles. Fortunately for them, they can use replicating machines to churn out copy after expendable copy of themselves. This allows the authors to butcher their protagonists endlessly without any real cost. Or without any satisfying explanation.
In the first third of the novel, our hero Ben Pertin, (rather, a copy of him), has been sent away on a suicide mission. He's been beat half to death a dozen ways, and gotten into deadly scrapes with eight or ten different "peaceful" alien races. Little explanation was given for why they were fighting, and it was impossible to track who was fighting on what side. But that's ok, because long before that I'd given up caring. The next two thirds of the book was wash, rinse, repeat.
I'm usually pretty fond of Fred Pohl. I'm not as familiar with Jack Williamson, in spite of the fact that he was one of the longest lived and most prolific science fiction authors of the 20th century. I had hoped that writing together, this book would be a gem. But it turned out to be rather less than that. Like so much of the early science fiction these men turned out, it is full of carefully described physical detail. The orbital mechanics seem correct, I'm sure the authors ran the numbers. The way the various characters behaved in different gravity environments, (heavy or light), sounded plausible. The way communications are handled between various races, and the problems that may arise when the translating equipment malfunctions was well thought out. But one of the key technologies introduced in the story was the Tachyon transmitter. Machinery is used to scan an item, a person, or another creature, right down to the last atom. This information is then transmitted at superluminal speed across the galaxy, where the pattern is reconstructed, atom by atom, to produce an identical copy. Something like Star Trek transporters, but the original copy remains behind. No actual matter is transmitted, just the information regarding the scanned item or person's structure. This implies that the copy of the person is reconstructed from material stocks at the receiving end. But no, the copy is reconstructed out of thin air, or in many cases, thinner vacuum. No matter is needed. This doesn't make any sense, and severely detracts from the story. I haven't dug into it, but I'm sure the authors must have been given their lumps be their readers. I could almost forgive them, had the story been written any earlier. But it was written in 1975, and by a pair of writers who surely knew better.
Considering my love for Pohl, and my respect for Williamson, it pains me to give this novel such a bad review. But I can only give it 1.5 stars.