In Jael's future, there is a bar in Manland called, provisionally, the Trench, or the Forked Stick, or the Knife — Russ never settles on one, because the joke is that all three are the same bar. Inside it, "real-men" drink alongside "the changed," men surgically reassigned into women at sixteen because the war economy needs bodies to play both parts and the "real-men" have stopped wanting actual women, who are, after all, on the other side of the front. Jael watches a guard wrap his arm around her like a prize. She notes, with the flat professionalism of a field operative, that he looks almost normal standing next to him. This is the least discussed forty pages of a book that gets taught for its first forty. It should be discussed more, because it is the part that has not aged into comfortable irrelevance.

Whileaway, the more famous half of the novel, is not a system anyone built. It's the accident left over after a plague killed every man on the planet centuries back — a detail the book delivers almost as a footnote, in the same deadpan register as the number of duels its narrator has fought. This matters because it makes Whileaway a rare thing in a genre stocked with engineered utopias: nobody designed it as a trap, a cure, or an improvement you can't refuse. It's just what women did with the time left over. The corpus around this shelf runs thick with systems that imprison by being indispensable — platforms, cures, colonizing symbionts who never threaten, only help. Whileaway declines that shape entirely. Its coercions are domestic and mundane: children who build small bombs to eliminate teachers, a mother's proverb about the pain of returning to work. Russ isn't interested in benevolent infrastructure. She's interested in what women do once the infrastructure of men is simply gone.

The four-J structure — Janet, Jeannine, Joanna, Jael, one genotype refracted across incompatible timelines — anticipated a narrative device the culture would later strip-mine for content: the self as multiverse, the personality as a set of parallel drafts none of which is the final one. Everything Everywhere All at Once owes it something. But Russ's version resists the thing franchise fiction always does to the multiverse, which is smooth it into a family reunion. Her four selves don't reconcile. Jael tells the others, essentially, that they are her, modified by circumstance and diet and history — and then the book ends without deciding whether that's consolation or accusation. Compare this to Le Guin's near-contemporaneous solution to the same problem: Gethen synthesizes gender into ambiguity, one body holding both. Russ instead multiplies the problem across separate bodies and refuses the synthesis. Where Le Guin blends, Russ forks. Both were answering the same anxious decade; neither answer looks like the other's rough draft.