Ernest Callenbach's classic novel Ecotopia sparked a movement that is growing rapidly around the world. Ecotopians embrace high technology as a tool for preserving and living gently within the natural environment of Planet Earth. Kim Stanley Robinson has gathered in this volume Future Primitive bright tales of Ecotopian futures, as well as a few cautionary ones. Writers and poets, from Gary Snyder to Ursula K. LeGuin to Ernest Callenbach himself have contributed their visions, along with many more. Kim Stanley Robinson has long been known for his excellent science fiction novels such as Red Mars , Blue Mars , and Green Mars . Here he turns his hand toward editing, with a collection of stories by writers like Ursula K. Le Guin, Gene Wolfe, Pat Murphy, and Terry Bisson. These are stories of a future where "wet" technology has replaced "hard": silicon chips have given way to DNA strands, and the industrial high tech has been subsumed by environmental high tech. While all of these fine stories have been printed elsewhere, collected together they comprise a formidable and fascinating look at a future full of ectopias. KIM STANLEY ROBINSON is an American science fiction writer. He is the author of more than 20 books, including the international bestselling Mars trilogy: Red Mars, Green Mars , Blue Mars , and more recently Red Moon , New York 2140 , and 2312 , which was a New York Times bestseller nominated for all seven of the major science fiction awards―a first for any book. 2008 he was named a “Hero of the Environment” by Time magazine, and he works with the Sierra Nevada Research Institute, the Clarion Writers’ Workshop, and UC San Diego’s Arthur C. Clarke Center for Human Imagination. He has won the Hugo, Nebula, Locus, and World Fantasy awards. In 2016 he was given the Heinlein Award for lifetime achievement in science fiction, and asteroid 72432 was named “Kimrobinson.” In 2017 he was given the Arthur C. Clarke Award for Imagination in Service to Society. Future Primitive The New Ecotopias By Tor Books ISBN: 9780312863500 Bears Discover Fire   Terry Bisson     I was driving with my brother, the preacher, and my nephew, the preacher’s son, on I-65 just north of Bowling Green when we got a flat. It was Sunday night and we had been to visit Mother at the Home. We were in my car. The flat caused what you might call knowing groans since, as the old-fashioned one in my family (so they tell me), I fix my own tires, and my brother is always telling me to get radials and quit buying old tires. But if you know how to mount and fix tires yourself, you can pick them up for almost nothing. Since it was a left rear tire, I pulled over left, onto the median grass. The way my Caddy stumbled to a stop, I figured the tire was ruined. “I guess there’s no need asking if you have any of that FlatFix in the trunk,” said Wallace. “Here, son, hold the light,” I said to Wallace Jr. He’s old enough to want to help and not old enough (yet) to think he knows it all. If I’d married and had kids, he’s the kind I’d have wanted. An old Caddy has a big trunk that tends to fill up like a shed. Mine’s a ’56. Wallace was wearing his Sunday shirt, so he didn’t offer to help while I pulled magazines, fishing tackle, a wooden tool box, some old clothes, a comealong wrapped in a grass sack, and a tobacco sprayer out of the way, looking for my jack. The spare looked a little soft. The light went out. “Shake it on, son,” I said. It went back on. The bumper jack was long gone, but I carry a little quarter-ton hydraulic. I finally found it under Mother’s old Southern Livings , 1978-1986. I had been meaning to drop them at the dump. If Wallace hadn’t been along, I’d have let Wallace Jr. position the jack under the axle, but I got on my knees and did it myself. There’s nothing wrong with a boy learning to change a tire. Even if you’re not going to fix and mount them, you’re still going to have to change a few in this life. The light went off again before I had the wheel off the ground. I was surprised at how dark the night was already. It was late October and beginning to get cool. “Shake it again, son,” I said. It went back on but it was weak. Flickery. “With radials you just don’t have flats,” Wallace explained in that voice he uses when he’s talking to a number of people at once; in this case, Wallace Jr. and myself. “And even when you do , you just squirt them with this stuff called FlatFix and you just drive on, $3.95 the can.” “Uncle Bobby can fix a tire hisself,” said Wallace Jr., out of loyalty I presume. “ Himself :,” I said from halfway under the car. If it was up to Wallace, the boy would talk like what Mother used to call “a helock from the gorges of the mountains.” But drive on radials. “Shake that light again,” I said. It was about gone. I spun the lugs off into the hubcap and pulled the wheel. The tire had blown out along the sidewall. “Won’t be fixing this one,” I said. Not that I cared. I hav