Atlanta, the vast Midwest, Washington DC - Late February 2087

The pack of mules died. The WMATA Metro, rumored for nearly a century to eventually break down entirely, broke down entirely.

*     *     *

"Newt?" It was Old Friend calling.

Newt held the phone at a distance, and heard the tinny voice of his friend. It was gray outside. An airplane was smoking in a field out in the distance. Newt's house was powered by multiple generators, and was not affected by the wide-scale power outage.

"Newt?"

"Yeah," Newt said, his voice cracking, holding the phone out. He closed his eyes, swallowed, regained his composure, and held the phone to his ear, fiery and ready to talk like nothing was wrong with him. "I'm alive. How are you?"

"Oh, fine. I've been learning to live without electricity for years." There was an extended silence. "So have you heard any reasons why roughly nothing is working?"

"Pretty standard infrastructure problems, really. If only we had privatized it, we would have been okay."

Old Friend was quiet again. "Are you still going to space?"

"Private industry, my friend!" Newt yelled. Newt felt excitement again; his brain was clicking with policy ideas. He grabbed a nearby napkin and started searching around for a pen. He couldn't find one, and remembered he was having a conversation, so it was only civil to actually talk. "I mean, it's still going off. They're good at what they do, the Mellon company."

"Hrm," Old Friend said. "Have you heard what people are saying about you?"

"Ha!" Newt said. "The Intergalactic Culture War? I mean, those people are crazy, the ones that say I'm going to come back and announce that. Irresponsible. I'm a sensible guy, Old Friend. That's why you voted for me as Speaker."

"So true, Newt."

"And anyway: the Moon People have already announced it."

Frank Luntz Tells Newt What Americans Really Want

Newt Gingrich, old and happy with his long-life pills, sat on a bench in Farragut Park an hour or so after night fell. He faced K Street, smiling gently at the professionals finished working stints of long hours, the men with their well-cut suits slightly frumpled and women in pencil skirts still looking fresh, all wandering out of buildings whose windows were increasingly blackening, all of these folks with the stunned faces of people who have been staring at computer screens and living under florescent lights for the last ten plus hours. Newt's eyes followed the lobbyists and lawyers as they walked to taxis and towncars and down to the Metro station. And then it happened--the Newt thing, the idea birthed; something popped into his head, and he felt for the inside of his suitjacket, reaching for his smartphone, clicking here and dragging there and, bloop, he started typing:

AMERICAN SPACE CAB OPPORTUNITY ACT OF 2087: Tax credits to white shoe law firms to send lawyers doing long-term work to space. The creative vanguard of this country goes to work and leaves work in darkness anyway, so working in space won't be that different. And the same people should have more experience with that greatest of horizons, the thing that shakes its fist, that beckons! at defeatist American impulses--SPACE. Specifics: Tax credit of $

"Newt."

Newt stopped typing and looked around himself, hurriedly, upset, almost offended. The figure was in front of Newt--it was Frank Luntz.

"You just...you just stopped it," Newt said, as Frank sat down on the bench. "You stopped the flow."

"My sincerest apologies, Newt," Frank said, sounding insincere. "I got the polling data you wanted, though."

Newt's eyes rolled back in his head as he tried dearly to recall what Frank was referring to. "I don't...I'm sorry, Frank. It takes awhile to sort through all this life sometimes," Newt said sadly.

"I know, old friend," Frank said, patting Newt's hand, which was lying flat on the gulf between the two old men on the bench. "But it's okay. I just--it turns out the numbers you wanted. They're there. America's ready for it."

Newt blinked a lot, and then with a tear, looked into Frank's eyes.

"You mean..." Newt began, a trace of his Southern drawl adding some wizened optimism to his voice.

"Yeah, old buddy," Frank said, opening up a manila folder on his lap. "America wants to send Newt Gingrich to the moon."