Like the guards standing every few feet along the corridor, their Uzis ready for action, their eyes watching for intruders. Then it’s through the blast doors, placing your eyes against the retina scans and bending over for the probes before enter the elevator that drops you more than one mile deep beneath the Colorado Rockies until it opens up into an auditorium-size room filled with computers and technicians. You’re led to a man standing amidst the organized chaos. He’s a rather nondescript person, he wouldn’t stand out in the crowd, but you know him as the most powerful man on the planet. His eyes give you a quick once-over, he snarls, then speaks.

“You’re late.”

And there you stand, face-to-face with the man who runs the concert industry.

He points to the global electronic maps that fill the walls. “See those blue dots?” he asks. “That’s the new routing for Ministry. Those red dots signify the itineraries for Pearl Jam and The Rolling Stones, and those green lights represent the schedules for Cher, Restless Heart and the Eagles. But that’s enough of that. Let’s take a look at what you really came to see. Let’s visit the labs.”

You follow him through a door marked “Lab A” when suddenly you’re hit with a blast of air that nearly knocks you off of your feat. “This is where we conduct our wind tunnel experiments,” he shouts above the tornado-like roar of the air compressors placed in a subway-sized glass tube that also contains a mock up of a modern tour bus. “You need good aerodynamics if you want to take 12 Stones and Aaron Carter out on the road.”

Then he leads you through a second door, marked “Lab B,” where you’re suddenly plunged into total darkness. “This is where we test the latest gear for roadies,” he says as you wait for your eyes to adjust to the absence of light. “You need good night-vision equipment if you’re going to crew for Biohazard or Ozzy Osbourne.”

Then it’s back out into the corridor where he’s about to take you through the final door, “Lab C,” when an ear-splitting shriek fills the air. Alarms scream, buzzers sound, and a sterile, recorded voice announces, “Containment breach. Containment breach. All personnel please evacuate the facility.”

In response the door to Lab C bursts open and white-cloaked men and women come running from the room. Behind them you see blinding flashes of light, you feel the floor rumble beneath your feet, and you hear a roar that sounds as if the gates of hell have opened into a world not meant for human eyes.

“I was afraid that would happen,” the man who runs the concert industry says as he grabs you by the arm and hustles you toward the elevator. “I told them they couldn’t play god, but would they listen to me? Heck no.”

And as you ride the elevator up to safety, he notices the look in your eyes and anticipates the question you want to ask. “You want to know what that was all about,” he says. “You want to know what was going on in Lab C.”

And before you can respond, as the elevator shaft vibrates to the explosions that still rumble from the level you’ve just left, he answers your unspoken query. “Lab C is where we’re trying to downsize the U.S. tour for Mariah Carey. I guess it’s back to the old drawing board.”