AFTERWARDS, Branson takes me to the Virgin VIP section, a roped-off area with beefy bouncers patrolling the perimeter. Inside, the Virgin mood enhancers have created a perfect lounge environment, with Moroccan poster beds, roving burlesque performers in trippy animal costumes, and a half-dozen luxury tepees, each one appointed with kilims, modern Scandinavian furniture, and giant plasma screens showing live images from the main festival stage.

I strike up a conversation with a Virgin associate about Branson's son, Sam, who is now reputedly awake and waiting for me to interview him in one of the tepees. "It must be stressful being the son of Sir Richard Branson," I say. "I mean, those are some unique footsteps to follow in."

The Virgin employee looks at me like I'm crazy. "Stressful?" she answers. "I think you'll see Sam's handling the stress . . . just fine." As she says this, a dancer wearing platform heels and a purple rabbit suit hops by us.

Sure enough, I duck my head into one of the tepees and find what has to be the most relaxed billionaire's son alive, a handsome, blue-eyed slacker prince. Sam is lounging in a rattan chair, wearing a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt and multicolored Nikes. He has an impressive soul patch, and his blond hair is pleasantly haphazard. Well-mannered, respectful, and instantly likeable, he's said to be one of Britain's most eligible bachelors and is renowned in the UK for the $300,000 21st-birthday party his dad threw for him last year—a Mad Hatter– themed bash attended by Kate Moss, Bob Geldof, Prince William, and Paris Hilton, among others.

"What are you up to these days?" I ask. "College?"

"God, no!" he says, reminding me that his dad didn't finish high school. "I enrolled in the University of Westminster [in London] and left after three weeks. I couldn't see myself doing that."

Sam now keeps a flat in London, which he shares with some of his "mates." He plays guitar, surfs, travels, and nurses the adventuring gene. "I'll do it my own way, but I've definitely got the bug," he says. "I'm spending most of next month in the Masai Mara bush. And I've got a trip to Ellesmere Island planned for next year."

I ask him about his recent expedition on Baffin Island with his dad. (Arctic legend Will Steger, who led the three-week dogsled trek this past spring, told me how well Sam acquitted himself as a young explorer.)

"Yeah, that trip was brilliant," Sam says. "We sledded from one village to the next, interviewing the Inuit about their perspective on global warming for a documentary we're making. I'm working on a book about it, too, based on a journal I kept."

Outside the tent, I can see an Evil Monkey Man cartwheeling around the VIP compound. Daryl Hannah is there as well, along with hordes of thirsty roadies, techies, and rock stars too numerous to name. Sir Richard Branson stands in the middle of it all, laughing and buying the drinks—organic rum mojitos, all around! Everyone is smiling.

"This is quite a world your dad presides over," I say. "Are you interested in running all this someday?"

"After I've done my thing, I might want to get involved," Sam answers. "It's not a bad life."