T hree geodesic seeds skated over the roofs and gardens of Atlantis/Shanghai 
on a Friday afternoon, like the germs of some moon-size calabash. A pair of 
mooring masts sprouted and grew from cricket ovals at Source Victoria Park. The 
smallest of the airships was decorated with the royal ensign; she kept station 
overhead as the two large ones settled toward their berths. Their envelopes, 
filled with nothing, were predominantly transparent. Instead of blocking the 
sunlight, they yellowed and puckered it, projecting vast abstract patterns of 
brighter and not-as-bright that the children in their best crinolines and natty 
short-pants suits tried to catch in their arms. A brass band played. A tiny 
figure in a white dress stood at the rail of the airship Atlantis, waving at the children below. They all knew that this must 
be the birthday girl herself, Princess Charlotte, and they cheered and waved 
back.