CORDON SANITAIRE TIMOTHY ZAHN For Mitch Drzewicki the day began like most of the previous hundred or so: he was rippedslapdash from a sound sleep by the screech of a tarsapien at the edge of the forest. For a few momentshe just lay there letting his heartbeat catch up with him and wondering why the hell his brain couldnt editout the caterwauling and let him sleep through it. Certainly his subconscious had learned that trick withthe dozens of alarm clocks hed gone through in his thirty-six years . . . . With a sigh he looked at hiswatch decided against trying for the last hour of sleep hed allotted himself and climbed stiffly out of bed. The not-quite-warm-enough shower finished the waking-up process and by the time hed wolfeddown a quick breakfast he was almost over his grouch. Coffee cup in hand he stepped outside for abreath of fresh air and a final settling of nerves. A ritual that nearly always worked . . . because whatever Pallas lacked regarding the courtesy of itsindigenous animals it more than made up in beauty. The forest surrounding their little settlement had anunusual feeling of vitality about it both in the way it pressed right to the edge of their protective herbicidering and in its unashamed delight with bursts of color. In the six months since the four men and twowomen of their study team had arrived here Mitch had solved some of the botanical puzzles behind theripples of red and pale orange that swept through the ginkgap and manzani trees