Transformers-Revenge of the Fallen by Alan Dean Foster

Author:Alan Dean Foster
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Alan Dean Foster
Published: 2014-07-26T16:00:00+00:00

Even so, the initial identifier by itself was not enough. Soundwave speedily ran a side-by-side com­parison with another brief, innocuous message he held securely in internal storage banks that operated on the atomic level. Every inflection, every tone had to match precisely in order for him to pronounce the communication he had intercepted a successful match. Elation succeeded confirmation. He was not known as Soundwave for nothing.

Once verification was complete, he positioned other tracking instruments to pinpoint the source. This took virtually no time at all.

Even though in human terms, Paris was a fairly crowded place.

After making the short call to a friend back home, Judy Witwicky set her phone down on the table. The device looked out of place against the stark white linen cloth, not to mention the fine dining ware. Nearby, the restaurant’s strolling violinist was duti­fully sawing away at a classical tune that was popular

and romantic, striving Franckly for a tip while wish­ing that he was practicing Brian’s concerto instead of vapid late-Romantic melodies. But a job was a job, and one still had to work when the orchestra season was over.

Neither of the two Americans ensconced at the corner table were paying the bored performer any at­tention. 1’he Eiffel Tower in view behind them, they were concentrating on their meal. Leastwise, Ron Witwicky was concentrating on his. His spouse was more focused on her degree of consternation.

“Really, Ron,” she murmured disapprovingly while eyeing the thin trickle of oily liquid that was tracing a glistening path down one corner of his mouth. “A cheeseburger?”

Mouth half full of ground sirloin and masticated bun, he looked up and blinked. “What? Hey, it comes with French fries.” He gestured at the gastronomic gastropods artfully arrayed on a dish in front of his wife. “You think I flew across the ocean to chow down a plate a snails?”

Judy drew herself up slightly in her chair. “They’re called ‘escargots.’ ”

Holding his burger possessively with both hands, Ron shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

“They’re high-class snails; they come from good families.”

She continued, “C’mon, what is it with you, Mr. Grumpy?” She gestured at their surroundings. “We’re in Paris. Candles, violins, ratatouille—you can even get bearnaise sauce with your burger. Lighten up.”

Turning away, he looked off into the distance—and not at the nearby nineteenth-century iron architec­tural marvel that dominated the horizon, either. As opposed to him simply eating something, something was clearly eating at him.

“What is it, Ron?”

He hesitated, eyed his sandwich, and put the next bite on hold. “Y’know how sometimes you take din­ner out of the oven too early? And it looks like it’s done, but then when you take a bite it’s kinda like— a breaded ice cube?”

Her expression hardened. “Are you criticizing my cooking just ’cause we’re in Paris? Ron, what the hell’re you talking about?”

His concern dismissed her attempt at humor. “I just hope we didn’t let Sam out of the oven too early. I hope he’s ready to—find his own way.”

Seeing that neither her kitchen nor her parenting skills were under attack, she relaxed.

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