A translation contest for students

The Little Translator made his way into the city centre and went into a rather upmarket café there, the Wordtown Waldorf.
“White coffee, but just a spot of lukewarm milk, barman”, he said to the waiter, placing his big envelope on the counter and fishing out the pages inside.
“What’s that?” asked the waiter.
“That? “It’s a translation tes- …” The Little Translator’s chest puffed out a little. He patted the pages a little for effect. “Oh”, he said, in a tone which he hoped was a sufficient cross between blasé and lofty, “that’s a French technical translation I’ve been commissioned to do. Very technical, in fact, yes. Some rather topic-specific vocabulary, I shouldn’t wonder. Just going to give it the once-over with a coffee here, get my ideas in order, if you will, take a decision as to a linguistic strategy.”
The waiter stared at him. “No, I didn’t hear what you said, that’s all. What was it you wanted?”
“Oh”, said the Little Translator, deflating considerably. “It was, erm, a white coffee. Yes, er, thank you, thanks ever so much …”
He walked over to a corner with his coffee - or skulked over, rather - and had a look at the text.

After five minutes reading, he was on page 7 of 12.

By this time the Little Translator was beginning to feel a horrid kind of Frightening Fear taking over his body. Yes, he could feel the cold hand of Fear clutching his stomach.
Or perhaps a bit below his stomach. He was beginning to sweat copiously, too.
“I really don’t have a clue what they’re talking about here”, he quavered to himself, reaching under his shirt and wiping the streams of sweat from his chest. “It’s in French all right, but it’s like a different language or something.”
The Little Translator read a few more pages, and laid the pages down on the table. He stared at the text, and found himself uttering that very human of phrases to himself: “I don’t know what I’m going to do …”
He had never had Translation Fear before. Professor Brookesduddy had never mentioned it.