Turbo tugged at the lead.  It was far too late for his evening walk and Caltech was deserted. “No other dogs to play with now and no children,” thought Turbo, “just the occasional security guard patrolling the pathways, whistling cautiously.”

Turbo was angry. The little Yorkshire Terrier normally had an afternoon walk when he was able to chase a ball or join in a children’s game, but today his owner had been so intent on discussions and phone calls that the moon had been rising as he set out. He lifted his nose to sniff the balmy night air. Suddenly a large car screeched across the parking lot.

Turbo barked. What monster was this? He tugged at the leash. His owner bent to remove the leash, and Turbo scampered off across the campus lawn, glad to be running freely.

He run round and round in huge circles. His tongue lolled out. He sat down, and panted. He gazed absent-mindedly around. And then he caught sight of a ball of orange and white; his hackles rose.

A cat? The cat disappeared in a flurry.With a growl and a leap, Turbo was after the cat. He kept his nose to the ground and inhaled the cat’s scent. He took one turn and then another.

And the next thing he knew, he was in the maze of the Caltech steam tunnels. These had been constructed when the university was built so that scientists could perform experiments in safety and seclusion.  Turbo paused and looked around. The cat’s tail whisked round the corner and disappeared. “Dark, damp and dismal” thought Turbo to himself, as he looked at the labyrinth of tunnels. “Anyway, there seem to be as many problems down here as there are on campus.” He was thinking of the cat, hot and cold water power, gas, compressed air.

As he swiveled round, he saw green glow in the far corner. Forgetting about to chase the cat any longer, he decided to investigate. He approached cautiously – and then saw it was his friend, (the meteorite) Quabita.

“You’ll never catch Sunspot” said Quabita. Turbo showed no surprise that tQuabita could converse; he knew this from other adventure they’d both had together.

“How could I catch a sunspot down in the dark labyrinth?” he asked Quabita. Quabita gave a tinkling laugh.

“Sunspot is the name of the cat I sent up to campus to bring you down here,” it explained. He climbed the wall and is back in the open air now. But I wanted you to come and join me in an adventure. An adventure through time and space”.

“I am no longer a tourist here” thought the little brown and black Yorkshire terrier. “I’ve left behind the dank dark undergrowth of Wimbledon common, and the smells of rabbits and squirrels  for the sunshine. Clear open lawns, fountains and lakes, lots of running area. And no incumbency of the lead.”

Turbo had travelled across the Atlantic at the age of two, in a wooden pet carrier box, to accompany his British owners to America. He’d emigrated. Now his daily walks were on the University Campus. Cheery Americans recognized him. They found him very gentle and well mannered so extremely picturesque, he was extremely pictured.

The physics students and chemistry professors, all in jeans were humble fellows. Not as remote and stony-faced was the occasional acquaintance he’d met on the English walks. Here he was accepted as part of the local scene. A professional. What’s more he acquired knowledge from his surroundings.

He’d bark at the librarian from the window who was correct shelf – stacking. Or he’d jump onto the cement edge of the ornamental and fish ponds and gaze as a toad blinked up at him from the safe shade of a lily leaf. Most days he’d enjoy at least one’s chasing a harassed student careering through campus on a bicycle, or would embarrass his owner by rolling on his back in an iris bed and then bark at the exasperated gardeners.

“They’re cool here though” mused Turbo. No – one screams out that I ‘m crushing the plants. Did I say ‘cool’ “I’m getting quite American!”

He upped and gave himself a shake. Enough for to day. Some highbrow professors were spilling out of the lab. Time to go home. He beat a retreat, and found himself a little Chinese plumber, his pipes and instruments carefully piled on the front of his bike. The little fellow was sipping a coke as he rode.

For some reason, Turbo saw red. The plumber was not part of the local scene. He threw himself vociferously in front of the bike. The Chinaman knocked his drink onto his trousers. He swerved, dropped his tools and crashed to the ground. Turbo tore round the accident he’d just caused, picked up the Chinaman’s hat and raced up and down with it in his mouth.

At last he paused for reflection. The professors were facing him with sneers and smiles. The Chinese plumber was assuring his mistress he’d got no broken bones. He had a rapt audience.

Embarrassed, his owner was snapping on his lead. Turbo winked, raised an ear, and weekly allowed himself to be led away.

He’d made his name at Caltech.