So, high noon it is.
When the Australian Federal Police loudspeaker placed on the ground near the encampment boomed out the deadline with an anonymous voice, the students cheered.
It must have felt like being given extra time for an essay assignment.
There they were, sitting tightly, some getting cramped legs in the hours of wait for the officers of the law to turn up as threatened - but the tension was suddenly eased.
"AFP, blood on your hands," they shouted towards the loudspeaker from which the anonymous voice then kept repeating the warning. It was a neat - if unimaginative - riff on "ANU, ANU, blood on your hands."
In retaliation to the recording, the protesters upped their chanting in what became a surreal battle of the decibels.
Many of the students had written lawyers' phone numbers on their forearms. They must have learnt the precaution from their grandparents, those veterans of the anti-Vietnam and South African protests.
The chants echoed back to those glory days of protest: "ANU, ANU. We know what side you're on. Remember South Africa. Remember Vietnam."
One protester wore a faded T-shirt with "Aboriginal Tent Embassy" on it. Another had the Irish republican movement symbol of the Irish tricolour with a clenched fist.
And then from nowhere someone started another old protest song, the great anthem, We Shall Overcome, echoing from the even more glorious days of protest when black students defied police clubs and dogs and tear gas in the Deep South of the United States.
It faded out. Nobody knew the words beyond "we shall overcome".
But that apart, this protest must have felt like a rite of passage. Now they could say that they too had defied the police.
They had learnt not to stand but to sit and be lifted away.
They wouldn't just have to listen to those old stories from old people about the old days. They would have tales of defiance to tell another generation.
They had sat sharing sunscreen and seaweed biscuits waiting for the agents of oppression, too.
It should be said that the protesters were not unanimous about staying. Some did voice qualms to their friends about the effect on their careers if they were arrested.
Others were full-throated for defiance. They wanted an open vote so everybody could see who was voting which way.
To their credit, the encampment organisers insisted on an online ballot so that only students could make the decision, they could do it without the peer pressure from the louder mouth standing next to them.
They are young. A previous generation no doubt grew mellow. The world grew more complicated.
One student at the ANU encampment was heard saying in outrage: "The university is talking to the police so that's a police state. Right?"
That would be news to the citizens of North Korea or China.
When the police do move in, there will be no water-cannons. Nobody will get tear-gassed. The police will not club them brutally like the police in the Deep South did.
But they will be able to tell their grandchildren that they were then when the big confrontation happened.
As they chanted, other students chatted in the cafe a few footsteps away. One student played with his footie ball in the sun. The lattes continued to be sold. Gossip exchanged. Life went on.
It was all a bit surreal. Well-groomed television reporters in dark suits which once fitted them underneath neat 50s haircuts alongside much younger protesters who looked like they might actually have been sleeping at the camp for the best part of a month.
Exams start this week. The protesters might be able to get good marks and have the story to tell.
