“Use straight work-contract procedure, all the way down the line,” Amalfi said. “No exploiting of the planet that we wouldn’t normally do during the usual stopover for a job. That means no truck-gardens or any other form of local agriculture; just refilling the oil tanks, re-breeding the Chlorella strains from local sources for heterosis, and so on.”

“That won’t work,” Hazleton said. “It may fool the Proctors, Amalfi, but how can you fool our own people? What are you going to do with the perimeter police, for instance? Sergeant Paterson’s whole crew knows that it won’t ever again have to make up a boarding squad or defend the city or take up any other military duty. Nine tenths of them are itching to throw off their harness for good and start dirt-farming. What am I to do with them?”

“Send ’em out to your experimental potato patch on the heath,” Amalfi said. “On police detail. Tell ’em to pick up everything that grows.”

Hazleton started to turn toward the lift-shaft, holding out his hand to Dee. Then he turned back.

“But why, boss?” he said plaintively. “What makes you think that the Proctors suspect us of squatting? And what could they do about it if they did?”

“The Proctors have asked for the standard work-contract,” Amalfi said. “They know what it is, and they insist upon its observation, to the letter, including the provision that the city must be off this planet by the date of termination. As you know, that’s impossible; we can’t leave this planet, either inside or outside the contract period. But we’ll have to pretend that we’re going to leave, up to the last possible minute.”

Hazleton looked stunned. Dee took his hand reassuringly, but it didn’t seem to register.

“As for what the Proctors themselves can do about it,” Amalfi said, picking up the earphone again, “I don’t yet know. I’m trying to find out. But this much I do know:

“The Proctors have already called the cops.”