the smell of the old pulp magazines was like the smell of the brush-fires burning out of control on the east of santo donate , and he could feel the old paper crumbling against the pads of his fingers , and he turned the pages , no longer in foxy 's garage but caught somewhere crosswise in time , trying to cope with the idea that they had really done those things , that somebody had really done those things , and that somebody had let them do those things , and his head began to ache with a mixture of revulsion and excitement , and his eyes were hot and strained , but he read on , and from a column of print beneath a picture of tangled bodies at a place called dachau , this figure jumped out at him : 6,000,000 and he thought : somebody goofed there , somebody added a zero or two , that 's three times as many people as there are in la !